I have mentioned previously about God Sakes love for all things miniature and his unfortunate inclination to eat said tiny toys. Well Granny also had a predilection for the pint sized. To him, every itty-bitty item was somebody’s baby and, like his brothers before him, his favourite were prehistoric monsters. Plastic dinosaurs (or dinoos as they had been so named by the terrible trio) were everywhere and even though the Brontosaurus was occasionally seen grazing on the T-Rex, and Stegosaurus could sometimes fly, Granny loved them.

It was a cute obsession from our chubby-cheeked cherub that frequently drew a chuckle from family and passersby, until the unfortunate incident at the fancy pizza parlour. Someone had ordered a Mediterranean pizza that was topped with scallops, mussels, prawns and barbeque octopus. It smelled fantastic but was destined never to be eaten, for as it was placed on the red and white checked stereotypical table cloth, Granny’s inner demon let fly with a blood-curdling,

“WHO KILLED ALL THE BABIES?”

The sight of baked hoods and charred tentacles were too much for Granny to bear and I was forced to take him for ice cream to calm him down. Apparently the pizza was really nice. I guess I’ll never know.

Later that year Granny got his own baby to care for when the stork dropped our fourth son down the chimney. With dark curly hair, large brown eyes and a big beautiful smile, number four quickly became known as Mini Me and has lived up to the title ever since.

The Lego Revelation.

The arrival of Mini Me had necessitated a move to a larger house, the purchase of a bigger car and a mortgage akin to the national debt. Six people just do not fit in a Camry no matter how hard you try and although iDad had considered using the boot space (especially for those long holiday miles) the need to keep my license always outweighed the temptation.

Our children were very happy though, in spite of my threats to shove them into the luggage pod on the roof if they didn’t keep their hands to themselves. In the morning they would race me to the front door as I left for work. Breakfast covered fingers smeared my suit with love and Weetbix as I staggered up the hallway and extricated myself from the apartment. Their enthusiasm was no less exuberant when I returned home, only this time it was tomato sauce and fish fingers that coated my clothing. The local dry-cleaners still send me Christmas cards as a thank-you for helping to put their kids through University.

A house full of cubs tends to lead to a floor covering of pre-school detritus and the most prevalent mess at our place was Lego. Colourful bricks, wheels, critters and people littered our lounge room, bedroom, hallway and every other place there should have been carpet or ceramic tiles. It clogged the vacuum cleaner, disappeared under the refrigerator, went through the washing machine and often found itself within the blades of my lawn mower. The kids loved getting it all out, iDad hated putting it all away.

Unfortunately Mini Me had developed a medical problem that caused him pain whenever he went wee-wees so, after a few months of almost zero sleep, his parents were not much better than zombies. Oh sure we avoided nibbling on our neighbours brains, and our hygiene was more than acceptable, but the shuffling shadows of human beings we had become left us frequently drooling on the couch and falling asleep at the dinner table.

The doctors couldn’t seem to work out what was wrong with Mini Me, yet the bills kept coming in. The economy was still holding its breath after September 11 and we had another little miracle on the way. The mess, the lawn, the bills, the asthma, the lack of sleep… It was a hard time for the parents of four little boys and the pressure was beginning to take its toll. Then, when life seemed at its lowest point, something wonderful and just a little bit painful happened.

It was either late in the night or early in the morning, my eyes would not focus on the alarm clock and all I knew was that it was still dark outside, I staggered toward back to the bedroom after comforting No. 1 through another Night Bear. In the dim I did not see the booby trap laid out for me and suddenly found my left foot had decided to introduce itself to the smallest, sharpest piece of Lego in the pack. Now I was awake! Crimson spots dribbled from the gash on my sole as I began scooping up the playthings, but I stopped almost immediately when I noticed the intricate pattern in which they had been laid out. The boys had created an entire Neanderthal village complete with cavemen, palm trees, dinosaurs and farm animals. The Stone Age family had a mother, a father and four children living happily in their little plastic cave. A McDonalds French Fry was the centrepiece of the display. I guess they had hunted and gathered it from the locale fast food franchise, Flintstones style.

Next to the Lambeosaurus was a bunch of drawings by Granny where he had practiced writing his name and spelling the words ‘I love mummy and daddy’. Underneath the drawings was a booklet written and illustrated by God Sakes called ‘These Elephants.’ It was a story about a daddy elephant and his son, and all the adventures they did together. Life no longer seemed so challenging.

The Tooth Fairy.

I’ve never been entirely comfortable holding a piece of someone’s head in my hand but losing a tooth is a natural occurrence and with five kids, well the tooth fairy was going to need an assistant. The American tradition is to hide the fang under the child’s pillow and some pillow cases even have a little pocket to place the chomper within. In light of the thrashing antics of No.1′s night terrors we thought it would be wiser to place the tiny tusk in a glass of water and leave it on the sink for the fairy to find. This was a great idea which served us well for many a discarded denture until the one fateful night that iDad arrived home late from the office Christmas party, a little worse for wear. Staggering into the darkened kitchen, trying desperately not to wake the family, iDad topped up the glass of water he found and drank it.

Have you ever heard the saying when something comes back ‘to bite you in the bum’? Well I know what that actually feels like. Thankfully it was only one of God Sakes front teeth and not a molar or, Heaven forbid, a fifty-cent piece.

One Little Girl.

A couple of months later we brought our fifth and final baby home. One little girl was here, and she was perfect. She was also a little girl, something we were not entirely used to in our household. Hand-me-downs were no longer acceptable. Ponies replaced the Pachycephalosaurus. Pink and purple became the primary colours instead of red and green. The boys didn’t know what had hit them and neither did iDad.

Mud pies, tree climbing and footy became bubbles, ballet and Barbie. Fairies invaded the living room and Princesses were everywhere. One by one the Matchbox cars were replaced with all manner of dolls. Some burped, others cried and a few even soiled their nappies. Only the ubiquitous Lego, with its asexual appeal, remained acceptable. Life as we knew it was inexorably altered forever, but we didn’t care.

From the moment she arrived One Little Girl was the master of her domain. No.1, God Sakes and Granny would rush to pick her up at the slightest squeak, lugging her around the house and playing with pink ‘things’ to keep her amused. Even Mini Me was besotted.

Our last first birthday was a magnificent experience. More time went into the creation of the culinary masterpiece that was the cake, than the rest of the fare we prepared. With marshmallow mushrooms, magenta butterflies, silver cachous and mauve coloured icing that still does not appear in any paint chart on the planet, a bemused One Little Girl finally got to blow out her candle. It was a day I will never forget.

Mini Me and One Little Girl are in primary school together. Granny and God Sakes are almost finished high school. No.1 is studying at college.

Where did the time go?

In 1987 I began working for my family business. It was my second job out of high school and only my third in total. I was a salesman and graphic art supplies was my specialty. Vertical cameras standing six feet tall, diffusion transfer silver-bromide paper, panchromatic lith film that had to be handled in complete darkness – these extinct products were highlights of my price list.

Base camp was the suburb of Marrickville in NSW, an ethnically diverse community with the best Yeeros and Pho soup I have ever tasted. From here I serviced a client base that ranged from Newcastle to Wollongong and as far west as Katoomba. Long hours alone on the road, excellent customer hospitality at the other end. I drank good coffee, bad coffee and something that resembled coffee in a previous life. My favourite was Turkish coffee, so thick that the teaspoon stood straight up in the cup instead of resting against the lip. That was a buzz!

We moved twice in the ten years since I began working with my father, finally settling down in the 290 square meters we would call home in 1998. Rusty racks laden with printing plates lined the walls of the warehouse. A colossal cool room kept photographic film at the required temperature. The gas powered forklift rumbled along the driveway moving pallets of chemicals from articulated lorries as people busied themselves in the Hardiplank offices above.

Unit 6 was alive!

In the dawning decade of the twenty-first century the business grew, and changed. The desktop publishing revolution was well underway when inkjet evolved into a serious solution for proofing and poster production. Apple, Epson and HP were encroaching on the realms of Agfa, Kodak and Fuji; usurping traditional print and photographic processes in their path.

Aluminium plates were gradually replaced with large format paper.

Photographic film went the way of the Dodo.

Pots of printing ink became cartridges of toner.

Lithographic tape became memory modules.

Folks Graphics became Creative Folks.

Unit 6 was thriving!

Staff levels increased, stock levels decreased and the focus shifted. The consumable division was sold off to make way for better IT support facilities and the old building watched helplessly as the oxidised iron shelves were recycled and the rumbling forklift drove away. A roaring silence permeated the atmosphere when the cool room generators were turned off for the very last time and I’m sure I heard Unit 6 sigh as the removalists relocated its family east of the Cooks River.

I said goodbye to my old friend one last time this morning. The roller shutter door squealed a final farewell as I slid the bolts into place. Fluorescent lights flickered upstairs, and then became dark.

My eyes watered. I swear it was the dust.

The incessant yet gentle precipitation had left me feeling mildly depressed. My Monday morning jog had been washed out and the Tuesday morning raincheck was, well, rainchecked again. On top of that the exercise bike was broken, which tends to happen when you plug the incorrect transformer into the socket. I knew something was wrong when the digital display began smoking like a peer-pressured teenager. Riding was no longer a possibility.

All out of options, and feeling a little stodgy from the weekend excesses, I hit the road in the rain for a seven kilometre dash.

K1

The first kilometre was reasonably uneventful. My Nike GPS application on the iPhone was reminding me of my pace whilst shuffling through my playlist of motivational songs. Richard Clapton sang ‘Get Back to the Shelter’ as the Telstra truck clobbered the puddle in front of me. It was like wading into a cold, muddy ocean. First your calf muscles get goosebumps. Then your hamstrings begin to shiver. Finally your undies soak and creep up into your crutch. I was destined to spend the next six thousand metres with a very wet wedgie. Perhaps Mr. Clapton had a point.

K2

Traversing Botany Road is always a scary experience. For some reason the semi-trailer drivers don’t believe in pedestrian crossings and when the guy in the BP tanker finally saw me it was all I could do to get out of the way. A blast on the air-horn, and a verbal assault from the shadowed cabin, left me in no doubt that I had made him late for whatever life-saving appointment he was due to attend. How dare I use the zebra crossing.

In spite of British Petroleum’s attempt on my life, I eventually made it to the park with its peace and saturated tranquility. Tiny droplets danced across the pond as the concrete gorilla glistened in the gloom and the empty swing set swung silently in the breeze. Large grey eels slithered through the murky water while giant carp gorged themselves on the soggy bread crusts that were floating on the surface. The only sound out-of-place was the thwack and cheer from the dedicated golfers on the fifth tee of Royal Botany Golf Course. Seriously guys – golf in the rain?!? You’re crazier than I am.

Traffic on Foreshore Drive was at a standstill, which probably explains why the eighteen-wheelers were tearing through suburbia and not on the expressway. An A380 lifted lazily into the air on its way to Singapore or some other salubrious destination and a plump of swamp hens honked at me as I interrupted their bath.

K3

By the third leg of my journey I was in the zone. Led Zeppelin’s ‘Trampled Underfoot’ offered a raucous testament to the growing death toll of snails that kept finding their way below my Reeboks. A drenched Kookaburra perched on an old fence post looking more like a drowned rat than a kingfisher. I laughed at him. Is that ironic?

Water dripped from my wet hair as another wet hare shot out into the path in front of me. Perhaps he had been flushed from his warren by two days of deluge. Maybe he had been routed by one of the mangy foxes that are sometimes found lurking near the golf course. Possibly he was just late for the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Either way, he was certainly not expecting to run into a large bipedal mammal in this weather and almost collided with my right leg. I watched on amazed as the brown bunny zig-zagged across the track. His ability to change direction with such a tight turning circle was incredible and after a couple of 90s, several 180s and a full 360 degree backflip, he was gone.

K4

As the Nike app noted the completion of three kilometres I came across the only other person I would see in the park. An elderly lady with a floral dress and matching umbrella wandered up the wrong side of the bike lane. Her face was hidden, her shoes were tattered and I briefly wondered if she was a local, or lost. Before my thoughts could dwell on her I rounded the corner and there, sticking up out of the grass ahead like a signpost for addiction, was a syringe – needle down into the soil. I paused mid-stride and stooped to pick up the dangerous object. It was the third time I had found a needle in the park and I knew I would have to carry it with me until I could find a garbage bin.

After a fruitless five minute search for more sharp objects I resumed my run. Unfortunately I had begun to cool down and now my ankles were aching. As my Achilles spontaneously combusted I briefly entertained the concept of quitting, until I remembered the pothole in the pathway up ahead. In all this rain it resembled a little lake and my feet achieved nirvana as they plodded through the cold water.

K5

My pace was terrible! I really should remember to pause the app when I pause my run.

The gentle sprinkling had now become much heavier and a mist was rising from the grass. Small birds had stopped singing and the larger ones were nest bound or grounded. The family of marauding magpies that usually pecked at my ears as I jogged through their trees, were feasting on fat, juicy worms. Shiny black and white parents with their gangly grey offspring were so engrossed in their meal that they didn’t even pay me the slightest attention. A flock of large Puddle Ducks waddled across the road. White feathers, orange beaks and no fear of human beings made them an interesting obstacle, so I was left with no choice but to plow right through the middle of the brace. As the Catatonia song ‘Road Rage’ began playing through my speakers, Jemima let out a loud hiss and nipped at my knee. Perhaps she was related to the man from BP.

K6

Leaving the Sir Joseph Banks Park brought me back to reality. My floral friend was still meandering her way around the grounds in a wide arching loop. She had a bag of bread crumbs for the birds and I figured that she was a local after all. I found a bin for the dirty hypodermic and, frankly, I was glad to be rid of it. There are many isolated spots to seek solitude, but collecting thoughts and clearing your mind are not the only things people do there.

The Steggles van on Botany Road also pretended not to notice the pedestrian crossing and only missed me by the narrowest of margins. Live ducks, dead chooks, something fowl was out to get me. The sun was setting, light was getting dim and I picked up my pace.

K7

Suburbia was silent and still. Christmas lights twinkled from the windows of early decorators and wreaths hung in the closed doorways, but the families had settled in for dinner and the houses were locked up tight. There was no yoga at the cafe, no tai chi in the reserve and nobody to welcome me home except a battered old tom cat wanting his dinner. I think I’ll have leftovers tonight.

The simple definition of the generations is as follows:

1901 – 1924: The Greatest Generation aka The Veterans.

These guys were born during the Great War, grew up through the Great Depression and fought in World War 2. They were fed on food stamps, handouts and the grapes of wrath. If you want to argue their right to call themselves the Greatest Generation then go for it. Unfortunately you are likely to be clobbered by a walking frame, prosthetic limb or Stephen Spielberg

1925 – 1945: The Silent Generation.

These poor buggers grew up in the shadow of the Greatest Generation. They were the children who were supposed to be seen and not heard, and when they tried to speak up they copped an earful of:

MP: In them days we was glad to have the price of a cup o’ tea.
GC: A cup o’ cold tea.
EI: Without milk or sugar.
TJ: Or tea.
MP: In a cracked cup, an’ all.
EI: Oh, we never had a cup. We used to have to drink out of a rolled up newspaper.
GC: The best we could manage was to suck on a piece of damp cloth.
TJ: But you know, we were happy in those days, though we were poor.
MP: Because we were poor. My old Dad used to say to me, “Money doesn’t buy you happiness, son”.
EI: Aye, ‘e was right.
MP: Aye, ‘e was.
EI: I was happier then and I had nothin’. We used to live in this tiny old house with great big holes in the roof.
GC: House! You were lucky to live in a house! We used to live in one room, all twenty-six of us, no furniture, ‘alf the floor was missing, and we were all ‘uddled together in one corner for fear of falling.
TJ: Eh, you were lucky to have a room! We used to have to live in t’ corridor!
MP: Oh, we used to dream of livin’ in a corridor! Would ha’ been a palace to us. We used to live in an old water tank on a rubbish tip. We got woke up every morning by having a load of rotting fish dumped all over us! House? Huh.
EI: Well, when I say ‘house’ it was only a hole in the ground covered by a sheet of tarpaulin. But it was a house to us.
GC: We were evicted from our ‘ole in the ground; we ‘ad to go and live in a lake.
TJ: You were lucky to have a lake! There were a hundred and fifty of us living in t’ shoebox in t’ middle o’ road.
MP: Cardboard box?
TJ: Aye.
MP: You were lucky. We lived for three months in a paper bag in a septic tank. We used to have to get up at six in the morning, clean the paper bag, eat a crust of stale bread, go to work down t’ mill, fourteen hours a day, week-in week-out, for sixpence a week, and when we got home our Dad would thrash us to sleep wi’ his belt.
GC: Luxury! We used to have to get out of the lake at six o’clock in the morning, clean the lake, eat a handful of ‘ot gravel, work twenty hour day at mill for tuppence a month, come home, and Dad would thrash us to sleep with a broken bottle, if we were lucky!
TJ: Well, of course, we had it tough! We used to ‘ave to get up out of shoebox at twelve o’clock at night and lick road clean wit’ tongue. We had two bits of cold gravel, worked twenty-four hours a day at mill for sixpence every four years, and when we got home our Dad would slice us in two wit’ bread knife.
EI: Right! I had to get up in the morning at ten o’clock at night half an hour before I went to bed; drink a cup of sulphuric acid; work twenty-nine hours a day down mill and pay mill owner for permission to come to work; and when we got home, our Dad and our mother would kill us and dance about on our graves singing Hallelujah.
MP: And you try and tell the young people of today that ….. they won’t believe you.
ALL: They won’t!

Gotta love Monty Python

1946 – 1964: The Baby Boomers.

So called because all the hippy free love and LSD of the sixties promoted a massive population explosion. They are responsible for bell-bottom trousers, love beads, chunky plastic jewellery and other fashion faux pas so gaudy that even St Vincent de Paul won’t accept their donations. Many of these people are still coming down from their high and are busily making sure they don’t leave behind any inheritance.

There are over 5,000,000 Baby Boomers in Australia alone and their motto is:

We believe that fun doesn’t have to be the privilege of the X or Y Generation, and that Baby Boomers (BBs) have the right to feel as young as they like for as long as they like.

Be nice to the X and Y Generations BB, for we will be funding your nursing homes

1965 – 1982: Generation X.

Charged with repairing the damage done by the baby boomers’ excessive / compulsive nature and high-level consumption of the world resources, Generation X missed out on the Beatles, Vietnam and the good music of the Rolling Stones. Your average Gen-Xer is early forties, raising a family, worried about the cost of electricity and fed up with petrol prices. On top of that Generation Y is nipping at our heals with their tweets, Facebook likes, visible butt crack and abbreviated text language.

We were the first generation to grow up with computers and as such we are technically adept. We came of age in an era of dual income households and we often known as ‘latchkey kids’. Divorce rates were high amongst our parents and as a result we became self reliant and skeptical of authority. We grew up with grunge music and MTV (back when it was cool) and. unfortunately, we work to live rather than live to work.

1983 – 2000: Generation Y.

Y should I get a job?

Y should I leave home and find my own place?

Y should I get a car when I can borrow yours?

Y should I clean my room?

Y should I wash and iron my own clothes?

Y should I buy any food?

Nuff said

It’s a national day of action which aims to prevent suicide by encouraging Australians to connect with someone they care about and help stop little problems turning into big ones.

According to the website:

“Depression is one of the most common mental illnesses experienced by Australians and research tells us that one in five Australians will experience depression in their lifetime. Moreover, 4 per cent of us will experience a major depressive illness in a 12-month period. Clinical depression is nothing to be ashamed of and it is always worthwhile to ask for help if you think you might have clinical depression.”

The Black Dog Institute concurs that depression is a common illness, and according to beyondblue, around one in six Australian men will suffer from depression at any given time. Probably one of the most disturbing points raised on the beyondblue website is:

“The experience of male depression is complicated by the fact that men are more likely than women to shy away from medical treatment of any kind. Instead of discussing psychological problems, or seeking appropriate treatment, men may turn to alcohol or drugs when they are depressed or anxious.”

Has this always been the case? I don’t know, I’m no expert. I am however the father of three teenage boys and I can tell you that getting them to talk is akin to extracting teeth.

So where has this disconnect come from?

From my perspective male gender roles have a lot to answer for. The saying ‘big boys don’t cry’ was very common when I was a child, often delivered by older generations to stop the squawking of a bleeding boy desperate for a band-aid.

These men went to war, watched their friends die, endured the Great Depression and became the archetypal patriarch of the family. They were expected to earn the living, make the decisions, provide for the brood. All the while burying their feelings deep down inside. Men weren’t allowed to shed tears, feel emotions, or express themselves.

We went to the pub, drank beer and watched sport with our friends, never once opening up to each other.

And who decided that this was how it was supposed to be? Men, probably. Then we passed it down from generation to generation.

This is all supposition of course. I haven’t done any research. I don’t have all the answers. I’m just a man

I do tell my dad that I love him every time I see him.

I do hug and kiss my boys whenever they leave.

And I try to talk to people when the going gets a little tough.

So, on R U OK? Day do yourself a favour. Talk to your friends, your family and connect with those you care about.

Are You Ok? — Matt

R U OK? – the organisation

R U OK? is an independent, not-for-profit organisation whose purpose is to provide national focus and leadership on suicide prevention by empowering Australians to have open and honest conversations and stay connected with people in their lives.More than 2,100 Australians suicide each year and men are around four times more likely to die by suicide than females. For each person that dies in this way, another 30 attempt to end their life (Lifeline).R U OK? aims to inspire all Australians to help reduce our suicide rate by reaching out and making contact with others.Most people don’t openly share their feelings, particularly when they’re struggling so don’t wait for a sign and trust your instincts. A conversation could change a life.The best thing we can all do is regularly ask the people we care about: “Are you OK?” regardless of whether they are at risk because connection is good for us all.

Growing up with No.1, God Sakes and Granny was as entertaining as it was educational and iDad’s influence over his children was profound. As a fledgling golfer I was forever talking to my boys about the three or four good shots I made out of the one hundred and thirty it took me to get around the course. Needless to say they were suitably impressed by my prowess with the Ping and would happily inform all those who would listen, and many who would not.

My Aunty, who actually was an A-Grade golfer, decided one day to show the older two how to play the grand old game. As she lined up a chip shot No.1 piped up with an innocent query.

“Wotcha doin’ Aunty Ba-Ba”

“I’m going to show you how to play golf.”

No.1 began to laugh.

“You don’t know how to play golf Ba-Ba.”

My Aunty stopped mid back-swing.

“Of course I do. I’m a very good golfer.”

In fact she was! The hall stand, book case and lintel over the fireplace all bore trophied testament to the fact that my Aunty was an accomplished A-Grade golfer.

Regardless, No.1 continued chuckling.

“No you’re not. Only mans play golf.”

Thus endeth the lesson.

WWW.

Running an IT business when the Internet was a newborn, Netscape was still a browser and Windows was only 95, iDad always managed to keep up to date with the latest technology. I still have my first mobile phone, complete with the monster battery pack that hung over your shoulder like a five kilogram acid-filled satchel. We use it as a doorstop. My boys however we suitably impressed with my ability to work in the car, the backyard and even the toilet. To them the black brick with the twisted cord and battered handset, meant that dad could come home early to spend time with them, and finish his job after they had gone to bed.

The evolution of cumbersome telecommunications to a more compact format did not lessen the mystique and my boys always enjoyed the ever-changing midi ringtone my Nokia spouted forth. One afternoon as we sat by the shores of Lake Macquarie, the sun setting in the west and the children splashing about in the shallows, Aunty Ba-Ba pulled out her mobile phone to place a call. No.1 was stunned.

“Where did you get that Ba-Ba?”

“This is mine sweety.”

No.1 burst out laughing.

“No its not. Only mans have mobile phones.”

Later that night No.1 would zap my beautiful Aunty once again as she scooped a dollop of hot English mustard onto her plate.

“You’re so funny Ba-Ba.”

“Why’s that sweetheart?”

“Only mans eat mustard.”

Aunty Ba-Ba passed away shortly after Granny was born. Cancer is a terrible disease.

More Cake!

As I had mentioned before in an earlier story, our closest friends had had a baby girl in between our No.1 and God Sakes. She was a beautiful little blue eyed tomboy who could scale fences, climb trees and escape through windows. On top of that she had made it her personal mission to send her parents grey; and she was succeeding. Her nickname ‘Cake’ had been earned during God Sakes first birthday party and she has had a lasting influence on my boy’s development into adolescence.

From Church to MTV, no part of life was immune to Cake’s touch. She would rally the boys together to sing the latest hits at the top of their lungs, usually whilst bouncing up and down on our couch. The sight of three little pre-schoolers exuberantly vocalising the words to the Bloodhound Gang song,

‘You and me baby ain’t nothing but mammals. So lets do it like they do on the Discovery Channel.’

…is permanently seared into my retina. As are all the church bulletins upon which God Sakes and Cake had scrawled sacrilegious slogans such as ‘I am farting’ and the classic, ‘this is my butt.’ All of which were expertly illustrated before being placed onto the collection plate. I never found out what the old priest thought of the pencilled profanities but hopefully he had a sense of humour.

Finally our friends had their second baby and balance was restored to their Universe. So-See was an angelic little girl with blonde bubble curls and big blue eyes. She liked Barbie and ponies and all things pink. She was the first girly girl my boys had ever known and, frankly, they were nonplussed.

“What do you think of the baby?”

Blue Eyes was trying to engage her boy’s interest in their new friend. No.1 feigned a slight interest.

“Its ok I guess.”

God Sakes remained unusually quiet.

“What’s wrong honey? Don’t you like the baby?”

“No.”

His mother was shocked.

“Why?”

“It hasn’t got a doodle.”

iDad fell on the floor laughing as Blue Eyes tried to explain the situation.

“This is a girl baby. Girl’s don’t have doodles.”

“Oh.”

God Sakes turned on his heels and walked away. What’s the point of life if you don’t have a doodle?

Postman Pat and the Gobbellin.

Like most Australian kids, my boys grew up watching the vast array of children’s shows on the ABC. Play School, Sesame Street, Bob the Builder, all got a fair amount of exposure; but the favourite for a while seemed to be Postman Pat and his Black and White Cat. Little God Sakes face would light up as the theme song started and then he’d sing a long at the top of his high-pitched little lungs which, for him, was to be expected

One day however, I decided to pay attention to the words as my little angel harmonised with the tune from the television. Something wasn’t right.

“Postman Pat. Postman Pat. Postman Pat and his black and white cat.”

Only he didn’t say ‘black and white’.

My brown eyed, sunny faced cherub had replaced the words ‘black and’ with an f-bomb.

What Jess had done to become known as an f***ing white cat I’ll never know, but God Sakes offensive mispronunciation was quickly corrected before he started pre-school.

–

Obnoxiousness is not a personality trait of any of my children. Unfortunately though, forthrightness is and telling it as they see it often became a cringe-worthy experience.

I’ve mentioned before about a shopping trip where Granny received his nickname. Sitting in the trolley batting his big blue eyes at all the passers by when one kind lady with a Rubenesque physique stopped to pinch his cheeks and comment on his cuteness. Granny replied in a voice that seemed to channel the Cookie Monster,

“Hello Fatty.”

After much apologising Blue Eyes attempted to educate our little boy on good manners, respecting elders, and overall acceptable behaviour. With remorse written all over his face Blue Eyes ceased the lesson and began to clean up the drink that God Sakes had spilled. As she collected the last piece of broken glass she heard the biscuit eating muppet fire up the voice box one more time for the elderly couple that had stopped to say hi.

“Hello Granny.”

Marginally better.

So-See and Cake had a little baby sister arrive not long after Granny learned how to talk. As per usual, our friends had produced another beautiful blonde girl with a gregarious nature and bubbly disposition. As we sat around admiring the newborn I noticed Granny squinting at her and cocking his head to the side. Then he spoke in that unmistakably deep voice.

“What’s wrong wiff her ears?”

The adults were perplexed.

“What do you mean mate?”

“They’re funny lookin.”

“What are you talking about son?”

“She looks like a Gobbellin.”

Ok, so my lovely goddaughter had slightly pointy ears due to the process of being born. Trust Granny to give her a nickname that has lasted forever.

iDad © Matthew Green 2010

To create the card you will need the following supplies:

• Black cardstock
• White Cardstock
• X-acto knife
• Cutting mat
• Spray Glue
• Markers

Step 1: Take two pieces of 8.5 x 11″ black cardstock, and sandwich a piece of white cardstock in between, then cut rounded corners. You may want to take out the white piece and cut it down a little further, so that it doesn’t show along the edges. Use spray glue to secure the white cardstock to the bottom piece of black cardstock and set aside.

Step 2: Find some iPad/iPhone icon images online and print them out on cardstock (you will have no trouble finding these on Google). In a Google image search, look for medium or large images, so that the resolution is decent. Once you print them out, cut them out.

Step 3: Arrange the images on your top piece of black cardstock, then glue them down in the order you want them with spray glue. Let dry for a couple of minutes.

Step 4: Using a cutting mat and X-acto knife, carefully cut along the sides and the bottom of each icon to create lift up flaps.

Step 5: It’s time to glue the top piece to the bottom piece. Spray glue very carefully on the back of the top piece, being careful to avoid the areas where the lift up flaps are (you don’t want to get glue in the area where you will be writing your messages).

Step 6: Once you glue the top and bottom pieces together, draw the little button at the bottom (I used a silver Sharpie), and trim the edges to make the whole presentation neat. Then you can write whatever messages you like under the flaps.

Finally, I printed “iDad” onto a piece of paper, cut it out with an X-acto knife and glued it to the front of the presentation envelope.

Here are some facts about the 1500s:

They used to use urine to tan animal skins, so families used to all pee in a pot & then once a day it was taken & sold to the tannery…….if you had to do this to survive you were “Piss Poor”

But worse than that were the really poor folk who couldn’t even afford to buy a pot, they “didn’t have a pot to piss in” and were the lowest of the low.

Most people got married in June because they took their yearly bath in May, and they still smelled pretty good byJune. However, since they were starting to smell . .. . brides carried a bouquet of flowers to hide the body odor. Hence the custom today of carrying a bouquet when getting married.

Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sons and men, then the women and finally the children. Last of all the babies. By then the water was so dirty you could actually lose someone in it. Hence the saying, “Don’t throw the baby out with the Bath water!”

Houses had thatched roofs-thick straw-piled high, with no wood underneath. It was the only place for animals to get warm, so all the cats and other small animals (mice, bugs) lived in the roof. When it rained it became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof. Hence the saying “It’s raining cats and dogs.”

There was nothing to stop things from falling into the house. This posed a real problem in the bedroom where bugs and other droppings could mess up your nice clean bed. Hence, a bed with big posts and a sheet hung over the top afforded some protection. That’s how canopy beds came into existence.

The floor was dirt. Only the wealthy had something other than dirt. Hence the saying, “Dirt poor.” The wealthy had slate floors that would get slippery in the winter when wet, so they spread thresh (straw) on floor to help keep their footing. As the winter wore on, they added more thresh until, when you opened the door, it would all start slipping outside. A piece of wood was placed in the entrance-way. Hence: a thresh hold.

(Getting quite an education, aren’t you?)

In those old days, they cooked in the kitchen with a big kettle that always hung over the fire.. Every day they lit the fire and added things to the pot. They ate mostly vegetables and did not get much meat. They would eat the stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to get cold overnight and then start over the next day. Sometimes stew had food in it that had been there for quite a while. Hence the rhyme: Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old.

Sometimes they could obtain pork, which made them feel quite special. When visitors came over, they would hang up their bacon to show off. It was a sign of wealth that a man could, “bring home the bacon.” They would cut off a little to share with guests and would all sit around and chew the fat.

Those with money had plates made of pewter. Food with high acid content caused some of the lead to leach onto the food, causing lead poisoning death. This happened most often with tomatoes, so for the next 400 years or so, tomatoes were considered poisonous.

Bread was divided according to status. Workers got the burnt bottom of the loaf, the family got the middle, and guests got the top, or the upper crust.

Lead cups were used to drink ale or whiskey. The combination would sometimes knock the imbibers out for a couple of days. Someone walking along the road would take them for dead and prepare them for burial. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait and see if they would wake up. Hence the custom of holding a wake.

England is old and small and the local folks started running out of places to bury people. So they would dig up coffins and would take the bones to a bone-house, and reuse the grave. When reopening these coffins, 1 out of 25 coffins were found to have scratch marks on the inside and they realized they had been burying people alive. So they would tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, lead it through the coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night (the graveyard shift..) to listen for the bell; thus, someone could be, saved by the bell or was considered a dead ringer…

And that’s the truth!

Of course it is. My mum said so!