This will hurt me...

An Olympic (kind of) themed post today. I took this photograph just a couple of hours ago. Behind the play group building that Henry and I frequent, there sits a few of the illustrious Geilston Bay Tennis Club's outer courts. We can often see the future Rod Lavers, John Newcombes and Richard Frombergs honing their skills pop pop popping away back and forth in the blazing Tasmanian sun. Given the magnificent physical specimens that the boys are, Henry, Ezra, Jennifer and I have discussed whether or not we should invest in racquets and balls as an investment to pumping out our very own version of the Williams sisters. The lads' maternal grandfather is a keen grass court ace, who (if fortunes went another way), could have been a contender to Laver's crown. Unfortunately, fate would see him choose mechanics over the world tour and Wimbledon would have to wait. Tennis is a hard slog, and although the rewards are great, the attrition rate is greater. Broadly, I am not so sure as...

Three for the price of one today। The theme is simple: you have a pretty generic product, and need a hook for the consumer. Short of ideas? Pick a dog, any dog, voilà , problem solved! Some call it lazy, I call it genius. I'm just bummed that I couldn't find good enough jpgs of Bloodhound Brand Hemorrhoid Balm , Pekingese Brand Organic Prophylactics and the world famous Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever Brand Panty Liners .

Not altogether unrelated to the photo posted yesterday, early this morning young Ezra peed all over me (and the bed) for the first time ever. Anyone who has experienced the joy of young boys will no doubt be aware of the magnitude of such an event. Indeed, I have been surprised, shocked and somewhat saddened that it has taken nineteen days for this to happen. Henry weed on me on his very first day outside the womb (and very often afterward, I think he took it on as a personal crusade). Given the frequency of Ezra’s feeding, and the seemingly endless supply of milk, I would have expected this to have happened far sooner. The hard evidence of a mountain of full nappies clearly demonstrates that everything down stairs is going along great guns. Like the hose of a fire truck, he demonstrated good technique with an excellent, lasting flow (which in all honesty I didn’t think was going to end). I shall keep everybody updated as to whether the lad can break Henry’s sterling effort of urin...

I did promise to reveal the meaning to "Akili ni nywele, kila mtu ana zake", but forgot. As figured out by Priyanka Khot in the comments, it indeed talks about hair and intelligence. Literally, the quote is "intelligence is like hair, everyone has their own type". I choose to interpret it as, "just as there are lots of types of haircuts, there are lots of types of intelligence". Thus, if someone thinks that they are better than others simply because they think that their particular set of opportunities, beliefs or knowledge is the be-all and end-all, get over yourself, there are all sorts of 'smarts'. I think that there is something in that for all of us.

By golly, you know there must be a degree of emotional termult when you delve in Johann Gottfried Herder for your title! I have previously expressed an interest in the whole Sturm und Drang movement. But enough inner turmoil, I have a photograph to explain! And isn't it action packed? But why was I outside of a wine bar when I was supposed to be at work? Well, you would be forgiven for thinking that. After work yesterday, I had to nip back into the maternity ward of the hospital to get a stamp on a form. This stamp would once and for all establish Ezra's existence in the eyes of the omnipotent bureaucratic apparatus that sits over all of us here in Australia. I am relived to now know that the little bloke is now real because I was starting to think that the shrieking little thing keeping me up all night was some sort of malevolent apparition. But he has been just a dear little baby boy all along! If that wasn't overwhelming enough, my journey to the hospital was made...

Who knew? I would never in a million years have guessed that a side effect of the shadowy US government conspiracy to rid the world of Africans/gays/drug addicts/ghettos would be a better chance of hitting the fairway. [A cheap laugh, don't act surprised that I am not above it!]

It's the terrible guilt you see, that's the first thing. But then there is this other feeling that is even worse, well, I can't express it as anything other than grief . It really isn't nice way to feel at all.

So part two in my attempt to make myself feel better at work, and here we have a photo of the similarly lovely Ezra. This one is from yesterday evening, meaning that he is (in comparison), an old man of fourteen days. You'll have noted that due to him not actually being due until August 7, he has not nearly been as bruised and battered as poor old Henry. That may well account for his more easy-going nature. I hope that having these photos up makes the day a little easier to work though, but am sure that Jennifer will give me running updates on all the shenanigans on the home front. May God have mercy on her soul...

It's my first day back at work today and I am sad as hell about it. Therefore, I've taken the liberty of posting photos of my two favourite babies in the world. First up, we have one from all the way back in the late-October of 2006, with a picture of a three day old Henry. Mind you, Henry was a bit overdue, so he looks pretty big here for a newborn. Because of his size, the poor beggar came out a little bruised an battered, and looked like he'd just gone twelve rounds with Arturo Gatti. That said, he did come out looking like a winner. COMING UP, Part II: Ezra sleeps!

I think that this street is called 'Oliver Avenue', and Henry and I decided to stop and take this photograph to share with the world of a typical suburban street here on Hobart's eastern shore. It's always a nice walk to Lindisfarne Village to pick up bread, milk, veggies and our meat (and tofu), as well as plenty of treats for Ezra and Jen. Nice and quiet, with little more than the sounds of birds tweeting and lazy cats sleeping in the sun in people's front yards. I have gone with a Swahili proverb for my title today. It is a good one. See if you can figure it out.

As someone who does most of the cooking in this household, pulls his weight with the children and is far more inclined towards OCD with regards cleaning than my wife, I wonder what role the modern wife plays. Casting my gaze over these vintage advertisements, one can see why conservitive talk show hosts and former Australian Prime Ministers long for the 'golden age' of sexual politics. Why, this little old blog has featured women cooking , cleaning , reclining in a bikini , preparing multiple salad dressings , ensuring clean drains , helping the war effort , being pleasantly useless , ensuring their 'feminine hygiene' is adequate , unable to resist arseholes , pushing men to the end of their tether , gardening in uncomfortable-looking shorts , taking a beating and enjoying it and entertaining the troops . So I ask again, what role the modern woman? Surely not that envisaged by ad number fifty sums it up? Say it ain't so ladies!

While my earlier post concerned a young man who had clearly achieved jouissance through the combination of a meal and an embrace, I am claiming the above smile being a direct response to my joke of yesterday. That's my story and I am sticking to it!

Finally I have reached the last of the five old poems that I pulled out of the notebook. This one has me channeling Ginsberg and messing about with tabulation. June 1996, and I really must have been an enfant terrible . I don't care what anyone says, I still like this one. Far more so than a certain poetry tutor at university anyway. I should post some of his poetry one day, that really would be good for a laugh! [ MEOW . Kitty, get back in the cage!] The Outer Hebrides hip cool               cat knows the score. sweet sixteen and                                never                                            been                                                     fucked in his arse. one hundred                        and fifty dollars is all it takes               he fakes                               for fifty more।

There are more pros than cons to having a wife who is an absolute champion when it comes to breastfeeding. I'm deadly serious here, Jen would be a lock for Olympic gold if they ever introduce it as a competitive sport. The simply massive Henry was exclusively breast-fed for nigh-on six months (at which point he was the size of the average one year old), and didn't fully wean (his own call) until eighteen months old. In all of that time Jen soldiered through, producing bountiful good stuff to keep him ticking along as healthy as a boy giant could be. That said, he is also a fussy little bugger who demanded his mother's full attention during feeds, had four teeth at sixteen weeks and refused outright any notion of expressed milk in a bottle. So the pressure was very much upon her. The pros should be obvious: health benefits (for both mother and baby); good bonding time; less sickly kiddies; huge cost savings; no fumbling about with formula, bottles and teats; less vomit; l...

As the site itself says, the World Freedom Atlas is a "geovisualisation tool for world statistics" that covers the years 1990 to 2006. It draws from most of the major academic literature that measures and ranks various 'freedoms' (political, social, legal and so on), and really does give an idea of where a state sits in the context of various freedoms visually. If - like me - you dig stats, maps and the innovative use of technology to bring stats and maps alive, take a look. The World Freedon Atlas can be found here .

Here Henry demonstrates that he truly is his mother's child. You can see how deftly he has taken all of the blanket off poor little Ezra. It is a fine trick. I can't understand how I can have a foot on Jen, weigh thirty kilograms more, be quite a deal stronger, yet STILL manage to wake up in the middle of the night sans doona. Answers on the back of a postcard please.

I told the lads what is maybe my all time favourite joke today: A women walks into a bar, and asks the bartender for a double entendre . So the bartender gave her one. BOOM BOOM! They didn't find it very funny.

I have to go back to work on Wednesday. My workplace has no paid or unpaid paternity leave policy (we don't even have a maternity leave policy), so someone has to go out and keep Henry in grapes. That lucky someone is me! I have managed to save up all of my annual leave, TOIL and have wrangled some sick leave taken as carers leave (as allowed in the award) to give me two weeks paid leave, and then working two days a week for five weeks. Then it is back to full time. I was fortunate enough to have circumstances allow me to work from home ninety percent of the time for Henry's first eight months, so let's just say that I am far from content to go back just a few weeks from Ezra's birth. That said, I'm in a better position than many fathers. If anyone has the secret ingredient for managing to get BOTH parents a greater slice of the parenting pie, I am all ears! To satisfy myself, today I am going to have a 'Henry and Ezra jamboree', and post a few pictures thr...