Well, apparently “dad bod” is a thing. Who knew? A quick Google search verifies this, and not without some eyebrow-raising results.
I spot Eldest from across the school car park and beckon to her. The diminutive figure of my eight-year-old precariously picks her bare-footed way along the gravel path towards the car, backpack shouldered and shoes in hand. This is normal because she attends a Montessori institution nestled against a mountain on the property of a wine farm. The children are surrounded by nature and happily for me this means that school pick up involves the collection of wild-haired and dirty children; sometimes bleeding but always grinning from ear to ear. Today, however, she’s carrying a box. And the box has holes poked in the lid.Read More
I have entered a blogger’s challenge (Wife’s idea). Today is Day One and the prompt is “Who am I?” Now, as the throngs of avid readers of my blog and the jostling horde of my eager subscribers (yes, that’s a shout-out to the five of you – love you guys) may well already know, I am not particularly forthcoming when it comes to divulging certain personal particulars on the web, and I like it that way. So this challenge, well, sucks for me. Anyhoo, a challenge is called a challenge for a reason, so here goes…
I get the message at work:
“Guess what your child has done.”
It’s just after one ‘o clock in the afternoon, so it’s obviously to do with Youngest.
I’ll just get to it. My four-year-old, at school, had decided that a particular chunk of hair was the source of such irritation that it deserved the full wrath of her ire and thus be sentenced to permanent separation from her head. The weapon of her justice: a tiny pink pair of blunted kiddies scissors.Read More