Thirtysomething Dad

How to irritate your Wife

Another break from the narrative, here’s something a little different:

  • First of all, write a blog about your family and consistently refer to her as “the Wife”. It seems to be working for me.
  • Always add the word “the” in front of Twitter, Facebook, Google etc. Also get all the lingo wrong. For example, “Babe I was on The Twitter earlier and . . . “
  • Next I periodically take up the habit of calling her only by her full name for a few days. Sounds soft-core, right? But think about it. Most SO’s have a pet name. Start calling them by their their birth name and they notice immediately. They wonder why. It irks them that they don’t know the reason behind the change in behaviour and the trick is to do it in normal conversation, without skipping a beat.

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Thirtysomething Dad

on Unicorns, Planes and Warheads

Youngest’s voice over the phone is warped and garbled with emotion. We do the usual dance of “I love you too” and “Kiki and Izzy miss you too” and “yes they told me they miss you” and “yes honey they’re here” and “no honey I can’t put them on the phone”. Kiki and Izzy are our cats, if you didn’t know.

Eldest on the other hand seems to be having a ball. Our daily conversation also follows a standard of sorts, being that she rattles off the happenings of the day in rapid-fire sentences devoid of full-stops, commas or breathing.

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Thirtysomething Dad

on Kettles, Bandages and Lions

Yesterday Eldest scalded her thumb with boiling water from a kettle at school. What was an eight year old doing with a kettle at school? Long story for another blog post, but let’s concentrate on the consequences and not the means for the time being.

So I arrive home from work and the thumb in question is immediately presented for my “expert” diagnoses. I see a red thumb. No blisters. No crying. Child seems happy enough. So Dad gives her a hug with an “aw I’m sorry you burned your thumb my angel,” and a kiss on the forehead. Nothing more required.

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Thirtysomething Dad

on Sportsmanship, Prawns and Ransom

Eldest took up chess at school at the beginning of this year. I learned the game at the age of ten, so eight shouldn’t be too young considering the accelerated development of her young mind when I compare it to my own.

Okay, on that topic, seriously what the hell? She was reading coherently at an age when the entry chosen by my teacher to flaunt my literary prowess in the class yearbook was “a wich is a very scery cat”. She was attempting to sketch items in detail, for example the proportional space that eyes should occupy relative to the size of the average head, at five. I can’t remember my ability at that age, but I’m sure that it wasn’t too far advanced from drooling over how to draw stick-figures and smiley faces.
Proud, I am.

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