On the wings of a prayer

Clearly a self service airport

Friends of ours took off for the US yesterday for a relaxing holiday. Their blog entry this morning reminded me why, when it comes to flying, if given a choice, I always choose to stay home.

It was supposed to be a 13 hour flight, but before they'd even taxied to the runway they spent a fair bit of time sitting on the tarmac while the ground staff tried to work out what was wrong with the fuel gauge. Turns out the problem wasn't so much the fuel gauge as the lack of fuel - seemed there was enough in the tanks to get them started but, once over the Pacific, there would have been a very real chance they'd get to experience a genuine Amercian 'Hudson River' style landing.

Not that this story surprises me - I have heard so many dodgy flying stories over the years, it's a wonder anyone gets anywhere alive.

Another friend of mine had an incident when she trotted off to Indonesia for some R & R. On landing, one of the wings hit the ground and decided this indignity was the last straw, it was giving up the air industry entirely, and promptly left the plane. Some time after the passengers and crew had crawled from the wreckage, my friend rang her husband and told him her plane had crashed on landing.

"Don't be ridiculous," he told her. "Someone would have called."

"I'm calling you, you stupid man!" she snapped at him. Turns out the trip was a bit of a failure at helping her to unwind, although she did discover a passionate devotion to strong cocktails which continues to this day.

Even my wife has near miss air travel story. When Tracey went off to Europe with a friend for a bit of fun their flight was taxiing out to the runway when Tracey called a stewardess over.

"Is that door supposed to be shut?" She pointed to an obviously ajar door and a crack through which the moving tarmac was visible. "Would you mind if they closed it? It's winter in England and it might get chilly with a draft." They also got to sit for a while on the tarmac while the maintenance people tried to get it closed and think of a good reason why no one noticed it.

So today, after 15 hours (two hours waiting for ground techs to fix the 'fuel gauge' issue and thirteen in the air) involving broken screens, seats and head rests our friends finally touched down in LAX and began taxiing to the terminal.

"Made it!" they thought prematurely. Suddenly everything shut down - all the lights, air conditioning, everything. Silence.

"Oh, well, it seems we've had a complete shutdown of the electrical system," said the attendant. "I'll...er...we'll just crank that over and get it back up again for you."

So guys, how's things over there in the US of A? You feeling that relaxed holiday vibe yet?

Lost & Found

Have you ever noticed how the more people you have watching out for a kid, the more likely you are to lose them?

We had an instance of this up in the Bunya Mountains. The family had met for a week's holiday and we had eight adults or adolescents watching three little kids. No worries, you'd think. But the trouble is everyone kind of assumes everyone is watching so no one does. We'd walked through the gallery/cafe and finally taken our seats at a table on the balcony when someone pointed across the car park to the road.

"Oh, look! There's a little girl walking across the road!"

It was our little girl. By the time we raced down the steps and across to her she was taking her first steps into the national forest.

So when someone asks where a kid is in this house we all jump. Some quicker than others. For the record, I'm the 'others'.

"Where's Sophie?" Tracey asked me as she came into the kitchen. Sophie is Miss2. As Tracey was working on her laptop I was in charge of the kids this afternoon, so naturally I was watching movies on my laptop.

"I don't know. In the girls' room?" I suggested, my eyes still on the screen. Of course, she wasn't. But that's okay, I had more ideas. "Hiding in her cupboard? Patting the dog?" I finally looked at Tracey. "How about I pause this and go look?"

A twenty second frantic search ensued. Miss2 is renowned for impersonating the crew of the Enterprise and boldly going wherever the hell she wants. Gates aren't roadblocks so much as speed bumps.

"Found her!" Tracey called out while I did a perimeter check along the fence.  "She's sitting on the bathroom floor, naked, with Miss8's undies on her head."

Now you see we could have saved ourselves a whole lot of anguish if I'd just stayed on my laptop because, as I explained to Tracey, "That would have been my next guess."

The Game Plan

On the way to soccer this morning I asked my son what his game plan was. Essentially it was two pronged.

"I'm gonna eat TWO hot dogs!" he told me. I'm not sure he's totally clued up on why we give up our Saturday mornings.

Of course, when I say 'we' I mean 'me'.

As usual this morning there was the traditional tussle between myself and Tracey to decide who had to jump out of bed to take Master7 to his game. Tracey's a higher belt than me (my yellow vs her green tip) so I haven't won the right to stay home yet this season (but I've been watching Kung Fu Panda a bit lately and I'm hopeful the tide is about to turn in my favour).

At least I only have the one game to make it to this year. Last year we tried to encourage a couple of our girls to play, but it didn't go so well. Miss5 just walked around tapping the ball with her foot saying, "this is boring," while I'm not sure by the end of the season Miss8 had worked out what the ball was even there for.

Once I've showered and dressed and found a car park I generally enjoy myself watching my little man race ineffectively around the field. Master7 is especially good at running beside the player from the opposite team who's dribbling the ball up to the unmanned goal, often matching him stride for stride while never getting closer than three feet. And on those rare occasions he does tackle he doesn't care which team he's kicking the ball away from - if they've got the ball they must be stopped no matter what colour shirt they're donning. 

Sometimes I worry he'll cop some flack from his teammates but then something will happen and I'll realize he's found his tribe. Like today I watched two members of his team both race up to a stray ball and tackle each other to the ground without either touching the ball. 

While Master7 might not be in any danger of kicking a goal this season he does love getting out there and having a go.

Of course, there's the one maneuver Master7 has mastered. 

"I've really worked up an appetite today," he told me today as we walked the nets over to the shed, which just so happens to house the canteen. 

At the end of the season, if there's a trophy for most post game hotdogs, my little man has got it in the bag.

Woody Allen's Kidnapped

This is what I'm doing tonight - listening to Woody Allen stand up. This is my favourite.

His parents "snap into action" in much the same way I expect mine would have wanted to.

Woody provided me with some sweet moments growing up - they showed his movie Zelig one Saturday night at my boarding school and it kept me chuckling and grinning for much of that week and the following thirty years with it's play on a man's insecurity and need to be accepted so bad he loses his identity when he talks to people and turns into a facsimile of them.

So it's a bit like when I watch State of Origin with, well, anyone. I have no idea about the rules and mostly I'm there for the beer.

Kidnapped isn't Zelig, but it is gold. 2.52 minutes of smiles :)

The Wild West

There are any number of awkward milestone moments in a relationship.

The moment you call your new girlfriend by your ex-girlfriend's name.

The moment you accidentally wear your girlfriend's undies to work because it was dark when I got dressed.

The moment you find out you're related to your girlfriend.

I worked with a bloke who had this experience. His fiance was over for a family dinner and they were looking through the photo albums (we kept photos in big books back then kiddies) when she suddenly pointed at photo of an old woman and said, "That's my grandma!"

"It can't be," he told her. "That's my great-grandma."

"I think I know what my own grandma looks like. I'm telling you that woman with the hairy mole and a stubby is definitely her."

And it was. It sure made for some confusion at their wedding, what with people having to decide which side of the church to sit on. But they've got three kids now and none of them have two heads, so all's well that ends well.

Which brings me to an interesting phone call I had tonight.

"Dad," said Master20, a hint of panic evident in his tone. "You know how Grandma's maiden name was West? Well, West is a common name, isn't it?"

Seems Master20 and his girlfriend are discovering they have a lot more in common than they suspected - in this case, similarly named Grandmas.

You know you've found your soul mate when they immediately feel like family. Right?

Dunstan Baby Language

I was chatting with a good friend today about how awesome the Dunstan Baby Language is for taking the guesswork out of what the hell your little man or gorgeous girl is trying to tell you.

For a long time, whenever a kid of mine was screaming, I just assumed it meant, 'Get mum for me! Now!'

And I would. And I was happy to go with that. But Tracey, not so much.

But one day Tracey started getting excited, saying she'd heard there was a baby language which, once you understood it, made it easy to know what they wanted and therefore know how to shut them up.

As wonderful as it sounded, I was skeptical. I thought the lack of sleep was messing with Tracey's bull detector. But I was wrong. This stuff is gold. Don't believe me? Well that's why I brought along Oprah.

Need more info?
Dunstan Baby Language Site

Glump went the little green frog one day

At bath time tonight Tracey was scrubbing red paint on Miss5's hands.

"We had to paint what animal would be hard to look after at a zoo," said Miss5 told us, "so I drew a frog."

Interesting choice.

Nanny doesn't like frogs either. In fact she's petrified of them. It's very funny, especially if I find one while she's within reach. I wondered if Miss5 was developing a similar phobia. I certainly wouldn't have drawn a frog - I'd have drawn a fish.

I have a problem with zoos in general - they make me hungry. Ditto farms. Big ditto for aquariums. Aquariums are fish zoos.

"Look at the fillets on THAT!" tends to be my catch cry at these establishments. If I worked at Underwater World there'd be nothing in the tanks but moss and salt water within two years. Once I worked out how to get the fish and crays into the pot without touching them, that is. I don't like touching critters, and especially fish. They wiggle. Frankly, it freaks me out.

A dead fish is a good fish. If it's lying under a blanket of butter sauce next to a salad, so much the better.

"Why did you choose a frog? Why would you think a frog would be hard to look after?" I asked Miss5.

"Because they would be too jumpy," she told me, wriggling her hands. I guess I was wrong about the Nanny connection - it's a daddy connection. Or was it? Another question occurred to me.

"Frogs are green. Why red paint?"

"For the blood," she told me. "A dead frog is a good frog."


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Bang Bangs

After enjoying the concert last week, Tracey and I have been looking for another artist to go see.

"George Michael is coming at the end of the year," our friend Mel informed us.

"That'd be great," Tracey said. Father Figure, Faith, Fast Love - I agree he's got some fantastic tunes. One thing I have noticed over the years, though, is admitting you like George Michael is on par with liking Boy George: there is a bit of a stigma.

"I'm not going to be the only straight guy there, am I?" I asked my wife. Not that I care a hoot if people think I'm gay or straight or have fish fetishes, but the fact is I occasionally do something which makes people wonder. 

Like last week when a customer came in with a new haircut and I naturally complimented her.

"Nice bangs," I said as she left. "They suit you."

She was out the door before I noticed a bloke I know standing a few feet away, giving me a strange look. "What the hell is a bang?" he asked.

"Straight fringe," I informed him.

"How do you know that?" he asked me doubtfully.

"Saw it on an episode of America's Next Top Model." And he finally relaxed a bit. I'm assuming the idea I was perving on  pretty girls on the telly saved my reputation. But he wasn't finished with the questions.

"Why do they call them bangs and not a bang?" 

"No self respecting girl wants to walk into a hairdressers and ask a stranger for a bang," I told him.

While my sexual bent seemed to have been sorted, he left looking doubtful over the whole bang vs bangs issue. 

I just hope he works it out before he asks his barber for a hairscut. 

Bowled Over

During the week we watched bowling on an episode of Supernanny and realized we haven't gone in ages. As today presented us with a wet rainy day with nothing to do (even soccer was a bye) we quickly decided to treat the kids.

It's nice to do something a little different. Even better when the whole family can be involved.

Miss8 proved to be a fabulous bowler. She had all the right moves. Oh yeah baby. By the end of the match she was starting her run up from over in the cafe. For all this she still managed the slowest bowl of the day - 1.7km/hour, which took so long to make it to the pins we had time to order hot chips - but avoided any serious heckling from the peanut gallery by winning the day.

This next series of photos shows Miss5 demonstrating why it's important to wear proper shoes when throwing, or in Miss5's case dropping, large heavy balls.

Best $29 we've spent in a long time. Lots of laughs and very little of the other. In fact it was so much fun we're going again Friday night with Cousin8's school.

Miss2 - showed no interest in bowling, instead spending
the match trying to change the screen to ABC2 

Airy Fairy

I know some people love their children to believe in fairies, but I'm not one of them.

I had a running battle with Miss17 for about ten years over the existence or non-existence of these daft little critters. And now she's spreading her special blend of madness amongst her young siblings because she knows how much fun she had with me as she was growing up.

"Stop it," I pleaded with her. "I don't want the kids growing up believing that rot." Once it gets into their heads it's hard to get out. I know this for a fact because it's stuck in Miss17's head like honey to hair. Or so she made out. "I want them to believe in things like fishing and making their beds," I added encouragingly.

I'm not saying I don't believe in silly things myself - like my wife will actually have sex with me when she promises to - but aside from Santa I'm not keen for them to actually believe nonsense. I know I'm in the minority here, but in my defense I rarely get to actually say anything about this pet hate because unlike mythical creatures, my wife is very real. My good wife is the Gargamel of the real world and I am sensibly very scared of her and she's happy for them to believe in whatever they like.

So while I want to draw the line at mythical creatures, even small ones in green dresses, I mostly tend to hold my disbelief in and bombard the kids with mental messages. Not that I've had much success with this approach.

Although .... some good news this week. When it comes to fairies it seems my young son agrees with me.

"Fairies. Aren't. Real!" Master7 yelled at his sisters the other day after they watched a Tinkerbell movie and heard them chatting.

'Alright!' I thought. 'One little kid down: four to go.'

But then a pensive look flashed across his face. Something had occurred to him.

"Except for the tooth fairy," he said. I mean, obviously."But that's the only one!"

When it comes to the dollars, he's got good sense.