A Mountain of Information

Poppy's birthday today and the family gathered at our place to sing at him and cut cake.

While we were each chewing down on a slice of chocolate the topic of conversation somehow hit upon the mystery of what is Uncle Jason's middle name.

"Leslie," he informed us.

"Nice," I lied.

Uncle Jason went on to explain. "I was named after my-"

"Auntie?" suggested Poppy.

"Uncle," corrected Uncle Jason.

"Belinda was named after a beauty queen," said Nanny. "Tracey after a cyclone."

"You got those mixed up then," I said, and Belinda gave me a funny look. I gave my last statement a quick once over and realized my error. "I mean you're more cyclonic, not less beautiful." Save!

"I was named after someone in the Bible," said Nanny. "Don't know who."

"Um..." said Uncle Jason. "Would it be Carmel?"

Nanny looked sheepish. "Oh, yeah," she said. I Googled it. Carmel wasn't a who, it was a big, old mountain. I might need to mention this to her next time she pops over.

But as usual, Tracey got the last word. "Or maybe you were named after what one of the wise men rode in on."

That's my girl. I love this family.

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A Token Vote

Monopoly was an iconic part of my childhood. Many an afternoon was spent making broom broom sounds as my racing car token ripped around the board, 'accidentally' nudging the odd house belonging to one of the opposition onto one of my properties.

Monopoly teaches kids about money and the importance of tearing down homes and building motels, right?

I don't know about that. What Monopoly taught my brother and sister and I was to be underhanded and lie, cheat and steal from each other. All important life lessons. What you really wanted was to be the bank - you never ran out of money if you were the bank. Well maybe in gameland. I've noticed real life is somewhat different.

The moment my siblings backs were turned I'd be flipping over mortgaged properties or paying a $15 Poor Tax with a $100 note and taking six x $50, 4 x $20 and a $5 back in change. Plus the Advance To Go (Collect $200) Community Chest card seemed to come up suspiciously often considering there was only one in the deck.

Some cheating was more subtle, like forcing the dice into my sister's hand and rushing her to roll so she wouldn't have a chance to notice I'd landed on her May Fair property and force me to nick a few hundreds from my brother's stash to pay her off.

I don't think my brother, sister and I managed a single complete game sticking to the rules. Well, they might have, but I sure didn't.

And still the game would drag on.

In the end, to save time, my siblings and I would employ the Paris Hilton rules. We'd shuffle the properties and deal them out like deck of cards, then spend an hour negotiating the exchange of deeds. Similarly, instead of starting with a measly $1500 each, we'd dip our hands into the bank and help ourselves to about $10,000 apiece. Before the dice had even rolled there'd be houses and hotels all over the board. Start to finish, including squabbles, we'd be done in less than two hours.

I think they should get rid of the current game tokens and create a new, more appropriate set: handcuffs, shotgun, lawyer, that sort of thing. Well, it turns out, Hasbro has had similar thoughts. They are currently looking to cast off one token and introducing another.

At the moment the life expectancy of the wheelbarrow and iron aren't looking too promising. Good riddance to both of them, I say, especially the iron. I mean, the iron isn't even electric. As for replacements, well you can vote for one of the following - Guitar, Diamond Ring, Cat, Robot and Helicopter.

When I initially read about their suggested replacements I wasn't overly impressed. A helicopter? Really? Surely a yacht would be more suitable.

But then I saw the helicopter and suddenly I understood it would be the most desirable piece on the board. Not because it looked good (who chooses a token based on that?) but because they fly, meaning you could make helicopter sounds as it flies over the board, buzzing the little green houses, and, largely ignoring the dice, land the thing wherever the hell you want.

VOTE HERE to have your say.

Then we'll work on fixing Guess Who? and Game of Life  :)

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A Father-Daughter Moment

Today it was back to the hospital with Miss9. She ended up with a wheelchair, which has greatly improved her mobility, but not before we shared one of those father-daughter moments which will probably, if the dinner conversation tonight is anything to go by, be brought up at family events for years.

You see, one of the things they were checking for today required a bit of pee.

"We just need a sample," the doctor said, holding up a plastic jar, which Miss9 handed to me the moment the doc left the room.

"Not my pee, your pee," I told her.

"You need to hold it for me," said Miss9.

"I'm not holding it," I told her, my face aghast.

"Well I can't," Miss9 countered, pointing at her cast. She was right. With her leg she was flat out holding herself on the seat.

I took this news well. "Bugger," I mumbled. I looked around for a nurse, but they were suddenly scarce. "Bugger." My absolute favourite milestone moment is when the little buggers are toilet trained. It suddenly seemed to me we were going backwards.

And it also occurred to me while I'm at the hospital, Tracey is at home with our other grommets. Coincidence? I did wonder.

Miss9, of course, thought this whole thing was hilarious. She was giggling all the way down the hall as I carried her to the bathroom.

"Now stay still," she advised me as she started.

"If I do that you'll pee all over my hand." She was laughing so much she was shaking. "Would you please stop giggling and sit still!"

Eventually we had our sample and, I'm pleased to say, I didn't spill a drop.

Still, it could have been worse. They could have requested a stool sample. No doubt, she'd have laughed so much at that I'd have ended up with the jar looking like a Mr Whippy cone.

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Blood Fret & Tears

With all the fun we've been having this week with Miss9's broken leg, we thought what better time to have Master7 take a blood test. You know, spread the love around.

Our little man did well, although he did start to cry just a little bit at one point. Naturally, Tracey blamed me, but then I'm used to that. I am, according to my wife, to blame for all our kids' needle phobias, and to be honest she may have a point (pun intended).

I hate needles. I fear them. I loathe them. I avoid them. So naturally I'm the guy you want calming your child down before a nurse stabs a hole in their arm.

"It only hurts a lot for a little while," is the sort of thing I inadvertently say.

I don't even like attending when my kids get needles, but I know my duty as a parent so I drag my sorry butt along with them and do my best.

When the doctor told Master7 he needed a blood test our boy got pretty upset. All my kids have a greater-than-average fear of the jab. When Master21 was about five and needed a blood test it took five adults to hold him still enough for them to perform the procedure. They still mention this when I go to the clinic. But the doctor telling Master7 he needed a needle wasn't when he cried.

When he was waiting at the clinic for his name to be called, Master7 was very nervous. We'd given him all sorts of pep talks last night and this morning. I even wrote a song for him to sing while they drained him of his life's blood - "I don't wanna be here, I don't wanna be here, I don't wanna be here, I wanna go home." I kept it simple since there won't be much blood left to operate his brain. But sitting in the waiting room wasn't when he cried.

When his name was called we all marched down the hallway, got lost, retraced our steps and eventually found the right room. There was only one hallway and it was only seven meters long, but it seemed like a lifetime. I entered the room last so I was surprised when I noticed Master7 wasn't in front of me. The nurse found him hiding behind 'The Chair'. Still he hadn't shed a tear.

When the nurse put a tourniquet his arm and showed him the garden hose sized tube she would be shoving into his vein fear had definitely widened his eyes and even helped him develop of a nervous tick whereby his legs were involuntarily jerking about, but still he didn't cry. Neither did he, as I was considering, pass out.

When the nurse started filling the five vials, the other nurse, Tracey and I were respectively holding him down, holding his hand and holding my breakfast down.  I led him in a few verses of my song, "I don't wanna be here, I wanna go home", but it was more for me than him. Finally, it was all over - the vials were full and the nurse pulled the needle out and applied some cotton wool. And all without a single tear.

"And now it's time to do the other arm," I quipped.

And he bawled.

Seriously, I don't know why Tracey makes me go to these things.

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Why you should never ask for a nickname

We were chatting about nicknames at work today.

When a group of guys give you a nickname, you know you belong - you've been accepted into their tribe. Which is why when I was at college I asked the other blokes in G Block to give me one. Most people either waited to have one bestowed upon them or (mostly) hope to make it through without one. But not me.

"Nah, I want a nickname. They're so cool. Give me one," I begged. "I've been here three months already. Come on."

"Sure," they said. And they put up a blank sheet on the notice board calling for suggestions.

I love nicknames. I've always wanted a really cool one, but I haven't quite managed to pull it off yet.

I haven't managed to convince anyone to call me Jazz or Champion or Captain. These are, in fact, my dogs' names. You see, I'm really good at giving cool names to others.

For example, we have a girl at work who is named Tahleea or something. I can never remember how to say or spell it and I'm way too lazy to take the time to learn it so I started calling her Miss T - hence Misty. A great nickname! And if she ever decides to take up hanging out at street corners I'm sure she'll use it. When another friend named her daughter Amity, I cooed and ahhed at her little Calamity, immediately wishing I'd called one of my own kids by this great name because I loved this nickname so much.

My oldest was christened Geoffrey, but he's Gooffrey to me. Likewise, my Mishaela with forever be the best Mishtake I've ever made.

It's not that I haven't had nicknames, I have. But they've been lame. At school there was Thredbo, Ski-jump (neither because of my snow skiing prowess, but rather because of my mountain like nose), Devo, Ace and Maverick.

And yes, those last two I might have made up just now.

Of course, it could have been worse. I went to an all boy boarding school so the kids had heaps of time to commit to thinking something up. Plus, you all shower in the same bathrooms so they get to see you naked. Lots of guys nicknames at school were a direct result of this.

I remember a couple of guys at school were called Donkey and Captain Hook because of one or another feature of their favourite appendages - in these cases size and leaning. Then there was Pencil, Wart and Thimble.

At college, I recall there was a bloke whose nickname was Pink. When I asked why, I was told his older brother was nicknamed Black when he went through the college, again because of a size consideration, but when this young man was stripped and tied to a pole outside one of the women's colleges, as was the norm twenty five years ago, everyone decided, compared to his brother, he didn't actually have a willy. So Pink.

Boys can be so cruel.

As I learned when the vote came in and, by a landslide, by fellow G Blockers decided to call me Scrotum.

Fortunately, after a few months, many decided two syllables was cutting into their drinking time so it was shortened. I say 'fortunately' because Scrote leaves me with some of my dignity intact, right?

No, I didn't think so either. But at least I felt accepted by my tribe :)

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Enjoying The Break

Before the drama began - everyone attempting to
 photobomb, with mixed (read as no) success. 

"Stop it!" snapped Miss9 at her brother for some perceived wrong.

Holidays are a lot of fun, but the kids do start getting on each others nerves if they spend too long under the one roof.

"Time to go to the park," I suggested to Tracey. "Sausage sizzle?"

She readily agreed and we headed down there for dinner.

We have the best park here in G-town. There's a flying fox and loads of swings and activity areas for different age groups. One of the bits of equipment Miss9, Master7 and Miss5 love is the spinning platform, although at least one of ours kids might not be so keen on it from now on.

"Aaaaagh!"

Tracey and I could both hear the scream from different parts of the park. I beat Tracey to Miss9 but Mums trump Dads when it comes to their kids being hurt and I was quickly relegated to gathering up the rest of our kids while Tracey saw to our oldest middle child.

"I've broken my leg!" snarled Miss9.

She couldn't bend her knee and she was in obvious pain.

"I'm sure it's fine," I assured her over her mother's shoulder.

Miss9 giving a fantastic fake smile

"No! It's not! It's broken!" she screamed at me.

"I'll get the kids in the car," I said to Tracey, and began mustering them towards the car park. Broken or not, we were headed to the hospital.

"I need to go to the toilet!" bellowed Miss5 in a tone equally as urgent as Miss9. Because it can never just be one thing, can it? It can never just be one kid demanding your attention. I thought for a second and decided Miss5 peeing in the car on the way to the hospital would not improve things.

"Right," I said, and we made a stop at the loos on the way, before loading the car with kids and BBQ stuff and then going back to carry Miss9 to the front seat.

Three hours later we were all home again, Miss9 sporting a cast. Turns out she was absolutely right - she had broken her leg. A hairline fracture in a growth plate behind her knee. They ran a couple of x-rays and put on a cast. This week we'll head in to speak to a specialist and they'll do it all again.

This morning, while she perched on the lounge, I asked Miss9 what the best thing about having a broken leg is. I think it's important to look for that silver lining.

"The crutches," she answered straight away.

I asked her why.

"I'll show you," she said, and picked one up before reaching out and whacking Master7 on the head with it, all without moving from where she was seated.

"Hey!" said Master7 indignantly.

"I should have done this years ago," grinned Miss9.

it's the little things

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Out Of Orbit

There was a full moon a few days ago. I was driving home from work when I saw spotted it over the houses. It sure explained a lot.

Earlier that day, I was chatting to a sixty year old bloke who was super excited because he'd just received some good news.

"I'm gonna be rich!" he told me.

I got super excited for him. Maybe he'd take me out to dinner or something.

"What's happened?" I asked him.

"I'm sitting on a gold mine!" he exclaimed. "Seriously, I'm gonna need to buy a huge safe!"

Now I was thinking dinner in Milan or Rome.

"I'm gonna buy my kids houses," he nodded at me. Would it sound odd if I started calling him Dad?

"What's happened?' I asked again.

"I told you. I'm sitting on a gold mine. Five tonnes of gold."

"Really?" I said. Hey, we live in Gympie. It's possible.

"Yep. About forty feet down."

"I'll get a shovel and meet you there," I offered.

"The psychic told me all about it," he grinned.

"The what?"

"The psychic. She told me there's five tonnes of gold about forty feet under my back yard. I'm gonna be rich!"

Yep, the full moon sure brings them out.

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Wetsuit

When I arrived home from work yesterday, the kids were cleaning up their mess on the balcony, picking up bikes and putting toys away in boxes.

I put my stuff down and started to help. Until I picked up a cup with half an inch of water in the bottom.

There were a couple of ways I could have gone with the cup of water. The way I chose was, with a flick of the wrist, to fling the water at Master7's head as he trotted past.

"Daaaaaaad," said Master7, as I chuckled and went back to picking stuff up. When I turned back to face him half a minute later I was hit by a wall of maybe ten times more water, most of which went over my shoulder, but a got bit got me fair in the face.

Master7, the jug in his hand, was laughing riotously. So was Tracey, who'd obviously handed him the jug through the kitchen window. The next five minutes were lost to a water fight of epic proportions and spilled out onto the drive and had everyone wet drenched and in stitches.

Funny stuff. Until...

I arrived home at lunch time today and stepped onto the balcony.

"Honey! I'm ho-"

I didn't get to finish my sentence, as I was met, once again, by a wall of water. Only my son's aim had gotten better with practice.

"Tracey!" I called, dripping from head to waist. Master7 was grinning at me like he'd just pulled of a major coup de grace.

My good wife stuck her head out the kitchen window and took in the scene.

"Is that what you wanted the jug for?" she grinned at our son.

So my lunch was a bit rushed today as I had to waste a bit of time finding and changing into a new, dry uniform, and explaining to Master7 any future water games must henceforth start with him getting drenched, not me.

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Puppy Dog's Trail

"What the...?" Tracey stammered when she found our dog in a bedroom. "Outside!"

Our dog, Jazz, is a beautiful member of our family, but she's only allowed on the wooden floors and certainly not the carpets. She's a fantastic dog, though, and has seemed to grasp this from the moment we brought her home as a 9 month old, adolescent puppy.

An hour later, Tracey was kicking her out of the house again.

"Three times I found her in the front bedroom," Tracey told me. "Three times! Jazz never sets foot on the carpet. I thought I'd have to go all Cesar Millan on her." Which means nothing more sinister than taking her for a walk.

The fourth time Jazz ventured into the bedroom, however, Tracey was in the kitchen and saw what had been happening.

Miss3 was grabbing a handful of dog food from the cupboard and doing a Hansel & Gretel. She was placing one little doggy biscuit after another in a trail all the way from the balcony, through the house, to her room. Poor Jazz was merely following the food.

Tracey asked Miss3 why she was doing this, and the answer she got amounted to nothing more than Miss3 wanting a bit of control.

"She follow me," grinned our attention seeking Miss3, like being able to get anyone in this house to do what you want is the Holy Grail.

And I guess, when you're the sixth child of seven, it kind of is.

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Bruce's Totally Doable New Years Resolutions

I never usually make New Years resolutions. Not decent ones.

When I was a teenager I would treat resolutions like wishes. I'd make a resolution like, "I will kiss a girl", but then wouldn't do much about it, just sit around with my lips pursed waiting to be snogged. But it never happened. Of course, as I went to an all boy school I was sort of okay with this.

Then, as I got older and went to university, I'd mean to make a resolution, but then I'd start celebrating and soon the only resolution I'd be thinking was, "I will not drink so much the room starts spinning when I go to bed. I will not drink so much I need a bucket." That sort of thing. But usually by this point I was past saving anyway so I'd break my resolution within hours of the new year.

After that I pretty much gave up. I've meant to do it a few times but I'd procrastinate and wouldn't get around to it.

But this year will be different. I have decided to make a list of Bruce's Totally Doable New Years Resolutions. These will not suit everyone else (or possibly anyone else) so if you've come here for ideas, I'm sorry, you'll have to write your own. These ten resolutions were devised strictly with me in mind:

1.   DRINKING. 

I will give up expensive beers which don't fit into the budget and Tracey won't let me buy anyway.

2.   TECHNOLOGY. 

I will learn how to use a mobile phone. Specifically, I want to know what an angry bird is.

3.   DRIVING. 

I will not back my car into our fence. Unless it really deserves it.

4.   WRITING. 

I will write a kid's book. Actually, I've written it, so mission accomplished (well done me, tick that resolution box), but I will edit the sod of a thing and get the dang ebook out there.

5.   WEIGHT. 

I will maintain my ability to gain weight year on year, or lose weight trying.

6.   FAMILY. 

I will devote time each week to connecting with my youngest son. An hour or two on the Wii playing Skylanders should do it. Or Mario Kart. I love Mario Kart. I mean, he loves Mario Kart.

7.   FITNESS. 

I will ride my bike to work this year. At least twice.

8.   COOKING. 

I will put more wine into my risottos than my mouth. At least, on nights when I'm making risotto. Other nights are fine.

9.   TELEVISION. 

I will never again watch Little Princess. You can't get that half hour back. Desperate Housewives is out too.

10. SANITY. 

I will not make any more babies. Ever. But I will still eat the jelly ones.

That should be enough to be getting on with.

HAPPY NEW YEARS EVERYONE! Hope you all manage to get your little tykes to bed so you can enjoy seeing 2013 in without the smell of a dirty nappy or the whine of an overtired child to distract you.

Cheers, y'all. Catch up with you next year. xx

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