HAPPY HALLOWEEN, PART TWO

Two down, one more to go!

YOU KNOW YOU ARE A PARENT WHEN...

Your new favorite band is the... Backyardigans. Seriously. Have any of you bought their album from iTunes? I can't get Flying Rock Song (II) out of my head - reminds me of a high school rave. Trudge, Trudge, Trudge makes me smile - real feel good rock. Castaways makes me want to order a pina colada. A must purchase.

-- Finbar

COOL, YET RANDOM, CELEBRITY SIGHTING

Was in a cab in Notting Hill and saw a bunch of metro police on bikes....they were surrounding a coach with the Miami Dolphins inside (they were in uniform). They are here playing the NY Giants on Sunday at Wembley. Random but cool sighting! Wonder why they need police escort? My cabby was even more excited....very sweet. If you are watching the game, look out for Finbar-he'll be there!

INTRODUCING...

Much to Finbar's chagrin, The General has a new nickname: GUS THE BUS.

It was a beautiful sunny, crisp Autumn day here so we busted out The General's winter finerey and went for a walk.

He's so huge!!!!!!

His Uncles are proud. Uncle Bo says that Rugby starts at 6.Only 5.5 more years until The General hits the pitch!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN, PART ONE

Today was the annual KCWC Halloween Party. Loads of fun! Bess was her favorite Backyardigan, Uniqua! Pretty in Pink, eh?!!! Gus was supposed to be Yoda but Sammy blew the order so we had to scramble, hence his being a skeleton. Spoooooky!

Only two more Halloween parties to go...stay tuned.

VID-E-YO-YO-YO'S

1. Got Milk? Bess blowin' bubbles...

PS: Late entry - "mochila" means "backpack" in Spanish. Thanks Dora!!!



2. Typical mealtime with the General.



PS: He is now 18-pounds - that's over one stone!

"MY WIFE FLASHES ME A LOOK THAT IMPLIES EVERYTHING IS MY FAULT"

This is my new favorite column from the London Times. This, and the film KNOCKED UP pretty much sum up our lives at the moment!!!!!

DAD RULES by Andrew Clover, Sunday, September 30, 2007

Vic passes me a cup of tea. I tell her I’ve just had a baby girl. She says: “Ooh, that is sooo sweet. You’ve got a lickol baby.”

I flinch. I hate all that ickle-schlickle-lickol-baby thing. I want to throw my tea in the air and run off. I say nothing.

“What is she like?”

I can’t answer. My daughter stares at lights a lot. When she’s hungry, she turns her head, as if she’s calling a cab. Are these details significant?

“Is she beautiful?” prompts Vic. “Do you love her?”

“I’m confident”, I say, “that one day she’ll be beautiful as the sun streaming through leaves, but right now she looks like a monkey that’s been peeled.”

Vic looks visibly shocked. “That’s terrible,” she says. And the meeting starts, and I screw it up because I’m worrying I’m lacking in passion or kindness.

When I get home, the atmosphere is hectic. It’s 8pm. The girls have brushed their teeth and are now dancing wildly to some Christmas carols played at volume 50. My wife appears, holding the baby. The baby is screaming. Her face is bright red. She looks like a very small old lady who’s furious because she’s lost her wig. My wife flashes me a look that implies everything is my fault. I say: “I just need to pee.” And I dodge past her, like a doctor rushing through the waiting room.

As soon as I come out, she hands over the baby. “I need to sleep,” she says, “or I’ll have no milk at 10 o’clock.” My wife has turned into a dairy factory; she’s obsessive about keeping production levels high.
“Okay,” I say. I take the baby, and I start bouncing.

My daughter loves very deep bouncing. When she’s really yelling, sometimes the full, lunging squat is the only thing that can pull her out. I do that now. It’s questionable whether it’s an approved childcare technique, but it’s marvellous for the lower body. I’m developing the buttocks of an Alpine skier. I’m also out of breath. I must control myself. If I’m not relaxed, how can I expect the baby to be? I stare into her eyes and breathe deeply. We both calm.

Suddenly, she makes a worried face, as if she has just remembered something of great significance. As if it’s just come back to her that in a past life she left a candle burning. Then she poos. For a moment, she looks surprised. Then a ripple of pleasure passes over her face. The experience has been like going over a bump in a rollercoaster. It was fun. It made her tummy feel different.

“I like your style,” I say.

Now she seems to be noticing me for the first time. As if she’s going: “I don’t know who you are, but, one day, I might love you.” And I stare into her eyes, and I think much the same thing.