Cool Under Pressure

Here’s the thing. Apparently, I am part of the next big thing in internet sensations, a phenomena known as daddy blogging. That’s right, I am phenomenal.

I didn’t realize this, sadly, until it was pointed out to me earlier this week, otherwise I might have been milking it to get the odd cup of tea out of Tracey. I mean, I knew I was blogging, I just didn’t realize how phensational I was.

“Hey, Trace,” I said to my darling wife. “Go have a look at the email on my computer screen. But don’t get excited. I’m not doing it. It’s just nice to be offered.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Tracey. She was elbow deep in dishes.

“Just look.”

“Oh my god!” squealed Tracey a few minutes later. “You’ve got to do it! You’ve got to do it!”

“On telly? Me? Are you nuts?” I don’t like public speaking. Only last week I said no to a lovely request to talk at a local mother’s day event. And surely this offer to be interviewed by a national network qualifies as public speaking, doesn’t it? I know my insides were being quite clear about it. “Besides,” I added, struggling to throw any excuse I could into the mix, “the camera adds ten pounds.” I don’t even know how much a pound is but ten of them sounds like a lot.

“You get on your computer and you tell that woman yes!” suggested Tracey. “And be nice. And polite. And don’t scare her off by trying to be funny.”

At this point Master8 stuck his head around the corner. “What’s going on?”

“Your father’s going to be on telly.”

“Really?”

“No,” I assured him

“You have to dad,” said Master8. And he kept saying it until I had to insist he stop talking to me for fear I would snot him.

“You know you’re going to agree to do it,” said Tracey, “so you may as well just say you will and be done with it.”

“I don’t know anything of the sort,” I told her. “What if it’s live? I’ll freeze. I will freeze solid like a block of ice.”

Suddenly my youngest son was back at my side, tugging on my sleeve. In the couple of minutes since he’d left the room he’d been busy. His face was covered in a rather slipshod mask which looked like he’d simply torn the paper instead of using scissors.

“Nice, mate,” I lied. “But give us a minute. Mummy’s busy busting dad’s balls.”

Instead of moving he simply pointed at the mask. I couldn’t fault him, the boy hadn’t said a word. I looked closer. Written in pencil across the entire front was you have to go on telly dad, you really, really, really, really, really have to go on telly. Five really’s is serious business when you’re eight.

Then the phone rang.

“Dad!” Master21’s voice came down the line. “You have to do this!”

I looked at Tracey.

“Would you stop telling people,” I begged.

Of course, in the end I agreed they were right. Begrudgingly. I’d forever be wondering if I should have, instead of knowing I shouldn’t.

But ultimately I only agreed because it turns out I won’t have to do it alone.

“They want to talk to me?!” said Tracey when I read her the reply to my request for a little more information. I think her stomach had something to say about the whole situation as well.

“And maybe one of the kids,” I added in Master8’s direction. Suddenly he was looking less chipper too.

So stay tuned everyone, because the camera crew is supposed to be here Monday so it looks like in the near future Big Family, Little Income might be coming to a telly near you. We’ll be the ice sculptures staring blankly down the barrel of the camera.

I wonder if you can catch phneumonia from being caught out in the middle of a phenomena?

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