Not Funny
byI don’t think there’ll be a single chuckle in this whole post, and for that I apologise. Fact is, I pretty much just want to skite a bit.
The best part of living on the bus with the kids has been listening in to their conversations – it’s an eye opener.
I picked the girls up from school today when the usually rather pleasant and chatty drive home took a turn down an unexpected laneway.
My team won the debate! For anyone who’s interested or conflicted about the idea that art is actually sexier than chocolate, here’s my speech.
Any romantic notions I held about becoming a teacher quickly faded once I started helping my own kids with homework.
This week is a bit of a milestone for this family. For the four months since Tracey has been home with us we’ve effectively been treading water, putting our lives on hold until Tracey’s had the energy and stamina to do more.
It all started out with an innocent seeming question.
Miss5 was standing in the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her, doing little jumps up and down and holding onto her wee wee. I knew exactly what was coming…or so I thought.
My Father Nation podcast interview. Yes, that’s a thing. Let me know what you think (note: only if you think I did okay) and which bits you actually like.
1. House proud. To Tracey: “Aye been polishing ma deck all morning. Would yee care to take aarr look?”
Today was the first and only day I can ever recall thinking we should at least consider home schooling. And bear in mind, I hate helping my kids with homework. Almost as much as they hate me helping them.
It’s hard to have a private conversation in a house with five kids running around.
My youngest son is not impressed with what he learned today. “I am never having a baby,” he told us in no uncertain terms. Why? I’ll tell you…
“Your son is giving a talk at school on Monday,” Tracey told me as I walked in the door and pecked her cheek. That it was the first thing out her mouth and she was grinning told me I should follow this up.
“Hey!” I yelled, shooting to a sitting position on the side of my bed in a manner my back would later send me a harshly worded memo about. “Who are you?!”