Colin – Monday 31 July 2017

Colin – Monday 31 July 2017

Toddlers are unpredictable and shatteringly illogical, in an irritatingly logical way.

I am a great proponent of the ‘try to see it from their perspective whenever possible’ mantra. They have narrow frames of reference, incomplete life experience and minimal access to wikipedia. Many of the rules that govern their little lives are built on context, assumed knowledge and nuance. None of which they are particularly great at.

Take food for example. Without Harold the Healthy Giraffe (RIP), the Ribena Berries and Tony the Tiger, none of which are yet accessible to Milo, how would we know what is healthy and what is not? A cookie is undoubtedly tastier to eat than a tree of broccoli. When, as an adult, you choose to eat that tree taste is playing only a minor role in your overall deliberation. What care Milo for these deliberations? Milo knows very little about dietary fiber, pantothenic acid, vitamin B6, vitamin E and omega-3 fatty acids, and what he knows he doesn’t care for. So when we try to sell an argument that he needs to eat (insert arbitrary number) of broccoli trees before he can have a small fragment of cookie the whole thing must seem spurious, illogical, and frankly a little cruel. Two broccoli trees equals the upper portion of a kinder-surprise? Why? Over time our toddlers accept this devil’s compromise; but they never understand it, they never like it, and they never forgive us for wielding our power so capriciously.

There is no event that requires a more honest and consistent reflection on the ‘try to see it from their perspective’ mantra than introducing a new baby into a home already inhabited by a toddler.

Consider this.

About 4 months ago Kuepps (my wife) mentioned to me 2 or 3 times that later in the year she would be bringing home another man to live with us, another husband essentially with whom we would be sharing our lives from that point forward. I wasn’t really paying attention as I was building a wicked train track at the time, and besides the whole thing seemed esoteric, unlikely, and future-Jupes’ problem.

Kuepps mentioned this idea to me a few times at irregular intervals over the ensuing months. Each time I expressed my general displeasure with the idea but on reflection I must say I had the feeling my perspective wasn’t being given full consideration. The whole concept gave me a¬†feeling of uneasiness but I continued to presume that something so outlandish and clearly damaging to our rather enjoyable and peaceful existence was very unlikely to happen.

About a week ago Kuepps dropped me at my mother-in-law’s house where I stayed for 2 nights. It was a bit weird, not a usual occurrence, and I was given no real explanation beyond “won’t it be fun to stay with your mother-in-law?” Not really, but they have quite good pastries and the whole thing was pleasant enough.

On the second morning I returned home looking forward to spending a little time with my wife, eating some smoked salmon, building a sweet tower out of Duplo and sharing some rather humorous anecdotes from my small trip away. When I arrived home I was quickly deflated however because there, sat on my couch with my wife, was a man. “Hi Jupes, how are you?” My wife said, in a voice so sweet it made me think something was up; “This is Colin, our new husband, isn’t he beautiful?”

What??!! No! He’s not beautiful at all, and hang on – what??!! I stayed where I was and had a good look at Colin. He was a bit younger than me, but looked eerily similar. He was ignoring me completely, didn’t even cast a look in my direction. I could tell immediately he was a bit of a dick. My world was spinning and Colin just sat there, dribbling on himself, looking lecherously up at my wife, occasionally clambering at her bosom in a gratuitous and entirely unseemly way. I was shattered.

“Oh look Jupes, Colin got you a terrific gift” I turned my head to the kitchen bench upon which sat a garishly wrapped gift of some kind. “Go on, open it!” Kuepps encouraged. Dumbfounded, I stumbled over to the kitchen and unwrapped it, a nice coffee machine. “Do you like it??” It was nice I must admit, but I could tell Colin had played no part in its procurement. He didn’t seem like a guy who would know anything about coffee machines. “Say thank you to Colin”.

“Thanks Colin”, I muttered, and slumped into my chair, head in my hands. Kuepps continued the charm offensive; “Isn’t it wonderful to have another man in the house? In time you and Colin are going to best friends!”

What!!?? That is absolutely not going to happen. Colin is clearly utterly self-involved, lascivious and arguably incontinent. I am not sharing anything with him, let alone my wife! As I was reaching for my mobile to call Colin a taxi my mum arrived, brushed past me and headed straight for Colin.

My mum then demanded to cuddle Colin and when she had pried him away from Kuepps she did this sickening little bobbing dance with him whilst continuously complimenting my wife on being so clever. What is this?? How could my own mother be so utterly unsympathetic to my situation. MY WIFE HAS JUST BROUGHT THIS STRANGE MAN COLIN INTO MY HOUSE, WHY IS EVERYBODY OK WITH THIS??

Eventually my mother stopped dancing with this strange man and then asked whether I would like to have Colin on my lap for a photo. Of course I don’t bloody well want Colin on my lap for a photo. I want Colin out of my house. At that point the rest of my family arrived, all in a buoyant mood despite the fact my world was collapsing around me. Somebody, I can’t even remember who, picked Colin up by his waist and dropped him down on my lap. “Smile Jupes” everybody was saying as they crowded around me for a photograph – nobody seemed to be insisting that Colin do anything; he just lay there, like a privileged, slightly orange, plump little interloper, waving his ill-proportioned little arms and legs around like he was having a seizure. The whole thing was a nightmare. I felt discombobulated, vulnerable and humiliated.

Over the following week things did not improve. I barely saw Kuepps; she and Colin would routinely disappear into the bedroom where they would giggle for hours. No Kuepps at bath time, no Kuepps at bed time, no Kuepps at all.

Colin. Has. Ruined. Everything.

…and that is why Milo has been afforded significant leeway for his transgressions over the past week. Considering the cataclysmic shift he has endured he is performing extremely well and both he and his brother Monty (not Colin) are learning slowly how to co-exist, and will in short order, I am positive, commence their allied overthrow of the house.


Baby Monty

What makes a human? – Saturday 22 July 2017

What makes a human? – Saturday 22 July 2017

Milo welcomed a baby brother into the world this week (more on that soon) and it got me pondering; what is it that makes a human? Is it our ability to dream, empathise and love? Is it music? Our unique gift to compose and experience this most wondrous form of self-expression. Is it self-awareness; the very human instinct to conceive, understand and shape the world around us?

No, the answer of course is identification; and ideally 100 points of it.

Identification begets identification. If you want anything of value in today’s world you need to identify yourself; bank loan, passport, fishing licence, Petbarn loyalty card, ‘juice-to-u’ detox smoothie home delivery membership. Our system requires all humans to identify themselves in a variety of ways, all the time. This system works terrifically well; not only do our mini-golf frequent putters cards give others confidence we are who we say we are, but they also provide the ancillary benefit of affording us yet more identification.

But have you ever thought for a moment about how you got your first unit of identification? What is the foundation of this flimsy, bureaucratic house of cards upon which we climb ever higher? I can tell you.

In Australia when your new baby finally arrives the tending midwife, after a 76 hour shift, scribbles his or her signature on two mostly-blank printed forms, adds an altogether unconvincing rubber stamp bearing the name of the hospital on each and hands them to you in a not-very-official looking white A4 envelope on the front of which can be found a giraffe, a duck, an elephant and a fourth animal the nature of which I cannot currently remember because I was somewhat bleary-eyed and distracted at the time. That’s it. It is these two forms upon which everything else is based. It is these two forms that make you a human.

The first form you take to Centrelink/ Medicare to register your new human for social security and healthcare. When you arrive the Centrelink officer, whose dense carapace of disdain has been grown and thickened over many years of managing half-truths, cajoling and excuses, does not greet you with the benefit of the doubt. However, once this officer realises you are not there to use the free public phone, and in fact have just experienced a momentus life-event they are easy to win over. You pass them the scrap of paper, toward which they take a cursory glance, and you can then literally name your human whatever you like, even foreign swear words if your rapport is good enough. The officer types those names into the system and voila, the human’s official record begins.

The second form you take to Births, Deaths and Marriages. I presume there exists some mechanism to check the name you provide at your second stop roughly matches that which you provided at your first, but I didn’t test this. You pay $45 plus postage, unless you want a novelty birth certificate which costs extra, and they send you your new human’s certificate in the mail.

What happens if you lose these forms you ask? So did I. There does not appear to be a compelling answer. I asked it of a number of medical professionals at the hospital and their answers were all derivations of “don’t lose them”. So I presume that for those poor souls who lose the forms, of which I am sure there are many – one does not receive them at one’s most lucid – they become the parents of invisible humans, forever doomed to live outside the system; a home-delivery-juice-free, putt-putt golf-less existence. I imagine the early photographs of those poor infants slowly fade over time like Michael J Fox in Back to the Future, or perhaps they drop dead spontaneously like avatars unplugged from the Matrix when the 60 day registration period comes to an end.

Whatever the process I am sure there is a voiceless, subjugated underclass of people out there who cannot rent a DVD. And we should spare a thought for them.

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A new registered human