Edie and the F-Bomb

When Robert Doyle’s public attacks on a FCUK billboard (“An insulting and gratuitous blot on our urban landscape,” raged our mayor’s Sunday Herald Sun article) followed the introduction of the Victorian government’s anti-swearing laws in July, I sided with those bemoaning our “nanny state” and its continued erosion of free speech.
Then I first heard my 21-month-old daughter, Edie, drop the f-bomb. It came seemingly from nowhere: as crisp as an elocution lecturer; as chunky as if delivered from Kevin 'Bloody' Wilson's bearded gob.
At first my partner and I stifled laughter under covered mouths. To hear her chirpily navigate many words with difficulty but execute the dreaded f-bomb like some sort of angelic Chucky doll seemed hilariously funny.
But then she started using it in context.
After dropping one of her dolls: “F**k”.
Having fallen over: “F**k”.
While standing up in the driver’s seat of our car and mimicking me behind the wheel: “F**k.”
“It's your fault,” my partner said. I disagreed, suggesting she was around her mother more than her father. My partner stood her ground. “I don’t swear around her."
As if to bring closure to the argument, Edie upped the ante, dropping the f-bomb upon seeing me when I walked in the door from work.
Me: “How’s my little girl?”
Edie: “F**k... f**k... f**k.”
F**k, indeed. Far from a squeal of “Daddy” as she ran towards me for a cuddle, my outstretched arms were instead met with a smiling, blue-eyed bombardment of f-bombs, each ending in a sharp, emphatic 'k' that felt like a jab to my gut.
I was to blame after all. With slumped shoulders I sat down in a quiet place and thought about swearing and, in particular, the ‘f-‘word. I blamed society; the word has become so embedded in the Australian psyche that many of us – including me, obviously – say it without thinking. Heck (sorry, 'f**k'), many of the nicknames we blokes bestow on each other contain the 'f-' or, worse, 'c-‘bomb. Even our TV networks, historically filter-friendly, have become more liberal in allowing certain words to air (especially after 8.30pm, and keeping the camera focused on AFL players' mouths for missed-goal reactions.
Then I got thinking about the filters we impose on ourselves. Was swearing a release for having to hold in our curses after spending most of our waking hours around soul-sapping bosses and dippy workmates? Why then, if my filter's on while at work, or while visiting my grandparents, or while writing a column (note my use of asterisks), is it off when I’m around my little girl?
Inexperience, I decided, was the major factor, but no amount of earnest resolve could quell the feeling of helplessness as the days rolled by and that word didn't go away.
My partner's parents, visiting recently when Edie unleashed one of her more savage Big Lebowski routines, told us to ignore her; they said she'll eventually forget the word. Oh, and to watch our swearing.
Funny, how certain situations as a first-time parent has led me to back to my own childhood. My dad is a straight-down-the-line, beer-drinking country fisherman who swears like a trooper with his mates, and yet, as kids, he'd order my sisters and I to bed if the video we’d hired had too many expletives. It only took two or three bad words and we’d be on way (we lasted around two minutes after sitting down to Platoon). Now I understand his motives.
Since then I've uttered more f-bombs than I'll ever have dollars in my bank account, and it’s done me no good. Strange, really, how something that serves no purpose can be one of the staples of a whole cross-section of vocabularies.
So, I’ve decided to cease using the f-bomb. Even if I'm working alone at home and my computer has frozen, or if I'm in the car – especially if I'm in the car – I’m going to try my darnedest to not use it.
Sure, I'll have to change the way I converse with mates (particularly after a few drinks), and hum along to sections of some tunes (and stop recounting film dialogue, period), but the preservation of my little girl's childhood is worth it. She'll be bombarded soon enough.
Long live the nanny state!

Edited version on Mamamia: http://www.mamamia.com.au/parenting/guess-who-dropped-the-f-bomb-now/

LittleOne

Edie, the budding Entrepreneur

Daddy and Edie walk into the $2 shop in Newmarket Shopping Centre. Edie's holding a 50c coin in one hand and a 10c coin in the other.
Daddy finds the CD cases he was looking for, value $2.50, then, Edie in his arms, presents at the counter.
Asian store owner: "Two dollar fit-ty, peez."
Daddy digs into his back pocket, pulls out a $2 coin and $1 coin. He hands over the $2 coin, then, weighing up the balance, tries to get Edie to hand over her 50c coin while gesturing to the store owner. "Pay, Edie, pay."
Edie considers, shakes her head. "Edie," she says, holding the coin tightly in her little right hand while looking earnestly at the Asian woman. "Edie, Edie, Edie, Edie."
The store owner smiles, a little cheese wedged between her front teeth.
Daddy hands over the $1 coin instead, and then tries to pocket the 50c change.
But Edie has other ideas. "Edie," she says. "Edie, Edie, Edie."

Smart girl. She now has $1.10, rather than 10 cents, to her name.

Ridding Oneself of the Black Dog

Might be Melbourne's ever-lingering winter, but I've battled the black dog a bit of late. So it was with resignation that I hauled myself out of bed and into pre-6.30am darkness this morning. But I realise I’m a daddy with daddy responsibilities, and I knew it was time to face the day when it became clear my darling 20-month-old Edie – who'd been snoozing between Tash and I, drunk with the warmth of hot milk from the bottle she'd discarded like a bogan would a VB can at a B&S ball – wasn't going back to sleep. When the coo-coos and half-words get louder and clearer – “Pippy!... Bon-Bon!... Hat!... Airplane up-above!... Mumma!... Dadda!... Ahhh!... Phul!" – and she's tired of trying to nestle into her mother's bosom (not to mention that it's my turn to get up at 'Edie Hour'), there's no option other than to go with my daughter's flow.
So she grabs hold of my hand and practically roosts me out of bed. Her little feet rush up the hallway and she guides me into the loungeroom. It's time for nursery rhymes. No, I'm not allowed to change her soiled nappy yet. No, it's not time for porridge and toast. Just Mary had a Little Lamb, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and the like.
But she's a little less wriggly this morning, as if sensing that all is not 100 percent in daddy's world. Instead of dragging me from the couch to her miniature dining table for tea parties, then to the building blocks, her toy guitar and, finally, her mother's office to watch nursery rhymes on the computer (even though they're already on the TV), she snuggles with me under a blanket on the couch for 10 glorious minutes, laying perfectly still apart from the odd hand movement that accompanies the tunes she knows (which are many… credit to her mum).
After Incy Wincy and Miss Muffet have danced a merry jig on more than one occasion, she signals that she wants porridge and she sits patiently in her high chair while I prepare it, with honey (or, “Hunna”), and then, to my surprise, eats most of it. She even remains in her high chair as I prepare her some toast.
This Brady Bunch-esque behaviour doesn't last, however, and soon she's toddled off back into the bedroom and laying across her sleeping mother trying to get at 'Bitty'. (Disturbingly hilarious, Little Britain.)
When it becomes clear Edie's putting a serious dampener on her mother’s sleep-in, I fling the little cherub’s jacket and shoes on (I wish it were that easy) and we're out the door and headed, hand-in-hand, to the local cafe. We actually have four local cafes; this way we can share Edie's infectiousness with the whole of Flemington while ensuring our lives of repetition are just a little less repetitious. Imagine being a first-time parent and not having cafes and parks; how would you fill in the time?
At the cafe it's a large latte for me, and a babycino for her. Suddenly she's in a menacing mood. First, after devouring the marshmallow that comes with the babycino, she's emptying out the sugar bowl on to the table, then showering the granules with the water from my glass and her cup. Following that, after smearing her already Vegemited face with chocolate dust and milk, it's time for the table to cop the remainder of the babycino.
Why didn't I stop her? Well I did on the first couple of occasions, but her persistence paid off when I made the mistake of taking a sip of my coffee. His mind's elsewhere – bang! She looked up at me, her eyes shining with life, shining like her mother's at her happiest, and I laughed. There was some early-morning sunshine out, and we watched on as the cafe filled with business people waiting on their coffees before sprinting for their city-bound train. With the luxury of an afternoon shift, I was enjoying some QT with my favourite person in the world. I was lucky enough to be going against the grain.
She stood up on my legs and said “Cud-dle... cud-dle”, before resting her head on my shoulder. Funny how intuitive they are. It was like she sensed how at ease with myself I was in that snapshot of time. Those moments when everything is beautiful and you want to bottle them so you can hose down the next downer. But there's no time to think about that, she's off me and walking behind the counter. I thrust $4 into her right hand and she hurriedly pays one of the staff. Then it's 'bye-bye” and the whole cafe seems to be smiling. Even the guy wiping up our mess.

(Note: Previously posted on 'Thrown Covers, Drawn Curtains' blog on 27/08/11.)

'Dadda'

I've been called a lot of things in my time – many of them unprintable – but never, until now, 'Dadda'. Funny to go by a certain name for more than 30 years before a little human re-addresses things and bestows a title, no less, on you.  
So 'Dadda' has lovingly been added to a list that's grown over the years; depending on the mate or the situation, I'm Lewy, D.K., Lewis, Dan, Lou, Bunga, and even – when family are involved – Daniel.
Mushiness aside, it's a special feeling, being called something new. The nicknames dry up once you settle down a bit, and stop joining new sporting clubs, travelling and the like. So to hear my little Edith Alba refer to me so sweetly as 'Dadda' gives a 'new-lease-of-life'-type thrill.
I wonder if newly-qualified doctors or ordained priests feel a similar jab of excitement in their gut when referred to by their shiny new titles?
On another note, Edie's started to take a real shine towards me after many a month of being on the outer. She even cried when I left for work the other day – something she normally reserves for when Tash walks out of the room. It nearly broke my heart.
Maybe I need to harden up. They say women soften blokes up, but those with a little daughter as well have no chance.

Parenting Curveball #53: Status

Curveballs. As most first-time dads well know, fatherhood brings many... and that's after the heady nine-month build-up.
Raucous 3am wailing. Testy, hormone-imbalanced, sleep-deprived wives or girlfriends. Breast-milk-splattered shirts. Raucous 5am wailing (now harmonised by your partner's cries of frustration). Caramel-sundae-like poo on your fingers.
Not forgetting: foot cramps from tiptoeing around the house; non-existent intimacy and freedom; aching back; regular, slightly-crazed text messages from slightly-crazed partner during the working day.
And finally, there's the Facebook-induced anguish: “Another one sleeping through in my mother's group! Why do they have to tell the world?”
Why indeed. Mark Zuckerberg has much to answer for.
But when our beautiful – and unplanned – Edie came along, my girlfriend and I realised that joining the beleaguered parental community also bestowed a certain status. A sort-of 'key to the city' – regardless of whether we wanted it or not.
I'd be out pushing the pram and little old ladies would proffer me looks of warmth rather than fear and/or loathing. Local cafes started handing out little freebies – babycinos, muffins – or allowed credit for coffees because, “I understand, bringing your wallet was the last thing on your mind.”
Other cafe-going patrons, meanwhile, would offer to move tables, or hold the door open, or even pick up the books, toys and half-gnawed boxes of sultanas that Edie tossed out of her pram.
Most pertitently, other parents – from respective L-platers to those with multiple school-aged tyrants – started talking to us. While I could talk anyone's ear off as a wayward twentysomething, I'm not really much of a 'real' conversationalist in the 'adult' world. (Unless alcohol is involved, which, of course, has me thinking I'm being a real conversationalist.)
So this was somewhat of an unplanned test. I hadn't realised that having a baby not only invited chats with strangers also saddled with the new-found responsibilty of parenthood, but there was something of an expectation to do so.
At first there were the other dads on early-morning walks. There'd be a knowing smile as we crossed paths, then a cheerful, “The wife having a lie in, eh?”
I'd snigger a little “yeah” as I continued on.
“You getting much sleep?” he'd yell over his shoulder.
“Some... but it's never enough”, I'd yell back. More laughter.
Next came our trips to the local park, where other bleary-eyed parents and their kids in our area congregated. Previously, these people had barely given us a second look – now we were in 'the gang’. The 'in-crowd'. But this was a new type of ‘in-crowd’ to which I’d become accustomed. These weren’t trendsetters frequenting trendsetting places. They didn't do as they wanted every weekend, nor did they wear the finest and coolest clothing money could buy. No, they were more likely to be found in baggy tracksuit pants or outdated jeans at said park or cafe, or at the supermarket on a Sunday. Because that stuff just didn’t matter anymore.
Edie's in the stroller now, her bright blue eyes and joyous smile inviting more and more people – of all ages – to stop us in the street. “She's so beautiful,” they exclaim. “Are you enjoying being out with Daddy?”
While I've always appreciated the compliments, I hadn't been prepared for them. I had no idea just how positive an impact my little girl would have on the local community. Now I'm learning to give people want they want, which is often just a little sunshine in their days. “Have you got a smile Edie?” I say, knowing that even though I’m talking to the person by proxy, it suffices. “Wave goodbye, Edie!”
Fatherhood has certainly changed me – I once despised the word 'normal', for example; now I revel in the fact that Edie's in the healthy percentile for height and weight – and I've accepted, to an extent, parenting status, even if don't necessarily believe I've moved up in the world. Yes, I've grown to appreciate chatting with other dads and mums about their experiences (even at the park at 8am on Sunday mornings), but I haven't forgetten about my single mates who are happily disengaged from the world I now find myself in.
Some of them may never have kids, and I don't begrudge them one bit. In fact, the more they don't change, the saner I stay.

Jackson and the Dawn Father

Everything was comfortably familiar in my local cafe this morning. I was sipping a latte and skimming the newspapers, my face partially hidden under a Yankees cap. Happy in my own company, you might say. All around me a flurry of cooked breakfasts and coffee were being distributed to a swarm of 'yummy mummies' and their blessed little people. But where I'd normally consume the papers whilst keeping one ear open to conversation (as a freelance writer it would be remiss of me to do otherwise) the drone of screeching newborns and incoherent toddlers actually won out today – and, in particular, one little man.

So, I was reading the The Age's Opinions page (OK, I was reading the sport section), when a freckle-faced cherub started churning out a noise so piercing that one particular sentence I was reading about the demise of yet another AFL coach became something of a mantra. The death-metal backing of the tot, now harmonised by a couple of like-minded others, was similar to what you'd hear on late-night JJJ.

Then, just as my threshold of pain was breached, the noise died down. I glanced over at my nemesis with a ringing in my ears. A waitress hovered at his table, chatting away as she handed large lattes to the mother and her friend. Naturally, after she'd finished gasbagging, the waitress leant down and coo-cooed at the boy, pulling one of 'those faces' (the kind of which makes you wish real that fantasy tale of faces freezing as the wind changes) before handing him one of those gimmicky baby coffees, the name of which escaped me at that moment.

“There you go, Jackson, drink your babycino,” the pale-faced mother said, caressing the boy's thin, sandy hair, before turning her attention back to her guffawing friend. I laid the paper down and waited for it to happen. Jackson surprised me by actually taking a sip before the liquid went all over the floor. “Maybe 18 months is too young for him to handle his own babycino,” the mother said to her friend, who was already on her hands and knees dutifully wiping up with a serviette.

I went back to the newspaper, wanting to get through one article before leaving, only to be interrupted again by big-voiced J, now doing his 'nana over a banana. Aaarrgghh. Thank God that's not me, I thought, that warm rush of relief akin to that of a late-teen who's had a bad dream about missing a VCE exam, only to wake up and realise they now have a day-job instead.

And that's when it dawned on me, in an arm-hair-stiffening moment of realisation: hang on a minute, that is you. Or about to be... That 'sort of thing', that's youYouYOU...

I shakily took a sip of my coffee. The truth had, for the first time since Tash became pregnant eight months ago, hit me square between the eyes.

It's amazing how one little seemingly insignificant moment brings such realisation, when so many other supposed milestone moments didn't quite do the job. Denial (the oh-so-apt anagram of my Christian name) was my adversary from the outset. I thought back to that fateful March morning, when Tash returned from the chemist. I remember noting how simple the directions were on the pregnancy kit box: a criss-cross symbol meant Positive; a minus, Negative. It didn't matter which way I looked at it – side on, upside down, standing on my head – it was positive. Shock softened my joy; after all, it hadn't been planned, and we'd been cautious in a lax sort of way. I resolved to push it to the back of my brain as Tash assured me we wouldn't tell anyone until she'd safely navigated the first three months.

But there wasn't even any morning sickness. And she was still working. It was like nothing had changed. And while I thought telling people would take me to some other level, it didn't, despite the news drawing tears from my mother, a slap on the back from Dad and some earnest, grown-up advice from my single mates.

As time went on, there was Tash's ever-changing body shape and mindset: I'd seen her stomach expand outwards, droop downwards, her reasoning waver, but somehow a stubborn wall of denial always stood in the way, and I'd refrain looking too far ahead. Baby names? What's the rush, we have six months to go... sorry, make that five.

I'd been reliably told the 20-week 3D scan was when it would hit home the most. Must admit, the little alien-like human writhing around on the screen was indeed an eye-opener but that fatherly feeling remained elusive, and has remained that way even as the final necessities were carried out – the cot, a hand-me-down from a friend, assembled and painted; a baby seat fitted in the old bachelor wagon; the pram purchased; the hospital bags packed.

Even Tash's baby shower last weekend, where I was temporarily surrounded by a bunch of excitable females before escaping to the pub with my brother-in-law (for a couple of light beers, of course), still had the long-toothed bunnies jumping fences in my mind's eye rather than the delicate, wailing, nappy-soiling, vomiting little human who was just about to enter my sphere.

Leaving the cafe, I noticed them all around me. Little monkeys in prams. Toddlers being tugged back from the road by multi-tasking mothers. It's amazing how little you see of things that don't directly relate to you. I began asking myself questions: will I be a dad who avoids coffee shop outings? Will I be one who is suckered into the methods of others before me? Will my child be a babycino drinker? Will I put up a 'baby on board' sticker in my car after years of chastising others for doing the same?

So. I'm finally at one with the knowledge that in a few weeks – or maybe days – I'm about to become one of those people. One of those preoccupied, enamoured, stale milk-smelling souls with licorice-dark rings under the eyes. I may not be ready but, hey, who's ever ready for anything? So thank you, little Jackson, you might have ruined your mother's morning but you made mine.


(Note: Previously posted on 'Thrown Covers, Drawn Curtains' blog on 18/11/2009, a few weeks' prior to Edie's birth.)