I love my two children, Chalk and Cheese. One sleeps at the drop of a proverbial hat, and eats pretty much constantly, the other mills around in the evenings like a bewildered socialite looking for a suitable candidate ti have on their arm, and eats less than a small hibernating rodent.

Who will you be like, little unborn one? Will you sleep like a… baby… or, will you prowl restlessly, outpacing your mother and father? Will you happily guzzle food without even the hint of an allergy, or will you get a rash just by seeing a picture of food in a magazine? Will we give you the right name, or will you become famous and change it for the sake of your public persona? What will make you laugh? What will make you cry? Will we love you sufficiently?

*I get so aware that among you readers, there are those whose bodies haven’t yet produced babies. Some who have lost tiny babies, some whose parenting has reduced them to tears and psychiatrists. I am amazed that we have had this chance to have another child. And aware that it is not because we have passed some kind of Supernatural test. I don’t call it luck, but we are truly blessed. We didn’t cope well with miscarriage, but we are looking to the future. I hope we have learned lessons from the past, but I fear we haven’t.

I haven’t committed myself to a particular parenting style, Dobson or Spock, but instead we try to parent each child according to their abilities. Sometimes, it is according to my lack of patience.

Baby, be patient with me, and I will learn how to be the best dad possible.

At work, one of the more bizarre items that we sell is a cement labyrinth. Someone wanted to buy one today, but we had lost the little accompanying book. My thought was that if the guy needed a little book, then he probably wouldn’t get much out of the labyrinth.

Then I thought, whoa, deep thought, my life is a labyrinth. Then I thought, it is like a labyrinth full of minotaurs. I was picturing myself stumbling into cul-de-sac after cul-de-sac, pursued by bull-headed freaks, trying to remember where I had left my trail of crumbs. Or was that Hansel and Gretel?

If I ever get stuck in a big maze, I will take along my shears, and trim my way out. Slash, crumb, stumble, slash, crumb, stumble…

Yup, overthinking again… Don’t blame me, blame the bull-headed freaks.

*Neen, who rarely updates, is still happily pregnant, and radiant. The cramps and bleeding have stopped, more or less, and she is settling into the second trimester with a brave face. Hansel and Gretel are not among the names we have been seriously considering, should you be concerned.

Hannah is allergic to nuts (ie: keel over allergic), Neen can’t eat them as she is pregnant, and James and I aren’t nut fanatics. So I’ll take the Christmas present to work, and feed it to the vultures there. They eat anything. Once, I left a raincoat, and when I went to collect it, there were only the holes in the pockets left…

Why, if Neen and I absolutely, unequivocally and irrevocably LOATHED school uniforms when we were young, do we take such pleasure in buying James his first uniform? Are there certain cruel/stupid genes that only kick in when you are an adult?

Sorry, kid.

Being the 2^nd of January, we are all had a public holiday together. ‘Tweede Nuwe Jaar’, or second new year, in South Africa was traditionally a holiday: the slave bosses would celebrate on the first, the slaves on the second. I was neither a slave boss nor a slave, but I enjoyed the day today.

We went to the zoo. There is a fair-sized zoo on the outskirts of the city that houses the usual African suspects, and also some exotics, such as bears, tigers and peacocks. We chose a bad time to go to the zoo. Spring seems to have been mating season, and most of the females were either lurching around trying to find shade in the late stages of pregnancy, or cowering in dark corners with their new litters.

A pregnant tiger just doesn’t have the same ferocious mien as a lean hungry beast.

The males were mostly slumped under sun-browned trees, farting and breathing shallowly, like a bunch of recovering asthmatics. I’m still trying to stifle the cynical voice inside of me which was crying out ‘Stuffed! They are stuffed!, or else they are mechanized models!’ I can remember throwing small change at crocodiles in the zoos of my youth, but they never moved either.

We exclaimed over the chimps with their prominent red and pink bottoms, until a frisky male mounted one of the females without so much as a ‘Do you come here often, babes?’ Hiding our children from the mating rituals, we went to see the bears instead. The bears were sleeping. The lions were sleeping. The only awake creature was a troop of squirrel monkeys which had escaped their cage, and nearly mobbed us.

James and Hannah got quite into it, but they were obsessed by strange things, like the yellow eyes of a jungle bird, and the peacock feathers they found. I was obsessing about the living conditions of the animals. Very pitiful.

I also trod on something shaped remarkably like a human heart lying next to the cheetah cage, and came home with exotic dung stuck to my shoes. I miss all those furry faces.

So, in case you were imagining us South Africans as walking around dusty camps armed with dart guns, actually, we are forced to go to zoos, or crèches, to see real wildlife.

As GK Chesterton has it: if there were no God, there would be no atheists. This is a time of year when people, based on nothing but, well, nothing, become filled with the conviction that if they decide to do something, they will do it.

All over the globe, well, in western countries, well, the ones not following Islamic/Jewish/Chinese/Indian traditions and calendars- ok- a handful of people are going to celebrate the New Year by giving up smokingdrinkingeatingsexstealinglyingorjustwhatever, and maybe promise to getthatjobchasethatdreampursuethatgoalhavethatchildcompletethatsudokupuzzleormaybewinthatlottery,this year

I’m not a believer in Astrology, although I do say it really slowly, in case I say I don’t believe in Astronomy by mistake. I don’t think that stringing up a horseshoe over a rabbit’s foot is going to help you achieve your dream.

But it is as good a time as any to examine yourself. The Bible says that ‘without purpose, the people perish’, and it may be that you need to just get your focus back. Anyway, whether you are convinced that ‘this year will be different’, or you are begging for a break from the monotony of hurt, I pray that you will be brought into all that God has for you in 2006. It does take faith to be an atheist, but it takes bigger faith to throw yourself on the mercy of God. But you won’t be disappointed.

This year, I have goals, just like you, and the desire to not see a repeat of last year, but I don’t like to call these things ‘New Year’s Resolutions’, I want to end 2006 the way I start it: trusting in God, and acting on both my desires and my hopes, based on His guidance.

All the best to all of you and your sweet families, and may this year be better than all the others you have lived on this Earth. May you experience the presence of God, even (and especially) in difficult times, and may you find yourself cheering Him as you see some amazing things.

“You know Oprah? In the nineteen ninety nines she was very fat, and in the nineteen ninety sevens! And then she did exercises, and she had bushy hair! And I’m not lying!”

James, aged six.

Mental note: watch out for children if you happen to be watching Oprah. They may pick up the strangest ideas. Bushy hair? There is a local band, very hip, called Pitch Black Afro, and James asked me what an Afro was the other day. ‘I love Afros’ he said, after I had described what one is.

Sorry, kid, you may be an African, but your chances of having an Afro are, well, as likely that you will take up ice hockey. Then again, maybe I just envy his ambition, since I am beyond desiring hairstyles of any sort…

Ps, Oprah, if you are reading this, lets face it, you made some dodgy style choices back there, but at least James can tell the difference between then and now. Hope you don’t take offence.

Stupid experts. They fool people like me. There you are, the innocent layperson, watching tv on your slightly stained couch, when on comes an expert. Could be Michael Flatley, with his fetching too-tight pants and his tappity tappity shoes, or it could be one of those super-fit freaks in a lycra one-piece breaking sprinting records, and I drift into a world of delusion.

I could do that, I think to myself. How difficult can that be? I can remember watching a young John Travolta, all hair and lips, and imagining myself dancing like a Grease-r. How I flailed my imaginary light saber after Star Wars. How I practiced my sneers in the mirror when I got into heavy music.

Much like writing. Read a good book, and they make it seem so easy to write. Then you sit down with a blank sheet, or screen, and the blankness is the best thing to happen to it, compared to your rambling drivel.

We had our carpets cleaned today, and I very nearly slipped and broke a leg while doing a Riverdance impersonation. This after pulling several muscles doing cartwheels down a grassy slope yesterday. Guess I’m not a professional athlete.

Much like parenting. Some people make it look so easy. Trouble is, how do you practice for parenting? Are children like pancakes? The first one you make is always a flop, designed to get the pan to the right heat? NO! My little pancakes may not be perfect, but then I am the one partly to blame. I guess I can still be creative with the toppings…

Always be wary of parenting experts. Many ‘experts’ call themselves that because of an unshakeable belief in their own styles. Must have been some collateral damage along the way.

I am a self-declared amateur. Prepare to be amazed as I barely meet your expectations!

I'm constantly at war. In the indefinable struggle I battle with daily, I have to suppress a cynical voice making indignant squeaks at every turn. Sometimes I lose the battles, and my dry worldly attitude that is supposed to make me seem cool and sophisticated makes me come across as distant and bitter.

Which is why I loved Christmas this year.

Just seeing the sparks in my children's eyes as they happily got caught up in the thrill of a traditional Christmas was worth every sacrifice of my own 'coolness'. Sharing their enthusiasm for Santa, their appreciation for gifts, both inexpensive and weightier, and their unsatisfied appetites for sweet foods was so heart-warming.

I got to speak to my brother who is in Barcelona (on holiday from the UK, and I was able to chat briefly to my Mum. Who knows how many Christmases more I'll be able to do that for. I got to enjoy gifts without worrying about their monetary value. (Gifts we received as a family ranged from tomatoes to cellular technology…) Given the minor tragedies of this year, and some of the major ones, I discovered the importance of involvement with family.

The old cynical me would have just scoffed at Christmas, muttering dark things about big business profiteers, and wishing people would leave us alone.

Now, I am limited to mentioning that we should be offered controlling shares in Eveready, given the amounts of batteries we have to buy.

What a great Christmas. What great kids I have. I am so proud of the way that they managed to hold themselves together, and we had few tears. If Neen wasn't already pregnant, I'd be broody!

All the Best Christmas Wishes to you and your families.

Amongst my colleagues, I am the only one looking forward to Christmas. Whenever I start in whistling a tuneful rendition of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Pa Ra PA pApUM’ they threaten to do me physical injury. The only people entering into the seasonal mood are my two Muslim colleagues.

It may be having children that makes the difference. No, that’s not it, I have always enjoyed the anticipation of getting stuff. (Selfish, vain, blah blah) But also, I can still remember the magic of Christmas Eve, wondering…will I see him? The red man? Then, later on, will I see them, my whispering parents? Now, as I have young children, I can appreciate the fun my parents must have had, planning, preparing…

But my colleagues: Inappropriate gifts they have suggested for each other: A voucher for ‘Adult World’ (A seedy sex shop chain), a sack of cheese (some of them are on weird diets) and a replica human skull. (One doesn’t like to ask why).

My son James hasn’t asked for anything inappropriate, just lots of stuff. Heaps of stuff. We would have to build a new wing on to the house just to accommodate his new toys. But he will still be happy with the couple of things he has going for him. Hannah likes the idea of Barbie, although she hasn’t quite got the hang of how to play with her. So far, Barbie just gets very nekkid very quickly, and then gets chucked aside. (Poor, wanton Barbie).

My niece’s Godfather is a wild queen, who has a massive Barbie collection. He owns a special Barbie display cabinet, and has promised them to her as her inheritance. Just what every girl wants?

Two more shopping days left, people! *walks off humming ‘santa claus is coming to town’ in an irritating way, fending off blows from Christmas poopers…

'Quiet! Pesky little nitwits! I'm busy writing about what a doting father I am! Leave thast keyboard! If you touch that again, I'll…I'll… pause Ok, ok, guys, just say something cute so that I have a good post'.

Lou, in the friendly accepting way she has, nominated me for an award. I think she believes my hype. Sure, it is easy to look like a great dad on screen, when you are filtering the information yourself. Maybe I should get Kitty Kelley to interview me for my blog- that would probably give you a more accurate picture… Meanwhile, should you wish to second the fantastic Lou, kindly vote for me HERE.

PLH also voted, so thank you, dear hippy friend!

Back to business. Yesterday's caption comment competition was won by Buffi. She is a great blogging friend, whose words of encouragement have lifted my spirits on many an occasion. You are a sweetie!

Runners up prizes go to Chrysalis, for using the word sod in a delightful fashion, and to Brandy, because she one spoke to Blixa Bargeld.

Is this a 'Daddy Blog'? My parenting skills range from gentle supporting coo's, to blue-faced teeth-gnashing slapping-own-forehead-with-hand rages. I am a dad.  I have a blog. Every time my son or daughter says something cute like 'A ghost is a sheet, but you can put your hand through it', or 'I can't hear you, I'm blind!' I make mental notes to file it away for a later entry…

So I guess it is. Until they invent a category for 'Insanity sometimes sounds like wisdom' blogs, I guess it could be a daddy blog…

 *other links to follow: technical difficulties...