Knees aching. Back sore. Went to parent-teacher meeting last night, sat on tiny chairs. That dreadful classroom smell haunts me.

Still, it could have been worse. We were in fear of this year, grade one, for James, as we expected the workload to be much heavier than the preparatory grade. We were expecting homework that even we couldn’t help him with, new styles of teaching, new information.

Nope.

Thirty years after I started school, the children are learning this year to count to twenty (James can already count backwards from 100) and will be learning to read using, I kid you not, Kathy and Mark, and Janet and John. Not new updated versions of those old classics, but the same editions I used. Printed in 1970 and 1961 respectively.

Does this mean that they are the ultimate teaching tools? Can education develop no further? Where are the black kids in K&M? What kind of weird African school uses Janet, John, their stupid dog and the mummy in the apron to teach children how to read? Guess one day we’ll have real children our kids can relate to, but until then, they’ll just have to have the same education Neen and I had.

It dirrent doo us eny halm, rite?

You may have the impression, given my written eloquence, that we are very well-heeled. Unfortunately, while I may have the sophistication of Niles and Frasier, my bank account is more that of The Littlest Hobo.

So we covet (in a light-hearted, non-sinful way) an extreme makeover for our family home (as the nobility say- our little pile-), given the tiny nature of our house, it wouldn’t take long. Anyway, we begged the bank to give us more money, using their house as collateral (HA!- foolish bank!) Whoohooo! Free money! So that we could shake things up a bit. Not really building on a library wing, but more just non-structural cosmetics.

One of the things we wanted to do was get an awning over the front of the house, we got one quote which was as unrealistic as spinning straw into gold, so we chose to get a cheaper do-it-yourself version. (With my dubious skills, that means a slightly skew awning that I would never feel entirely comfortable sitting under lest it collapses…)

So we priced one. We argued. We bought a stunning toilet seat instead. It was so remarkable, people were asking us where we got it, as I toted it boldly through the shopping mall. It takes courage to carry a toilet seat around. One woman was asking me about it, and I felt like offering her a seat, but thought the better of it. So fresh, so white, so shiny and new. Aaaaah.

So the outside of our house looks the same, but the bathroom is very posh. On my throne, I can survey my land, well, the bank’s land, anyway, and revel in all that I own. (Rather like Dr Seuss’s Yertle the Turtle, who gets carried away with his grandiosity, and ends up upended in the swamp).

It may only be a toilet, but it is my toilet.

Excuse me a moment. I have to use the bathroom…

Q: What does the sound crinkle, crinkle, snicker criiiiitch sound like?

Well, at first glance, it appears to be the noise of a healthy active pet rat. Especially when your healthy active children should be fast asleep. But, in strict adherence to the First Law of Parenting, never assume the easy option.

In this case, Hannah had had a wee emotional meltdown, so I allowed her to go to sleep in my bed, with the intention of carrying her through later- maybe not the best way of doing things, but CSI was on tv, and I couldn’t face hours of soothing and cajoling- and I assumed she was asleep. We continued to hear this strange noise.

When my fear and curiosity got the better of me, I went through to my bedroom, and as I got there, Hannah did this caught-red-handed half leap in the air. I looked down and saw every parent’s nightmare: a small pile of tablets/pills, popped out of their foil wrapping. Fewer pills than foil blisters. Called Neen, and we interrogated Hannah. Did you eat one pill? Two pills? How many? Eventually, after chaining her to a metal chair and pouring water on her head, she continued to say that she hadn’t eaten any. Who said that CIA parenting doesn’t work?

Having swallowed a bottle of Paracetomol and had an amusing experience of gastric lavage when I was her age, I know what children are capable of.

Fortunately, even though I had to keep checking, it seems as though she hadn’t got to the ingestion stage yet; just popping those pills out of their packaging was entertainment enough, and today she was back in action, telling my dad, who is visiting at the moment “ Grandpa! You’re too FAT”.(He isn’t fat, but it was pretty cute of her).

But I consider us fortunate, compared with our good friends, who, in the course of one week this week had: Two trips to the emergency room with separate children, one car stolen and, on a different day, one burglary. Sounds like one of those weeks we had last year.

Who cried? I did. A little. In a manly sort of pretending to have hayfever way. You can’t hold it against me. My boy, his first day at BIG SCHOOL. His little ‘extremist’ uniform. Sob. I watched as other children arrived with their parents, clinging and keening as though they were being sent to the arena to wrestle bears. I watched the little girls and boys in their baggy outfits finding their tiny wooden chairs (those classrooms surely haven’t been updated since the late ‘50’s?) and settling in with their too-bright teacher. Clearly her ambitions outweigh their potential.

I was proud of him, but so aware of the journey ahead. School is so much more than a few hours of classes: it is the place where friendships will be forged, peers will pressure and character will be formed. And I know, as much as you, that character is not formed by happy experiences. I look at those parents, those classmates, and wonder- will we be sharing laughter and tears in the years to come?

Then I had to go to work, work ( or at least move around a lot, giving the impression of industry) and then meet my brother. He is out from the UK for a couple of weeks, and was coming for supper. Yup, not only did Neen have to go through ‘first-day blues’, she had to come home and prepare for a family gathering. My parents are down from up the coast, and we were having them all over at once.

Poor Neen. My mum is less and less able to engage in conversation, but still trying to keep up. She has just been through the trauma of being told that her Alzheimer’s diagnosis may be wrong. She went for a barrage of tests- thyroid/blood/etc etc, only to be left with no diagnosis, but the unsaid implication that it really is Alzheimer’s disease. That has been one of her greatest fears, since her mother died of A. complications, and it is horrible to know that although she is less and less able to process new things, she is, at some level, aware that she is descending into permanent dementia.

That’s what is so horrible. Her short-term memory is going, chunk by chunk, and she is losing the ability to process new events and experiences. But my mum, who was academically a genius is battling to manage mundane social niceties.

Neen was doing well keeping up with cooking supper, but then our biggest pot lost a handle as she was transporting it across the kitchen, sending mince splashing all over the fridge, the walls and the floor. Fortunately, it was one of those disasters that translates quickly into humour, and we had a good laugh.

So my family: the cool uncle, the harassed grandpa and the sick granny are here for a while.

I hope James knows that he has to go back tomorrow, and again the next day, until he is eighteen….

It's been about 18 months since I first started doing this. Splabbing my guts out all over the internet. Pausing next to my family members with a mental notepad, waiting for them to write the gags in this script. Ever read the Goosebumps children's stories? Didn't think so. Anyway, author R.L. Stine came up with the series: dozens of stories, each featuring some nightmare horror character. The series made him one of the best-selling authors of the 20^th century. I kid you not.

But I don't write of his success, but rather of his formula. I feel like I have become formulaic. I have caught myself dashing off entries that bear a striking resemblance to things I vaguely remember in the past. That must be the ultimate in self-absorption: Plagiarising yourself. Sure, my kids still say funny stuff (like Hannah calling beetroot 'Boot-root' for instance), and Neen still allows me to speak of her without complaint, but I think I must be boring you guys.

I found that those 'meme' things, ie, lists of funny things that you answer, and then nominate others to answer, were hard work, with little return. I'm not very creative. I like words, but I don't generate many original thoughts. I'm like the David Bowie of blogs- building on others great ideas.

So where to from here? I have made some great friends, some have stopped blogging, some have passed through, and I still bump into them from time to time. I know many of you as intimately as you have felt authorized to allow (Thanks for not going overboard!) I see now that that is what blogging is about: Reaching out- meeting new people, and sharing chunks of our lives.

I've read as some of you have confessed feeling weary with it. Fine! I understand. I have tried too hard to impress sometimes, and maybe even said some things that are hurtful, under the guise of 'trying to be funny'. Sorry.

Sheryl has had her delurking week. She has one of the most consistently brilliant blogs on the planet. She is great at saying encouraging things, too. Sometimes, I read all of your pages, but don't comment. Sometimes, I just run out of time, especially expensive internet time.

Yesterday, I was considering pulling the plug on the whole thing. (No, not ME, people, this blog). (If a blog shuts down in the forest of cyberspace, does anyone even hear you press 'disconnect'?) (But then I thought, I can keep it going. It helps me to write about things. Maybe it gets tiresome for you to read my diary, maybe you are sick of my phraseology or my sense of humour. Maybe you read for other reasons. I don't mind. Some of you are as close to me as friends that I see and give those uncomfortable sideways men-hugs to. I can't promise you substance here, but I can try to be honest. I can try to be less concerned with hits and comments.

Delurk if you want to- that is introduce yourself- but if you don't, I will do my best to find my security in my God, my family and (whispering) reality. Not that you aren't real, but to skip out on doing real stuff so you try and think of things to write about is silly. I'll still post, but if it doesn't happen every day, don't worry, I'm still here.

Thank you all for reading. I absolutely love to hear from you, and feel privileged to share in your lives. I'll try and avoid the dreaded formula-style writing. First, though, I've got to rid myself of formula-thinking. (I'm thinking of that movie, 'Village of the Damned': those creepy blue-eyed kids that can read your mind, so the only way to beat them is to visualize a brick wall or something).

Brick wall… brick wall… brick wall… D'Oh! I just had an idea for an entry involving buying a packet of Triffid seed at the garden shop, and what would happen to the neighbourhood…

Mental hiatus over.

Who needs reality TV? I watch those buffed up guys baulking over chewing on a tiny bug, or complaining about mud, heights or water. PSHAW!

They should put parents on that show – The Squeamish Factor- Test their ability to cope with the rigours of pregnancy and birth. Piles? Bring em on! Having to watch a Caesar? No problem. Stomach bugs tat go round and round the family until the washing machine explodes? We have to draw the line somewhere.

I used to be so finicky that I hated to touch the ‘bits’ that gather in the plug after you’ve watch the dishes. Now, after the two children, I am just as likely to pop the bits into my mouth as a snack. Not quite, but you get the drift. I’ve been pooped on, vomited on, both in public and while asleep… (And pretended to remain asleep so that Neen will crack first and strip the bed- Bad dad.

Before children, my wife and I never ever ever ever farted infront of each other. We didn’t talk about farts. We hid like secret agents in the dark recesses of the house and passed our wind like a top secret document. We still don’t fart in front of each other, but hearing your plump baby rumble like a professional wrestler on a cabbage diet is just too too funny.

Who needs to eat entrails? As parents of young children, we have seen our diets winnowed down to things like fish sticks and nuggets. I suspect nuggets are pretty much made up of entrails. Mmmm Gut nuggets.

Four words: Cloth Nappies; Nappy Buckets.

When we were weaning Hannah off nappies, we switched from cloth to disposables. After a few weeks of thinking the drains were blocked, I realised that the cloth nappy bucket had never been emptied. I was the brave volunteer to empty it (as in ‘you empty it or else!’). Mass graves, I am sure, smell better.

Fear? Those living Ken dolls on those shows don’t know the first thing about fear. Can I have my $50 000 dollars now, please?

For the first time in my working career, I had a desk. Until Sunday. I used to have a cupboard, when I was a manager, and then a drawer when I was downsized. I was sort of upsized again, and the job requires loads of paperwork. It involves invoices, orders and copies of everything in triplicate.

Which is why I needed the desk. It was next to the shelves where all my books were kept, ready to be sent out to four stores. The guy who had the job before me hadn't even cleared out yet.

Another person in the company has a desk situated under the aircon, and she kept on getting asthma. So, without me knowing, they put her documents onto my computer, did weird things to my files, and chucked all my stuff into cardboard boxes over the weekend. Now I will have to share the three computers, cross the office a hundred times a day, and try and fit my stuff into two drawers.

Also, my new 'desk' which I share with everyone else, is right under the aircon, and is very cold. Very Cold.

Their plan won't work, though. I will sit back and watch them have to reverse everything, as they all hate the new arrangement.

For a brief moment there, I had a desk. I was somebody.

*James is glad that we aren't having twins, as he is pretty sure they come with stuck-together heads. Neen, have you been watching Oprah again?

 **Voting, I think, is open- or even if it isn't- go and have a look at the BestofBlogs site. I was nominated, or voted for, or something. Best daddy blog? Hey! Stop that guffawing! Anyway, there are some great sites for you to visit there, and you can put in a good word for me. Don't you love it when I wheedle?

When is a compost heap a mine of nutrients, and when is it just a pile of rotting stuff? One of the presents I got for Christmas (from Neen) was a voucher to a local nursery. And no, not a children’s nursery- get your hour of play-do fun here!- but a plant nursery.

I love that place. Everything is fresh, floral and green. Wealthy people stroll around with trollies, being careful not to smear their lambs wool Pringle jerseys as they select delicate shrubs for their gardeners to plant. I go and get carried away with possibilities. I don’t read the labels on the plants closely enough.

As a result, I came home with an inappropriate plant. At the back of our house we have two round ‘planter’ holes in the paving. We have always planned to put in some shady shrubs. I bought a Podocarpus Helsinii, or a Natal Yellowood. It has stunning deep green leaves that droop like a willow, and it attracts wildlife. Or rather, it will, in 27 years time when it reaches maturity. Of course, by then it will be thirty meters tall, and have caused several major rail accidents, as the train power lines are right against our boundary wall.

James and Hannah will be 33 and 30 respectively, and unlikely to be impressed with the swings I shall be able to put up. (Provided I am still upright myself at age 62). All that is left is to hope that the tree does only grow by thirty centimeters per year, as claimed, and that its’ growth is stunted by being slightly contained.

Moving on from the tree debacle, I continued my gardening frenzy by starting a compost heap. Our soil is very sandy, and useless for anything other than exfoliating your face when it is windy. So I located a dark corner, and built a little wall out of a huge plank I’d dragged in off the road. A few handfuls of decomposing salad later, and we have a heaplet. I did a bit of research, and have since added some other things, but nothing has yet turned to compost.

Why does ‘gardening’ actually feel like ‘waiting’? Stupid plants have to grow, then they only flower for a little while- a very little while in my case- and then they die. Isn’t there a way of getting an instant and permanent garden? I am trying to stick to indigenous plants, and ones that have some kind of year-round feature. But if you have any vegetable matter you are wanting to rid yourselves of, please send it this way.

I’m waiting. Or should I say, gardening?

I'm a modern guy: I'm practically over the whole 'used to be' ideal of coming home after a day's work to the pleasing image of my dutiful wife handing me a martini, having kept the house immaculate. Ok, so Neen would rather die than wear an A-line dress and a pinafore, (but she does usually cook), and she works, so the old ideal is not going to happen. Also, I find her intellect sort of sexy J

Not that staying at home can't be an intellectual experience, too…

Anyway, I hadn't quite relinquished the ideal of perfect children, the kinds that greet you respectfully, like a distant uncle, and never crease their clothes, even as they hand you their straight A's report cards. Yeuch. Not my children. Mine are slightly soiled, and smell of things like child-sweat, play-do and biscuits.

But those perfect kids: they would never call their respected patriarch names.

Hannah: Dad, you are a Linconpoopoo.

James: Hannah! You mean Lincompoop!

Neen She means Nincompoop, but she sounds very cute.

Me: (Soft, futile sigh). (Imagining my martini-ironed-perfect world dream going 'POOF')

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.