As a father of a toddler I'm often reading children's stories. Be they reworded short stories based on popular family films, or old favourites that I remember my parents reading to me many years ago, one thing is constant. The accuracy of the plot is irrelevant compared to the message of the story and the vivid illustrations.
One particular evening lying next to my son, reading a storybook from the 70s which had been discovered at Grandma and Grandpa's house, I was becoming irritated with the now glaringly obvious flaws in the story. Maybe I'd had a bad day. Maybe I was in one of my 'smart-arse' moods. Maybe the child inside me died last week and I can no longer enjoy the simple pleasures of a far fetched tale.
The book was a compendium of Three Little Kittens, Three Little Pigs, and Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
In my most animated voice I regaled my son with the first verse of The Three Little Kittens. A harrowing story of how three feline siblings were forced to admit to their mother that they had lost their mittens. "What! Lost your mittens? You naughty kittens. You shall have no pie!" Oh no. But those kittens love pie! They were so desperate for the blueberry pie cooling on the sill that they began an extensive search of the area. Upon finding their mittens, they rushed to tell their mother the good news. And here's where the story takes an unforgivable twist.
Upon watching the children don their precious mittens that she had been so upset about them misplacing, that she threatened them with starvation, she then gave them pie. She didn't ask her kittens to remove their gloves first. Oh no. She watched them try to eat that pie, mittens still adorning their innocent paws. Then in one final attempt to crush their high spirits, she chastises them once more. Clearly a sociopathic personality, she is obviously delighting in threatening and belittling her children. I resisted the urge to call DOCS and ask them to pay her a visit and check her darling kittens for bruises.
The Three Little Pigs were next. A tale of the dangers of cutting corners. It teaches us that whatever we are doing, to always do the best job we can. 'What's wrong with that?' I hear you ask. We frown upon the first two pigs for their lack of effort in constructing their dream homes, but think about this. All through the story the Big Bad Wolf arrives 'just as the little pig was putting their finishing touches on their straw/stick house'. If those first two pigs had taken the time to construct a similar brick house to that of the third pig, they'd have had barely enough time to lay the concrete slab before the wolf arrived. Furthermore, the palates of bricks laying around would have provided the wolf with perfect ammunition to bludgeon those pigs to death. The third little pig should think itself extremely fortunate to have been called upon last.
We should not label the first two pigs as being lazy. We should commend them for their valiant attempt at constructing ANYTHING given so little time. We don't say "Hey! Aussie Diggers! Why didn't you build a concrete bomb shelter instead of those flimsy trenches. Lazy bastards." I rest my case.
The third story is about a young ivory skinned, blonde curly haired girl named Goldilocks. Generations of readers have ignored one simple fact. This girl is a home invader. She broke into the bears house with, it seems, every intention of stealing from them. Then, when all she could steal was some porridge, she started breaking furniture. She should be in prison.
And speaking of the porridge, I understand that the large bowl of porridge may have retained a lot of heat, but everything we know about thermodynamics says that there is no way the middle sized bowl could have become unbearably cold, whilst the little bowl was, and I quote "Just right". It's no wonder our kids are finding physics hard in high school!
And finally, Father bear, with senses so acute that he could tell a small girl had been sitting in his incredibly hard chair, then walks into his bedroom and doesn't realise there is a human sleeping in one of his beds until his little cub points it out to him.
So now I have to question every story I have ever read as a child. And each time I read to my son from now on I will feel the need to add an explanatory note about doing his best with the time he is given, to always remove his mittens before eating pie, to never break into someone's house, and finish with a few basic physics principles.
Until Then
Friday, August 19, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
BITING BACK
It's time to draw a line in the sand. To not just stand my ground, but push forward. To conquer, once and for all, a nemesis so complete in arsenal, and so focused in it's purpose, that a lesser man may crumble. I refuse. I refuse to destroy myself in a battle that has become a stalemate so unbreakable that I feel myself standing in a muddied French field. But as with all stalemates, something always has to break. It's foolish to wait for an opportunity that may never present itself. It's cowardly to accept a situation as hopeless. The only option is to prepare myself to take control. To become so powerful as to be irresistible.
In THE ART OF WAR, Sun Tzu teaches two important principles. For complete victory one does not destroy an enemy, but forces an enemy to bend to their will without confrontation. And for certain victory one must not only know themselves, but know their enemy.
And so as the boffins are despatched, and research begins, the complete picture of my enemy will be revealed. Meanwhile, preparations have begun. To fight the ultimate war, I need to become the ultimate warrior. To live life by a code of perfect health and extreme levels of fitness. Reconstructing my near comatose body into a tower of strength.
To transform myself into an unstoppable machine is, however, only part of the solution.
Bruce Wayne doesn't win the battle just by donning the hood and cloak. There is still a war to be won, and failure is not an option.
So, Lachlan, playtime is over. Your reign is at an end. Soon you will feel the sickening pang in your stomach that only those on the precipice of a plunge into insignificance feel. The frustration you will feel as your screams seem only to calm me into even more soothing tones will be unbearable. Shouting over me as I relentlessly read through the adventures of Bilbo Baggins will only serve my goal of seeing you tire. Your submission as I crush your will to complain will be complete. You cannot escape this fate. Your only option will be to accept me as ruler of your world.
In years to come, I sincerely hope our two great nations can form a prosperous relationship, built on mutual respect. With that will come a utopian world for both of us.
Until then.....prepare for war.
In THE ART OF WAR, Sun Tzu teaches two important principles. For complete victory one does not destroy an enemy, but forces an enemy to bend to their will without confrontation. And for certain victory one must not only know themselves, but know their enemy.
And so as the boffins are despatched, and research begins, the complete picture of my enemy will be revealed. Meanwhile, preparations have begun. To fight the ultimate war, I need to become the ultimate warrior. To live life by a code of perfect health and extreme levels of fitness. Reconstructing my near comatose body into a tower of strength.
To transform myself into an unstoppable machine is, however, only part of the solution.
Bruce Wayne doesn't win the battle just by donning the hood and cloak. There is still a war to be won, and failure is not an option.
So, Lachlan, playtime is over. Your reign is at an end. Soon you will feel the sickening pang in your stomach that only those on the precipice of a plunge into insignificance feel. The frustration you will feel as your screams seem only to calm me into even more soothing tones will be unbearable. Shouting over me as I relentlessly read through the adventures of Bilbo Baggins will only serve my goal of seeing you tire. Your submission as I crush your will to complain will be complete. You cannot escape this fate. Your only option will be to accept me as ruler of your world.
In years to come, I sincerely hope our two great nations can form a prosperous relationship, built on mutual respect. With that will come a utopian world for both of us.
Until then.....prepare for war.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
LONG IN THE CANINE
Recently I tore my hamstring playing cricket. A dance down the wicket, followed by a poorly timed air swing at the ball, which preceded a lunge back into my crease. It was this last movement, one which I had done immediately following many dances down the wicket which were followed by equally mistimed air swings, that produced a small excruciating explosion in the back of my leg.
Many commentators say that athletes tearing leg muscles look like a sniper has shot them mid-stride. I've never been shot, so it's hard to compare, however the feeling is akin to having the world's smallest hand grenade detonate inside the muscle fibres.
Strangely after the initial pain, I took a few gentle steps and, reminiscent of Rambo taking six bullets to the chest, digging them out with his hunting knife, and continuing to save the day, I signalled to my teammates that I was OK. I reached down to pick up my batting gloves, only to feel an electric shock up the left side of my arse. It was like nothing I'd felt since mispronouncing a menu item in a small room in an Amsterdam back alley.
A few days after the incident, with scans done, rehab started, and three day old pyjamas in desperate need of a wash, I began to realize how much fun being bored isn't. At the best of times I hate having nothing to do. This was torture. So bored was I that for some inexplicable reason I figured out how many days old I was (don't try to understand it). Then drunk on the mathematical power of my ipad's calculator, I multiplied that number by 24, then 60, and then in a final act of sheer madness, I again multiplied the answer by another factor of 60. I AM OVER 1 BILLION SECONDS OLD.
This statistic is inherently pointless, however it's discovery does raise a few pertinent questions. Are these sort of exercises how accountants spend their downtime? Is my recent injury a result of a predetermined BEST BEFORE date? Am I wasting valuable seconds of my life here?
The last question raises a further question. Out of the 1,000,000,000 seconds that I have roamed the Earth, how many of those 'moments' changed the course of my life? Which 'moments' were of great significance? Which moments invoked extreme emotional responses?
In no particular order, here are my top moments.
Becoming a man
I was too busy studying and playing sport in high school to obsess about losing my virginity to the American Pie extent. It was more a spur of the moment decision. The internal dialogue of "Is this about to happen?" followed seconds later by "Yep, this is happening!" followed seconds later by "Oh yeah. That happened!" Now I'm certain the event would not have outsold 'A Night in Paris' but I'm sure Jennifer Love Hewitt won't mind me saying that it was a pleasant experience. Why would she mind? She wasn't there.
150 on a 70
I consider myself a conservative driver. I credit my style to one moment in 1999. I was driving the Golden Highway between Newcastle and Dubbo. Approaching Arrowfield Winery at 150 km/hr in my little red Pulsar hatch I noticed a sign blur past recommending I take the upcoming corner at 70 km/hr. Now I don't recall my life flashing before my eyes, but the hot flush through my face and neck as I slammed my foot on the brake, is scorched into my memory forever. It can be a fine line between getting home safely, and starring on the national news from inside a body bag.
Landslide
In the mid to late 80's, junior Coffs Harbour Indoor cricket was ruled by one unstoppable force. The WILDCATS. One Mad Monday after another all conquering season, our parents took us to Moonee Beach for a BBQ. As we explored, a few of us decided to climb a rock face near the headland. Almost at the top, a loose rock gave way in my hand. I probably slid back down the cliff only a few centimetres, but in that moment it felt like metres. I remember seeing mum, long scratches up both legs, desperate for a reassuring embrace.
Labour Ward
My expectation of the day my first born arrived was largely shaped by the chorus of sportsmen who declare a grand final win as the greatest day since their child was born. In reality it is one of the worst days of my life. The worst moment of Lisa's first labour experience was a soul destroying scream of pain followed by "Help me!" I couldn't. It was without rival as the worst moment of my life. An hour or two later, the arrival of Aidan, did nothing to erase the despair of that moment.
THAT Try
Everyone has a moment in sport that they will remember forever. For many Australians it's the Olympic feats of Cathy Freeman or Kieran Perkins. Sitting in the Newcastle Workers Club in the last Sunday in September in 1997, when Andrew Johns passed the ball to Darren Albert, the feeling of sheer joy is something that I daren't dream ever feeling again. The images on the big screen of the team celebrating. The collective breaths being held all around the auditorium. The sound of an entire city celebrating. That try may have been the moment I fell in love with the city of Newcastle.
Parisian Odyssey
Which moment on this eventful morning was of most significance? I have no idea. Was it the decision go jogging, leaving my backpack and map at the motel room? Perhaps the decision to alter the return route to the motel to via the Champs Ellyses instead of the streets I was familiar with? The moment of undiluted panic when I found myself running along an underground tunnel, cars whizzing past me? Asking a local for the time, misreading the watch, and realizing that in all likelihood, I was stranded in Paris with nothing but the sweat soaked shirt on my back, as the tour bus rolled along some distant freeway without me? I'm not sure which moment was more significant, but they all contributed to the most exhilaratingly terrifying jog I have ever run.
Orana Maul
Driving through the carpark of our local mall, I had to stop my car metres from a large young islander man and the epitome of a little old lady having a conversation in the middle of traffic. Voices began to raise. Fingers started pointing. And with a barage of indecent language it all seemed to conclude. The feisty old duck saluted the man twice her size as he stormed away. In a scene that I would later tell police would seem like special effects in a movie, the man turned, sprinted at the old lady and drove his shoulder into her frail body with such force as to send her flying metres into the side of her car, denting metal and fracturing ribs. Time stood still as I rushed to her. I don't know if I was ever in danger, but the violence reached no further height beyond that moment of madness.
So these are them. The seconds in time that stand amongst the past 1,000,000,000 as giants. Admittedly, my most memorable moments are not worthy of a best selling autobiography, but with two young children, I can't help think the next big one is just around the corner.
Until then.
Many commentators say that athletes tearing leg muscles look like a sniper has shot them mid-stride. I've never been shot, so it's hard to compare, however the feeling is akin to having the world's smallest hand grenade detonate inside the muscle fibres.
Strangely after the initial pain, I took a few gentle steps and, reminiscent of Rambo taking six bullets to the chest, digging them out with his hunting knife, and continuing to save the day, I signalled to my teammates that I was OK. I reached down to pick up my batting gloves, only to feel an electric shock up the left side of my arse. It was like nothing I'd felt since mispronouncing a menu item in a small room in an Amsterdam back alley.
A few days after the incident, with scans done, rehab started, and three day old pyjamas in desperate need of a wash, I began to realize how much fun being bored isn't. At the best of times I hate having nothing to do. This was torture. So bored was I that for some inexplicable reason I figured out how many days old I was (don't try to understand it). Then drunk on the mathematical power of my ipad's calculator, I multiplied that number by 24, then 60, and then in a final act of sheer madness, I again multiplied the answer by another factor of 60. I AM OVER 1 BILLION SECONDS OLD.
This statistic is inherently pointless, however it's discovery does raise a few pertinent questions. Are these sort of exercises how accountants spend their downtime? Is my recent injury a result of a predetermined BEST BEFORE date? Am I wasting valuable seconds of my life here?
The last question raises a further question. Out of the 1,000,000,000 seconds that I have roamed the Earth, how many of those 'moments' changed the course of my life? Which 'moments' were of great significance? Which moments invoked extreme emotional responses?
In no particular order, here are my top moments.
Becoming a man
I was too busy studying and playing sport in high school to obsess about losing my virginity to the American Pie extent. It was more a spur of the moment decision. The internal dialogue of "Is this about to happen?" followed seconds later by "Yep, this is happening!" followed seconds later by "Oh yeah. That happened!" Now I'm certain the event would not have outsold 'A Night in Paris' but I'm sure Jennifer Love Hewitt won't mind me saying that it was a pleasant experience. Why would she mind? She wasn't there.
150 on a 70
I consider myself a conservative driver. I credit my style to one moment in 1999. I was driving the Golden Highway between Newcastle and Dubbo. Approaching Arrowfield Winery at 150 km/hr in my little red Pulsar hatch I noticed a sign blur past recommending I take the upcoming corner at 70 km/hr. Now I don't recall my life flashing before my eyes, but the hot flush through my face and neck as I slammed my foot on the brake, is scorched into my memory forever. It can be a fine line between getting home safely, and starring on the national news from inside a body bag.
Landslide
In the mid to late 80's, junior Coffs Harbour Indoor cricket was ruled by one unstoppable force. The WILDCATS. One Mad Monday after another all conquering season, our parents took us to Moonee Beach for a BBQ. As we explored, a few of us decided to climb a rock face near the headland. Almost at the top, a loose rock gave way in my hand. I probably slid back down the cliff only a few centimetres, but in that moment it felt like metres. I remember seeing mum, long scratches up both legs, desperate for a reassuring embrace.
Labour Ward
My expectation of the day my first born arrived was largely shaped by the chorus of sportsmen who declare a grand final win as the greatest day since their child was born. In reality it is one of the worst days of my life. The worst moment of Lisa's first labour experience was a soul destroying scream of pain followed by "Help me!" I couldn't. It was without rival as the worst moment of my life. An hour or two later, the arrival of Aidan, did nothing to erase the despair of that moment.
THAT Try
Everyone has a moment in sport that they will remember forever. For many Australians it's the Olympic feats of Cathy Freeman or Kieran Perkins. Sitting in the Newcastle Workers Club in the last Sunday in September in 1997, when Andrew Johns passed the ball to Darren Albert, the feeling of sheer joy is something that I daren't dream ever feeling again. The images on the big screen of the team celebrating. The collective breaths being held all around the auditorium. The sound of an entire city celebrating. That try may have been the moment I fell in love with the city of Newcastle.
Parisian Odyssey
Which moment on this eventful morning was of most significance? I have no idea. Was it the decision go jogging, leaving my backpack and map at the motel room? Perhaps the decision to alter the return route to the motel to via the Champs Ellyses instead of the streets I was familiar with? The moment of undiluted panic when I found myself running along an underground tunnel, cars whizzing past me? Asking a local for the time, misreading the watch, and realizing that in all likelihood, I was stranded in Paris with nothing but the sweat soaked shirt on my back, as the tour bus rolled along some distant freeway without me? I'm not sure which moment was more significant, but they all contributed to the most exhilaratingly terrifying jog I have ever run.
Orana Maul
Driving through the carpark of our local mall, I had to stop my car metres from a large young islander man and the epitome of a little old lady having a conversation in the middle of traffic. Voices began to raise. Fingers started pointing. And with a barage of indecent language it all seemed to conclude. The feisty old duck saluted the man twice her size as he stormed away. In a scene that I would later tell police would seem like special effects in a movie, the man turned, sprinted at the old lady and drove his shoulder into her frail body with such force as to send her flying metres into the side of her car, denting metal and fracturing ribs. Time stood still as I rushed to her. I don't know if I was ever in danger, but the violence reached no further height beyond that moment of madness.
So these are them. The seconds in time that stand amongst the past 1,000,000,000 as giants. Admittedly, my most memorable moments are not worthy of a best selling autobiography, but with two young children, I can't help think the next big one is just around the corner.
Until then.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
GUARD DOGG
We all have fears. For some of us it's death. Others, public speaking. And for some strange reason there are people that have an extreme fear of spoons. And I'm not talking about the big wooden ones my mother useful beat me within an inch of my life with. I'm talking about spoons. Fear is a strange emotion, and sometimes manifests itself in strange ways. We often find phobias in others that seem ridiculous. That does not make the fear any less real or horrifying for the sufferer.
Personally, I have three dominant fears.
1. Sharks. This, for me, is a no-brainer. I am not paralyzed by this fear to the point where I will not go in the water. But would I swim in an unpatrolled beach without slower, more delicious looking bathers all around me? That would be NO.
2. Failure. Everything I am is a consequence of this fear. It drives me. I have accepted that if I go swimming in the ocean often enough I may get attacked by a shark, but I cannot accept failure. In all aspects of my life, be it as a father, a provider, a sportsman or academic, I have and will always strive to succeed. Not because I crave the accolades success brings. Because the thought of failing at anything seems disastrous.
3. Home invasion. My worst fear. The thought that somebody will enter my house while I'm asleep is with me every night. Any noise that is not immediately recognisable must be completely investigated before I could possibly attempt sleep. All doors must be checked and double checked. Cracking of the cooling colorbond roof. A stray cat setting off the front door light. The refrigerator motor kicking in. My mind tells me each time that there is someone outside my home, trying to get in. Someone who is there just as much to hurt me and my family than they are to steal from me. A pack of wolves constantly circling my flock.
My wife has, over the course of many years, tried to convince me otherwise. That every noise has a rational explanation. To her, my fear was as irrational as the spoon. That was until last Friday, when at 3am, someone tried to open our ensuite window. A window that had been unlocked more nights than I could count, was locked shut to keep the cold out. This, in my extreme way of thinking, may have saved my life.
As a result of the incident, I now have a fear much worse than before. My wife, who now suffers from a very similar phobia is no longer the voice of reason, but a sound board that echoes my fear. We are two young children on a sleepover, convincing ourselves that we just saw a ghost.
Being on-call for a busy hospital has me constantly driving to and from work in the middle of the night. I could not count the number of times I've driven to the corner of my street, praying that I don't see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. After last weekend that fear is with me every minute I spend at work.
To make matters worse, working in the emergency services field, I have seen what happens to residents who confront intruders into their home. These people may enter your house looking for easy money, but they are also capable of terrible violence. And frequency is increasing. The criminal element within our communities is either getting more desperate, or less human. Stories on home invasions seem to be as regular as weather updates on the news in recent times. A man beaten to death in Wellington. A woman has her throat cut and a 5 year old girl is abducted in two separate instances in Wagga Wagga.
Pensioners are being regularly targeted. And a Muslim man named Christian (?) is whipped with a cable for drinking a beer in Sydney's south west. All victims of home invasions.
So the question of what to do in the event of a home invasion now plays over and over in my head.
As of last Wednesday a Gold Coast man has been charged with manslaughter after shooting an intruder. How can a society sit in judgement of a man who defended himself from an invader? Would we as a country afford any level of courtesy to an invading army? Would our leaders suggest a peaceful resolution? I hope not. This man defended himself as effectively as he knew how. I applaud his actions. If I am ever confronted with an intruder whilst within reach of my cricket bat, I will not pause to calculate how much force will be required to immobilise them without fatally wounding them. I will swing as hard as I possibly can. I will attempt to deliver a blow that in all possibility could leave me facing jail.
I can only hope I am never faced with that situation.
And so, we will continue to vigilantly defend Fortress Webeck (as it is beginning to resemble) and continue to flinch at every night time sound, in the hope that our security efforts are a gross overreaction to a one-off minor incident.
My apologies for the seriousness of this blog. I promise the next one will be hilarious.
Until then.....Stay the fuck out of my house!
Personally, I have three dominant fears.
1. Sharks. This, for me, is a no-brainer. I am not paralyzed by this fear to the point where I will not go in the water. But would I swim in an unpatrolled beach without slower, more delicious looking bathers all around me? That would be NO.
2. Failure. Everything I am is a consequence of this fear. It drives me. I have accepted that if I go swimming in the ocean often enough I may get attacked by a shark, but I cannot accept failure. In all aspects of my life, be it as a father, a provider, a sportsman or academic, I have and will always strive to succeed. Not because I crave the accolades success brings. Because the thought of failing at anything seems disastrous.
3. Home invasion. My worst fear. The thought that somebody will enter my house while I'm asleep is with me every night. Any noise that is not immediately recognisable must be completely investigated before I could possibly attempt sleep. All doors must be checked and double checked. Cracking of the cooling colorbond roof. A stray cat setting off the front door light. The refrigerator motor kicking in. My mind tells me each time that there is someone outside my home, trying to get in. Someone who is there just as much to hurt me and my family than they are to steal from me. A pack of wolves constantly circling my flock.
My wife has, over the course of many years, tried to convince me otherwise. That every noise has a rational explanation. To her, my fear was as irrational as the spoon. That was until last Friday, when at 3am, someone tried to open our ensuite window. A window that had been unlocked more nights than I could count, was locked shut to keep the cold out. This, in my extreme way of thinking, may have saved my life.
As a result of the incident, I now have a fear much worse than before. My wife, who now suffers from a very similar phobia is no longer the voice of reason, but a sound board that echoes my fear. We are two young children on a sleepover, convincing ourselves that we just saw a ghost.
Being on-call for a busy hospital has me constantly driving to and from work in the middle of the night. I could not count the number of times I've driven to the corner of my street, praying that I don't see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. After last weekend that fear is with me every minute I spend at work.
To make matters worse, working in the emergency services field, I have seen what happens to residents who confront intruders into their home. These people may enter your house looking for easy money, but they are also capable of terrible violence. And frequency is increasing. The criminal element within our communities is either getting more desperate, or less human. Stories on home invasions seem to be as regular as weather updates on the news in recent times. A man beaten to death in Wellington. A woman has her throat cut and a 5 year old girl is abducted in two separate instances in Wagga Wagga.
Pensioners are being regularly targeted. And a Muslim man named Christian (?) is whipped with a cable for drinking a beer in Sydney's south west. All victims of home invasions.
So the question of what to do in the event of a home invasion now plays over and over in my head.
As of last Wednesday a Gold Coast man has been charged with manslaughter after shooting an intruder. How can a society sit in judgement of a man who defended himself from an invader? Would we as a country afford any level of courtesy to an invading army? Would our leaders suggest a peaceful resolution? I hope not. This man defended himself as effectively as he knew how. I applaud his actions. If I am ever confronted with an intruder whilst within reach of my cricket bat, I will not pause to calculate how much force will be required to immobilise them without fatally wounding them. I will swing as hard as I possibly can. I will attempt to deliver a blow that in all possibility could leave me facing jail.
I can only hope I am never faced with that situation.
And so, we will continue to vigilantly defend Fortress Webeck (as it is beginning to resemble) and continue to flinch at every night time sound, in the hope that our security efforts are a gross overreaction to a one-off minor incident.
My apologies for the seriousness of this blog. I promise the next one will be hilarious.
Until then.....Stay the fuck out of my house!
Sunday, June 26, 2011
TIME PAW
Psychologists say that there are five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, guilt and acceptance. It is only now, that I have reached stage five, has it become evident that the journey to get there has followed the textbook path. It's hard to lose someone close to you.
But when the life lost is your own, the grief process is all the more complicated.
The man I used to be has been on life support along with the life I used to have. For years now he has been hanging on in the hope that one day there would be a miraculous resurrection. Sadly, a few weeks ago, the gut wrenching decision was made to pull the plug.
As if releasing birds into the air, the moment, far from being sorrowful, was a rebirth so immediate that Jesus Christ himself would stare in wonderment.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
DENIAL
Having always had the ability to function at full capacity on 6 hours sleep, that aspect of having children was never going to be an issue. Even having staring competitions with my first baby boy at 3am. Singing sweetly into his ear whilst in my head sledging his inability to stay awake. I am Warnie, and you are Daryl Cullinan! By 4 am, and victory complete, I would wake him just so that he knew I had defeated him AGAIN. He would be so depressed that he would sob himself back to sleep while I stood on his toy box spraying champagne into the air.
So why would baby number 2 stand any chance against the reigning champ? But my boys obviously had a plan. They started double-teaming me. Day or night. There was no let up. Play time. Sleep time. Lunchtime. Story time.
I had to counter punch. I would not be beaten. I used the best weapon I had. I would just stay up later in order to do the things that I wanted to do. I was unaware that this was their hope all along. I soon lost my edge in the middle of the night. They were winning the war.
ANGER
Damn right I was pissed off! My children had stolen every second of my waking day! And stolen my ability to function on no sleep! And do you think they were gracious in their victory? Fuck no! Lachlan intensified his night time tantrums and Aidan, being a team player, also started to ruin my nights. This was not going to end well.
BARGAINING
I've never been a religious man. I have not resorted to dropping to my knees and appealing to a higher power to return my free time to me. Promising to use my time constructively and for the greater good. It would do no good. There was only one man that could grant such a wish. The reigning Stay Awake Champion, Lachlan 'The Stare Master' Webeck. I asked him if he would be available for a meeting. He smiled. "Of course. I'm available at 4am every morning. See you tomorrow." What a tool.
But a desperate man I was. I proposed a number of changes to his behavior during the meeting. None were accepted. I put forward a very lucrative incentive package, but he would not be bought. I begged for an hour of peace. The bastard talked me down to 45 minutes.
DEPRESSION
Is it depression, if you are too tired to feel ANYTHING? For the purposes of the exercise, let's say 'yes'. Like a computer with an overheating CPU, my body reverted to it's default emotion setting, which would probably be somewhere between :I and :( . My laughing during playtime with Aidan was inspired by Meg Ryan's restaurant scene in WHEN HARRY MET SALLY. Some days I had to force every smile. My children still smiled at me though. Those gloating pricks knew they had won, but toyed with me like a heavyweight fighter who let's his opponent get to the bell just so he gets another 3 minutes to humiliate him.
ACCEPTANCE
There I am. Sitting at the ICU bed of my former self, and nodding for the doctor to turn the machine off. Surprisingly, it wasn't a sad occasion. It was a heavy burden to dream of having my new life whilst keeping the old. An unrealistic dream. I let go of some of the things I used to love doing, in order to be able to enjoy what I still can do. I should have thought of it sooner. The anger I was feeling because I couldn't do these things was outweighing the enjoyment I got from them.
So the new 'me' has been finally embraced. I am no longer all-conquering. I am getting by. I can't do everything. But I can enjoy everything else.
DISCLAIMER
I love my children as much as any father has ever loved his sons. They give me some of the happiest moments I have ever experienced (not including the 1997 and 2001 Newcastle Knights teams). One day in the not too distant future I will be wishing i could spend more time with my boys. And many years from now, after the children have left home, I will reanimate the old me (we have decided to have him cryogenically frozen) and we will party like it's 2099.
Until then.
But when the life lost is your own, the grief process is all the more complicated.
The man I used to be has been on life support along with the life I used to have. For years now he has been hanging on in the hope that one day there would be a miraculous resurrection. Sadly, a few weeks ago, the gut wrenching decision was made to pull the plug.
As if releasing birds into the air, the moment, far from being sorrowful, was a rebirth so immediate that Jesus Christ himself would stare in wonderment.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
DENIAL
Having always had the ability to function at full capacity on 6 hours sleep, that aspect of having children was never going to be an issue. Even having staring competitions with my first baby boy at 3am. Singing sweetly into his ear whilst in my head sledging his inability to stay awake. I am Warnie, and you are Daryl Cullinan! By 4 am, and victory complete, I would wake him just so that he knew I had defeated him AGAIN. He would be so depressed that he would sob himself back to sleep while I stood on his toy box spraying champagne into the air.
So why would baby number 2 stand any chance against the reigning champ? But my boys obviously had a plan. They started double-teaming me. Day or night. There was no let up. Play time. Sleep time. Lunchtime. Story time.
I had to counter punch. I would not be beaten. I used the best weapon I had. I would just stay up later in order to do the things that I wanted to do. I was unaware that this was their hope all along. I soon lost my edge in the middle of the night. They were winning the war.
ANGER
Damn right I was pissed off! My children had stolen every second of my waking day! And stolen my ability to function on no sleep! And do you think they were gracious in their victory? Fuck no! Lachlan intensified his night time tantrums and Aidan, being a team player, also started to ruin my nights. This was not going to end well.
BARGAINING
I've never been a religious man. I have not resorted to dropping to my knees and appealing to a higher power to return my free time to me. Promising to use my time constructively and for the greater good. It would do no good. There was only one man that could grant such a wish. The reigning Stay Awake Champion, Lachlan 'The Stare Master' Webeck. I asked him if he would be available for a meeting. He smiled. "Of course. I'm available at 4am every morning. See you tomorrow." What a tool.
But a desperate man I was. I proposed a number of changes to his behavior during the meeting. None were accepted. I put forward a very lucrative incentive package, but he would not be bought. I begged for an hour of peace. The bastard talked me down to 45 minutes.
DEPRESSION
Is it depression, if you are too tired to feel ANYTHING? For the purposes of the exercise, let's say 'yes'. Like a computer with an overheating CPU, my body reverted to it's default emotion setting, which would probably be somewhere between :I and :( . My laughing during playtime with Aidan was inspired by Meg Ryan's restaurant scene in WHEN HARRY MET SALLY. Some days I had to force every smile. My children still smiled at me though. Those gloating pricks knew they had won, but toyed with me like a heavyweight fighter who let's his opponent get to the bell just so he gets another 3 minutes to humiliate him.
ACCEPTANCE
There I am. Sitting at the ICU bed of my former self, and nodding for the doctor to turn the machine off. Surprisingly, it wasn't a sad occasion. It was a heavy burden to dream of having my new life whilst keeping the old. An unrealistic dream. I let go of some of the things I used to love doing, in order to be able to enjoy what I still can do. I should have thought of it sooner. The anger I was feeling because I couldn't do these things was outweighing the enjoyment I got from them.
So the new 'me' has been finally embraced. I am no longer all-conquering. I am getting by. I can't do everything. But I can enjoy everything else.
DISCLAIMER
I love my children as much as any father has ever loved his sons. They give me some of the happiest moments I have ever experienced (not including the 1997 and 2001 Newcastle Knights teams). One day in the not too distant future I will be wishing i could spend more time with my boys. And many years from now, after the children have left home, I will reanimate the old me (we have decided to have him cryogenically frozen) and we will party like it's 2099.
Until then.
Friday, June 17, 2011
OFF THE LEASH - PART 2
Another fun-filled night of blowing my nose, coughing up both lungs and dodging Aidan's nocturnal break-dance moves. Seriously that kid must get airborne with the thrashing he does in his sleep. Eventually I realized I was never going to be able to sleep so I removed Aidan's big toe from out of my left ear and dragged myself towards the lounge room to watch TV. I decided to watch cartoons whilst abusing the tissues this morning. Bad move. Now I'm the guy surrounded by a pile of tissues watching The Little Mermaid!
After another breakfast of stuff that should be claimable on Medicare, we jumped in the car for the drive up to Coffs. I managed to get some shut eye in between Taree and Port Macquarie. At that point it was decided that I should pull over and let Lisa drive. Both children travelled like seasoned veterans.
The Coffs Harbour leg of the holiday will undoubtedly be remembered for that annoying sort of rain where you stare out the window waiting for the drizzle to subside just enough to venture out, and when it does, you head into the outdoors, only to be ambushed by a fierce storm.
So a few days indoors it was then. Relaxing nonetheless.
The plan from Coffs Harbour was to travel up to the Sunshine Coast to inject some much needed funds into the Queensland economy.
After arriving at a stormy Marroochydore and settling into our unit, a stroll along the beachside path turned into a mad dash through pouring rain. Lisa pushing Lachlan in the pram, sprinting ahead as I dragged/carried Aidan, running as fast as he could. I could only laugh. I may have been channelling all those other tourists looking down from apartment balconies, their hot coffee cupped by two warm hands, smirking at the sight of the two stupid people taking their kids for a run in the rain.
A trip to Australia Zoo the following day was memorable for one reason. If I can quote Deborah Morgan, The "metric fuck tonne" of rain. I have never seen so much water.. Rain so dense there was a real concern the crocodiles could swim into the "air" and into the crowds.
So almost a thousand kilometres from home to go to a zoo, and Aidan's favourite things were, and I quote: "Lunch, and the shops, and dinner!" Fuck! Sounds like two hours at Orana Mall would have seen him just as happy! Oh well.
The days ahead in Gold Coast would prove to be the first time of pure relaxation.
More about that later.
After another breakfast of stuff that should be claimable on Medicare, we jumped in the car for the drive up to Coffs. I managed to get some shut eye in between Taree and Port Macquarie. At that point it was decided that I should pull over and let Lisa drive. Both children travelled like seasoned veterans.
The Coffs Harbour leg of the holiday will undoubtedly be remembered for that annoying sort of rain where you stare out the window waiting for the drizzle to subside just enough to venture out, and when it does, you head into the outdoors, only to be ambushed by a fierce storm.
So a few days indoors it was then. Relaxing nonetheless.
The plan from Coffs Harbour was to travel up to the Sunshine Coast to inject some much needed funds into the Queensland economy.
After arriving at a stormy Marroochydore and settling into our unit, a stroll along the beachside path turned into a mad dash through pouring rain. Lisa pushing Lachlan in the pram, sprinting ahead as I dragged/carried Aidan, running as fast as he could. I could only laugh. I may have been channelling all those other tourists looking down from apartment balconies, their hot coffee cupped by two warm hands, smirking at the sight of the two stupid people taking their kids for a run in the rain.
A trip to Australia Zoo the following day was memorable for one reason. If I can quote Deborah Morgan, The "metric fuck tonne" of rain. I have never seen so much water.. Rain so dense there was a real concern the crocodiles could swim into the "air" and into the crowds.
So almost a thousand kilometres from home to go to a zoo, and Aidan's favourite things were, and I quote: "Lunch, and the shops, and dinner!" Fuck! Sounds like two hours at Orana Mall would have seen him just as happy! Oh well.
The days ahead in Gold Coast would prove to be the first time of pure relaxation.
More about that later.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
THROW ME A BROKEN BONE
This is how it happened. If DOCS come to my door tomorrow I've got my story straight.
So anyway, there I am, jumping on the trampoline with Aidan. Having the time of our lives. Aidan was begging me to let him jump off the roof of our house onto the trampoline, but being the responsible parent I refused to let him. He did not take my rules well. His jumping became increasingly erratic, at one point hurling himself across the trampoline face first into the safety netting, that his father, with so much love in his heart, had erected in order to prevent anything hurting his precious boy.
This act of lunacy only increased Aidan's frustration. He became abusive. Yelling obscene things whilst I pleaded for him to calm down before someone gets hurt. He saw this statement as a threat and intensified his verbal barrrage to a point that bordered on racism. (?)
I noticed his body tensing as I began to cower and weep. I don't think I will ever forget the sight of his eyes turning blood red. His veins swollen to bursting point on every limb.
Then he lunged at me. Out of the backs of his hands, two sets of wolverine claws suddenly burst out, pointing straight at my exposed jugular.
In a desperate act of self defense, I leapt to my left, causing the trampoline surface to rebound as Aidan was about to land. Falling awkwardly, all sense of aggression disappeared as he began to sob uncontrollably. At first I assumed he had cut himself with his wolverine claws, but I could see no lacerations on him.
Fearing the worst was not over, I reluctantly approached him as he lay crying on the still bouncing surface. And reminiscent of Luke Skywalker with Darth Vader at the end of Return of the Jedi, I picked him up in my arms (after checking his claws had retracted) and carried him to safety, only just escaping the exploding death star.
Now, if I read this often enough, will I begin to believe?
Knowing that I was indirectly responsible for the breaking of my sons leg is hard. It has been an emotional couple of weeks. My heart breaking no more than when Aidan said to me in the bath a few days later "I'm so sad you broke my leg." I am too son. Very sorry.
But as the weeks pass and every day he gets more mobile, and with that much happier, I start to forgive myself a little bit more every day. I can't wait to see his face when the cast comes off. That will be a healing day for both of us.
Until Then
So anyway, there I am, jumping on the trampoline with Aidan. Having the time of our lives. Aidan was begging me to let him jump off the roof of our house onto the trampoline, but being the responsible parent I refused to let him. He did not take my rules well. His jumping became increasingly erratic, at one point hurling himself across the trampoline face first into the safety netting, that his father, with so much love in his heart, had erected in order to prevent anything hurting his precious boy.
This act of lunacy only increased Aidan's frustration. He became abusive. Yelling obscene things whilst I pleaded for him to calm down before someone gets hurt. He saw this statement as a threat and intensified his verbal barrrage to a point that bordered on racism. (?)
I noticed his body tensing as I began to cower and weep. I don't think I will ever forget the sight of his eyes turning blood red. His veins swollen to bursting point on every limb.
Then he lunged at me. Out of the backs of his hands, two sets of wolverine claws suddenly burst out, pointing straight at my exposed jugular.
In a desperate act of self defense, I leapt to my left, causing the trampoline surface to rebound as Aidan was about to land. Falling awkwardly, all sense of aggression disappeared as he began to sob uncontrollably. At first I assumed he had cut himself with his wolverine claws, but I could see no lacerations on him.
Fearing the worst was not over, I reluctantly approached him as he lay crying on the still bouncing surface. And reminiscent of Luke Skywalker with Darth Vader at the end of Return of the Jedi, I picked him up in my arms (after checking his claws had retracted) and carried him to safety, only just escaping the exploding death star.
Now, if I read this often enough, will I begin to believe?
Knowing that I was indirectly responsible for the breaking of my sons leg is hard. It has been an emotional couple of weeks. My heart breaking no more than when Aidan said to me in the bath a few days later "I'm so sad you broke my leg." I am too son. Very sorry.
But as the weeks pass and every day he gets more mobile, and with that much happier, I start to forgive myself a little bit more every day. I can't wait to see his face when the cast comes off. That will be a healing day for both of us.
Until Then
Monday, May 16, 2011
AN ODE TO MY FAVOURITE BITCH
Many years ago drinking. A University function.
A vision that aroused so much lust.
2 hours later, entwined against a cabinet.
Cheered on by all all who walk past.
As the union developed, and vows were exchanged.
We easily cleared all life's hurdles.
She brought two beautiful boys safely into our life.
Using language that would surely blood curdle.
She is funny, a sweetheart and sexy no doubt.
Can also be really reserved.
But my suggestion to text the boys about getting laid
Got the look that it probably deserved.
She is basically faultless, both as mother and wife,
Her dedication and caring are exemplary
But there's also the fun times we've had through the years.
Legen- wait for it, dary!
Globe trotting round Europe, New Zealand or Fiji.
Seeing sights that are foreign to our eyes.
But nothing like the room service boy saw thanks to Lisa
Allowed in with dinner, my pants still around my thighs.
Sure there are some serious flaws,
Some issues that shake the foundations.
Like sleep-ins, and watching endless games of league.
Fuck, that one can ever strain relations.
But the cardinal sin that has been committed.
An unforgivable act of torment.
I shudder to recall the events of those weekends,
With murderous thoughts ever present.
An afternoon watching replays ruined by few words.
"Oh darling, did you hear the knights lost?"
So whilst pointing the remote, my finger on pause,
I shoot a look to turn embers to frost.
Dinner in silence.
The relationships done.
No bond can survive this.
The fat lady has sung.
Still rather angry, Bitch, you ruined my day!
It invariably comes time to hit the hay.
So as I lay down next to her quietly snoring,
I'm still thinking of terms other than adoring.
Thoughts of vengeance creep up as I climb into bed,
To slap her quite firmly on top of her head!
She'll wake with a start as I feign to be sleeping
I'll hold back a laugh, "Love, why are you weeping?"
As I raise up my hand, preparing my slap,
I fall into an all too common trap.
One look at that face, so peaceful in tone,
And all off a sudden, my heart turned from stone.
Okay, you have this time, escaped retribution.
Besides I now think that I have a solution.
All this anger and tension has left me quite hazy.
So rollover, pants off, climb on and go crazy.
I love you darling.
I will never leave ya.
Your spirit, loyalty, and beautiful blonde hair.
You're my very own golden retriever!
A vision that aroused so much lust.
2 hours later, entwined against a cabinet.
Cheered on by all all who walk past.
As the union developed, and vows were exchanged.
We easily cleared all life's hurdles.
She brought two beautiful boys safely into our life.
Using language that would surely blood curdle.
She is funny, a sweetheart and sexy no doubt.
Can also be really reserved.
But my suggestion to text the boys about getting laid
Got the look that it probably deserved.
She is basically faultless, both as mother and wife,
Her dedication and caring are exemplary
But there's also the fun times we've had through the years.
Legen- wait for it, dary!
Globe trotting round Europe, New Zealand or Fiji.
Seeing sights that are foreign to our eyes.
But nothing like the room service boy saw thanks to Lisa
Allowed in with dinner, my pants still around my thighs.
Sure there are some serious flaws,
Some issues that shake the foundations.
Like sleep-ins, and watching endless games of league.
Fuck, that one can ever strain relations.
But the cardinal sin that has been committed.
An unforgivable act of torment.
I shudder to recall the events of those weekends,
With murderous thoughts ever present.
An afternoon watching replays ruined by few words.
"Oh darling, did you hear the knights lost?"
So whilst pointing the remote, my finger on pause,
I shoot a look to turn embers to frost.
Dinner in silence.
The relationships done.
No bond can survive this.
The fat lady has sung.
Still rather angry, Bitch, you ruined my day!
It invariably comes time to hit the hay.
So as I lay down next to her quietly snoring,
I'm still thinking of terms other than adoring.
Thoughts of vengeance creep up as I climb into bed,
To slap her quite firmly on top of her head!
She'll wake with a start as I feign to be sleeping
I'll hold back a laugh, "Love, why are you weeping?"
As I raise up my hand, preparing my slap,
I fall into an all too common trap.
One look at that face, so peaceful in tone,
And all off a sudden, my heart turned from stone.
Okay, you have this time, escaped retribution.
Besides I now think that I have a solution.
All this anger and tension has left me quite hazy.
So rollover, pants off, climb on and go crazy.
I love you darling.
I will never leave ya.
Your spirit, loyalty, and beautiful blonde hair.
You're my very own golden retriever!
Monday, May 2, 2011
OFF THE LEASH
Ahh, a well earned 2 week holiday. A tour of the NSW and lower QLD coast should be just the tonic for recharging the the batteries, which have of late been as reliable as that of a 5 year old iPod.
First stop, Port Stephens. A few days with the family meant the 'No Beer' policy that was tabled before the start of the holiday lasted all of three hours. As the first mouthful of Murray's Brewery Whale Ale passed my lips I began to mentally prepare for tomorrow's hangover.
Nothing could have prepared me for the overnight metamorphosis from a slight scratch in the throat to the head cold from hell.
Waking at 4am, unable to breath through nostrils full of more crap than a Reject Shop, I began blowing my nose in what became a desperate race against my mucous membranes. Production vs Distribution. Never one to back away from a fight, I just kept blowing. After every attempt to clear my nose once and for all, that squeaking and clicking noise like dolphins communicating inside your head, that signalled the fight was to rage on.
By 6am, others started to wake and join me in the living room. I resented every sideways glance. Ok. Yes. I woke up at 4am, turned on The Man Show, and abused a box of tissues. So what?
By mid-morning I was still full from breakfast. 2 instant coffees, 1 large skim cappuccino, 6 sudafed and a couple of panadeine. I would have felt even fuller, but as luck would have it, spilled my entire cooked breakfast onto the apartment floor. At this point I was seeing red. Not angry. I just think there may have been some splashback of tomato sauce from the flipping plate as it dropped.
Where to from here? I considered admitting defeat and marching my sorry arse back to bed and accept defeat.
Then I asked myself, what would Kurt Gidley do?
He'd turn up to the Knights vs Dragons game ready to give 100% to his team. So that's what I did. I headed to Ausgrid Stadium to support the boys.
Upon arriving at the stadium and finding my seat, I could smell the sickly stench of St George fans all around me. I tried to breathe though my mouth to block it out but realised I was already doing that on account of the blocked nose.
As the game starts, and my 3 year old takes a cue from the parochial home crowd to cheer his first ever "Go Knights!", I realise that my sinuses have magically cleared, clouds have parted, and the buzz of the crowd seems like angels singing. 80 minutes, and a great game of footy later, everyone walked away satisfied. The Dragons fans had their two points, and Knights fans had just enough controversy to yell 'We was robbed!'
As we pack the suitcases to move the holiday up the coast to Coffs Harbour, Aidan becomes distraught at the thought that our holiday is over. At that point we explained that Port Stephens was holiday number one, and there was four more holidays before we had to go home. That's right son, FIVE holidays! Five holidays in two weeks? What were we thinking? But I'll get to that later.
Until holiday number two.
First stop, Port Stephens. A few days with the family meant the 'No Beer' policy that was tabled before the start of the holiday lasted all of three hours. As the first mouthful of Murray's Brewery Whale Ale passed my lips I began to mentally prepare for tomorrow's hangover.
Nothing could have prepared me for the overnight metamorphosis from a slight scratch in the throat to the head cold from hell.
Waking at 4am, unable to breath through nostrils full of more crap than a Reject Shop, I began blowing my nose in what became a desperate race against my mucous membranes. Production vs Distribution. Never one to back away from a fight, I just kept blowing. After every attempt to clear my nose once and for all, that squeaking and clicking noise like dolphins communicating inside your head, that signalled the fight was to rage on.
By 6am, others started to wake and join me in the living room. I resented every sideways glance. Ok. Yes. I woke up at 4am, turned on The Man Show, and abused a box of tissues. So what?
By mid-morning I was still full from breakfast. 2 instant coffees, 1 large skim cappuccino, 6 sudafed and a couple of panadeine. I would have felt even fuller, but as luck would have it, spilled my entire cooked breakfast onto the apartment floor. At this point I was seeing red. Not angry. I just think there may have been some splashback of tomato sauce from the flipping plate as it dropped.
Where to from here? I considered admitting defeat and marching my sorry arse back to bed and accept defeat.
Then I asked myself, what would Kurt Gidley do?
He'd turn up to the Knights vs Dragons game ready to give 100% to his team. So that's what I did. I headed to Ausgrid Stadium to support the boys.
Upon arriving at the stadium and finding my seat, I could smell the sickly stench of St George fans all around me. I tried to breathe though my mouth to block it out but realised I was already doing that on account of the blocked nose.
As the game starts, and my 3 year old takes a cue from the parochial home crowd to cheer his first ever "Go Knights!", I realise that my sinuses have magically cleared, clouds have parted, and the buzz of the crowd seems like angels singing. 80 minutes, and a great game of footy later, everyone walked away satisfied. The Dragons fans had their two points, and Knights fans had just enough controversy to yell 'We was robbed!'
As we pack the suitcases to move the holiday up the coast to Coffs Harbour, Aidan becomes distraught at the thought that our holiday is over. At that point we explained that Port Stephens was holiday number one, and there was four more holidays before we had to go home. That's right son, FIVE holidays! Five holidays in two weeks? What were we thinking? But I'll get to that later.
Until holiday number two.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
THE BARKING DOGG
the social network is a great film. I saw it last night and was not only blown away by the performance of Jessie, who plays Mark Zuckaberg, the inventer of facebook, but watched one particular scene with such awe, I may have stopped breathing momentarily.
I speak of the scene where Mark is on the phone to co-founder, Edwardo. He speaks of the risk of the facebook site crashing due to inadequate infrastructure. In itself, the line was inocuous, merely establishing the characters intimate understanding of his product. But it pulled at my heartstrings mainly due to the situation I currently find myself in.
Basically, the ConDitioNs at work are what sprang to mind during that scene. As a radiographer, it has become increasingly Critical to have a good Digital Network. In the abscenCe of a reliable system, a Department could literally be brought to it's kNees. Patient care CoulD be Negatively effected. Of even greater conCern, any Department without a deceNt system is now basically unreliable as a referral centre.
A poor paCs/ris system creates such a negative atmosphere within a raDiology departmeNt that it could potentially self destruct.
The next line in the movie was even more inspiring.
ZuCkaberg suggested that any Downtime of the site could have dire coNsequences. The idea that poor performanCe woulD be detrimeNtal to the company was quite refreshing. I pity any radiographer having to work under any other ConDitioNs.
I am inCredibly grateful that I am surrounDed by such a great team of radiographers that I don't believe aNything could break us.
Time CoulD prove me wroNg.
I speak of the scene where Mark is on the phone to co-founder, Edwardo. He speaks of the risk of the facebook site crashing due to inadequate infrastructure. In itself, the line was inocuous, merely establishing the characters intimate understanding of his product. But it pulled at my heartstrings mainly due to the situation I currently find myself in.
Basically, the ConDitioNs at work are what sprang to mind during that scene. As a radiographer, it has become increasingly Critical to have a good Digital Network. In the abscenCe of a reliable system, a Department could literally be brought to it's kNees. Patient care CoulD be Negatively effected. Of even greater conCern, any Department without a deceNt system is now basically unreliable as a referral centre.
A poor paCs/ris system creates such a negative atmosphere within a raDiology departmeNt that it could potentially self destruct.
The next line in the movie was even more inspiring.
ZuCkaberg suggested that any Downtime of the site could have dire coNsequences. The idea that poor performanCe woulD be detrimeNtal to the company was quite refreshing. I pity any radiographer having to work under any other ConDitioNs.
I am inCredibly grateful that I am surrounDed by such a great team of radiographers that I don't believe aNything could break us.
Time CoulD prove me wroNg.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
CHASING MY OWN TAIL
It was inevitable that being a newly crowned father of two, that my experiences in parenting would someday be the focus of an entry. Today is that day.
Some back story.
It was a beautiful spring day in 2007. I was working on a Sunday and, as was our tradition, Lisa picked me up to take me out for lunch. I'm not too sure how it came up, but I commented to Lisa that perhaps I should ring my Dad and talk to him. I just wanted to get a feel for where his head was at in the moments before trying to start a family. I expressed genuine concern to Lisa that I couldn't imagine ever wanting to have children. How was I to know that moments earlier, Lisa had returned a positive pregnancy test only half an hour earlier?
Since the arrival of our second boy, I have come to realise that fatherhood is a lot like slavery, except you have to pay for the privilege. You wake up, look after your children's every need, go to work, come home, look after your children's every need, and go to bed. And much like the slaves of ancient times, many conversations centre around some distant time where we will no longer feel the sting of our master's whips at every waking moment. When we will have earnt our freedom through 20 years of faithful servitude.
Nevertheless, fatherhood is full of the most heart-warming, and often hilarious, moments which somehow cushion the blows. Like when my 2 year old won't allow the toilet to be flushed until both Mum and Dad have inspected his most wonderful creation. Perhaps sanity prevails because every day when I put the key in the front door I hear him yelling 'Daddy's home!' on the other side of the door.
Then there are the moments where an act of sheer naughtiness is so amusing that instead of smacking the back of my sons hand, I almost feel that turning his palm up and giving him a low five would be more appropriate. Like when whilst trying to ride a push along car through long grass, he dismounts, kicks the bike over, and mutters two words. 'Fucking Car'.
There are also little moments which are disproportionately devastating. Like when I leave home for work, knowing that both my boys will be a day older the next time I see them. My 2 year old so disappointed I could cry. That I guess is the curse of the working parent. Sleepless nights reduce performance at work. Long hours reducing quality time with family. I know this is nothing new for working parents. But that doesn't make it any easier to bear.
I have become something to everybody, and everything to nobody.
That notion got me thinking...
If you believe Hollywood movies, (and lets face it, we do all too readily), the next steps in human evolution are a range of wonderful super powers. Mind control, instant healing powers, and incredible strength are the future of the human race. This of course totally ignores the basic principle of the purpose of evolution. To adapt a species to the environment, and to assist in the survival of that species.
So, in a world where men and women are equal and ideally interchangable, where will the next step in evolution take us?
As I helplessly soothe my 8 week old child who is starving hungry, waiting for his mother to come home, I can only imagine, the evolutionary process will not create the fierce, hairy, monster we know as BEASTMAN! No, it will be the mammary wielding poor bastard, BREASTMAN! With the ability to feed young in a world where husbands are more hands on than ever. Tragically, career women with a desperate desire to have children, will find the male of the species with huge cans irresistible.
The sleep deprivation that is becoming a way of life in our 24 hour a day culture will create the next mutation of the human genome, in the form of the ever-alert INSOMNIATOR. The blood-shot eyes, the mark of the creature that never sleeps. Essential to employers, this new sub-species will become the top echelon of high society.
Lastly, due to the exponential increase in the morbidly obese over the next 500 years, CARDIOMAN will be spawned. Born at normal size, this human will have a beachball sized heart, pumping 5 litres per beat, at a resting heart rate of 2bpm.
But until that day, we will all continue to wander the earth, exhausted.
Some back story.
It was a beautiful spring day in 2007. I was working on a Sunday and, as was our tradition, Lisa picked me up to take me out for lunch. I'm not too sure how it came up, but I commented to Lisa that perhaps I should ring my Dad and talk to him. I just wanted to get a feel for where his head was at in the moments before trying to start a family. I expressed genuine concern to Lisa that I couldn't imagine ever wanting to have children. How was I to know that moments earlier, Lisa had returned a positive pregnancy test only half an hour earlier?
Since the arrival of our second boy, I have come to realise that fatherhood is a lot like slavery, except you have to pay for the privilege. You wake up, look after your children's every need, go to work, come home, look after your children's every need, and go to bed. And much like the slaves of ancient times, many conversations centre around some distant time where we will no longer feel the sting of our master's whips at every waking moment. When we will have earnt our freedom through 20 years of faithful servitude.
Nevertheless, fatherhood is full of the most heart-warming, and often hilarious, moments which somehow cushion the blows. Like when my 2 year old won't allow the toilet to be flushed until both Mum and Dad have inspected his most wonderful creation. Perhaps sanity prevails because every day when I put the key in the front door I hear him yelling 'Daddy's home!' on the other side of the door.
Then there are the moments where an act of sheer naughtiness is so amusing that instead of smacking the back of my sons hand, I almost feel that turning his palm up and giving him a low five would be more appropriate. Like when whilst trying to ride a push along car through long grass, he dismounts, kicks the bike over, and mutters two words. 'Fucking Car'.
There are also little moments which are disproportionately devastating. Like when I leave home for work, knowing that both my boys will be a day older the next time I see them. My 2 year old so disappointed I could cry. That I guess is the curse of the working parent. Sleepless nights reduce performance at work. Long hours reducing quality time with family. I know this is nothing new for working parents. But that doesn't make it any easier to bear.
I have become something to everybody, and everything to nobody.
That notion got me thinking...
If you believe Hollywood movies, (and lets face it, we do all too readily), the next steps in human evolution are a range of wonderful super powers. Mind control, instant healing powers, and incredible strength are the future of the human race. This of course totally ignores the basic principle of the purpose of evolution. To adapt a species to the environment, and to assist in the survival of that species.
So, in a world where men and women are equal and ideally interchangable, where will the next step in evolution take us?
As I helplessly soothe my 8 week old child who is starving hungry, waiting for his mother to come home, I can only imagine, the evolutionary process will not create the fierce, hairy, monster we know as BEASTMAN! No, it will be the mammary wielding poor bastard, BREASTMAN! With the ability to feed young in a world where husbands are more hands on than ever. Tragically, career women with a desperate desire to have children, will find the male of the species with huge cans irresistible.
The sleep deprivation that is becoming a way of life in our 24 hour a day culture will create the next mutation of the human genome, in the form of the ever-alert INSOMNIATOR. The blood-shot eyes, the mark of the creature that never sleeps. Essential to employers, this new sub-species will become the top echelon of high society.
Lastly, due to the exponential increase in the morbidly obese over the next 500 years, CARDIOMAN will be spawned. Born at normal size, this human will have a beachball sized heart, pumping 5 litres per beat, at a resting heart rate of 2bpm.
But until that day, we will all continue to wander the earth, exhausted.
Friday, February 4, 2011
ONE OF THE OLD BREED
There are a few occasions in a man's life that leave no doubt in the minds of those around him that he is of another time. In his prime long before current technologies that are now taken for granted. Old enough to have partied like it's 1999...when it actually was 1999. For any man, these occasions are light bulb moments, preceding a despondent slumping of the shoulders, and the subsequent trip to Big W to buy comfortable slippers and chequered pyjamas, both of which may be worn in public.
The moments I speak of are minor things that begin a downward spiral ending in death, or even worse, the kind of dementia that makes you say sexually inappropriate things to women 60 years younger.
Physically, the first grey hair represents the transition into looking like your grandfather. I thankfully, have yet to be cursed with the follicular version of 1950s television. No, my moment was much worse.
There is also the moment a man realises that modern music is stupid and does not compare to the wondrous tones of great musicians of 90s Grunge and 80s Pop era. And of course Whitney Houston actually could sing without coughing up a lung. Now I'm not saying that I think the likes of Rhianna, Kes$ha and every other mass produced modern pop icon are anything more than cash cows for studio executives. Just that I appreciate that there are some great current artists. No, this is also not my sin.
I don't check to see what's on Fox Classics before switching to the news. I don't assume every young teen wants to vandalise my house. I wish it were that simple. No, I have condemned myself to old age by muttering one little sentence.
"You know what's wrong with your generation?"
It slipped out. People heard. My shoulders slumped.
Then I realised something. I can argue this. If I can prove my hypothesis to the group of Gen Ys around me, the opinion of a middle aged man angry at getting old would become an insightful look at why Gen Y is ruining the world. (That may have seemed harsh, but if I was to pull this off I knew I had to be extreme)
So here's the situation as I see it.
Those that lived during World War 1 and the Great Depression (The Lost Generation) or were of service age in World War 2 (The Greatest Generation) gave everything of themselves for their countries asking for very little in return. They experienced depths of poverty that is now unthinkable in the developed world. The children of World War 2 (The Silent Generation) rebuilt nations destroyed by war and created the platform for some of the worlds most prosperous times. Baby Boomers, also of a time of families broken by war, are fast establishing themselves as a generation devoted to their children's success above their own. In the absence of any great national need, they redirected their generosity internally. This created Generation X. My generation. Although hard working and driven, believe they are entitled to a life time of parental assistance, some to the point of reliance. Looking back, the guy that once asked me "You know what's wrong with your generation?" may have been on to something.
And so we arrive at Generation Y and Z. If Gen X are guilty of expecting everything from their parents, Gens Y and Z seem to be taking it to a new level. Expecting everything from everyone. Gen Y could be defined by a sense of entitlement.
The existence of such a thing as Twitter suggests a level of self absorption that even the makers of the Viva paper towel would envy. The idea that someone thinks I care what they had for breakfast is an embarrassment to the human race. Which brings me nicely to my next rant.
Writing '..is bored', as a status update on a social network site displays the intelligence equivalent of that monkey who picks his butt, smells it, and falls out of his tree. (which is obviously hilarious)
Like it or not, facebook has single-handedly transformed the developed world. However the constant need to be in contact with everyone is creating a generation with the attention span of fish. Incapable of being more than a metre from iphones just in case a 'friend' updates their status with some witty remark about nothing important.
It is the next big drug.
And there are a generation of addicts.
There is also another addiction affecting the young. Credit. A culture of spending on luxuries with the assumption that enough money can be made over the long term to cover the debt. Where saving is a dirty word and having everything can mean owning nothing. Economies destroyed worldwide on the back of excessive debt.
But maybe they are onto something with this one. If I may digress.
Late last year I made the last repayment on my home, becoming basically debt free. The moment coincided with a sudden decline in motivation at work, and the feeling that I'd rather be doing anything but work. I realised that having no debt hanging over my head released a pressure valve that once kept all my motivation safely locked in. Alternatively, I wonder if I never really enjoyed my career, but the desperate need for money created a subconscious so powerful to actually convince me otherwise. Either way, I'm certain I was happier at work when I had to be there to service my debt.
I can only then conclude that Gens Y and Z will experience levels of job satisfaction and happiness beyond anything I could ever contemplate. It may be true that money can't buy happiness, but could it be possible that debt can? Only time will tell.
So there you have it. Irrefutable evidence. That's right. Irrefutable.
There is no crack in the logic. No counter claim that can be made. The jury is out.
Irrefutable evidence that I have in fact taken my first step to becoming a cranky old man.
Now if you don't mind it's 730 at night, and I'm off to bed.
Where are my slippers?
The moments I speak of are minor things that begin a downward spiral ending in death, or even worse, the kind of dementia that makes you say sexually inappropriate things to women 60 years younger.
Physically, the first grey hair represents the transition into looking like your grandfather. I thankfully, have yet to be cursed with the follicular version of 1950s television. No, my moment was much worse.
There is also the moment a man realises that modern music is stupid and does not compare to the wondrous tones of great musicians of 90s Grunge and 80s Pop era. And of course Whitney Houston actually could sing without coughing up a lung. Now I'm not saying that I think the likes of Rhianna, Kes$ha and every other mass produced modern pop icon are anything more than cash cows for studio executives. Just that I appreciate that there are some great current artists. No, this is also not my sin.
I don't check to see what's on Fox Classics before switching to the news. I don't assume every young teen wants to vandalise my house. I wish it were that simple. No, I have condemned myself to old age by muttering one little sentence.
"You know what's wrong with your generation?"
It slipped out. People heard. My shoulders slumped.
Then I realised something. I can argue this. If I can prove my hypothesis to the group of Gen Ys around me, the opinion of a middle aged man angry at getting old would become an insightful look at why Gen Y is ruining the world. (That may have seemed harsh, but if I was to pull this off I knew I had to be extreme)
So here's the situation as I see it.
Those that lived during World War 1 and the Great Depression (The Lost Generation) or were of service age in World War 2 (The Greatest Generation) gave everything of themselves for their countries asking for very little in return. They experienced depths of poverty that is now unthinkable in the developed world. The children of World War 2 (The Silent Generation) rebuilt nations destroyed by war and created the platform for some of the worlds most prosperous times. Baby Boomers, also of a time of families broken by war, are fast establishing themselves as a generation devoted to their children's success above their own. In the absence of any great national need, they redirected their generosity internally. This created Generation X. My generation. Although hard working and driven, believe they are entitled to a life time of parental assistance, some to the point of reliance. Looking back, the guy that once asked me "You know what's wrong with your generation?" may have been on to something.
And so we arrive at Generation Y and Z. If Gen X are guilty of expecting everything from their parents, Gens Y and Z seem to be taking it to a new level. Expecting everything from everyone. Gen Y could be defined by a sense of entitlement.
The existence of such a thing as Twitter suggests a level of self absorption that even the makers of the Viva paper towel would envy. The idea that someone thinks I care what they had for breakfast is an embarrassment to the human race. Which brings me nicely to my next rant.
Writing '..is bored', as a status update on a social network site displays the intelligence equivalent of that monkey who picks his butt, smells it, and falls out of his tree. (which is obviously hilarious)
Like it or not, facebook has single-handedly transformed the developed world. However the constant need to be in contact with everyone is creating a generation with the attention span of fish. Incapable of being more than a metre from iphones just in case a 'friend' updates their status with some witty remark about nothing important.
It is the next big drug.
And there are a generation of addicts.
There is also another addiction affecting the young. Credit. A culture of spending on luxuries with the assumption that enough money can be made over the long term to cover the debt. Where saving is a dirty word and having everything can mean owning nothing. Economies destroyed worldwide on the back of excessive debt.
But maybe they are onto something with this one. If I may digress.
Late last year I made the last repayment on my home, becoming basically debt free. The moment coincided with a sudden decline in motivation at work, and the feeling that I'd rather be doing anything but work. I realised that having no debt hanging over my head released a pressure valve that once kept all my motivation safely locked in. Alternatively, I wonder if I never really enjoyed my career, but the desperate need for money created a subconscious so powerful to actually convince me otherwise. Either way, I'm certain I was happier at work when I had to be there to service my debt.
I can only then conclude that Gens Y and Z will experience levels of job satisfaction and happiness beyond anything I could ever contemplate. It may be true that money can't buy happiness, but could it be possible that debt can? Only time will tell.
So there you have it. Irrefutable evidence. That's right. Irrefutable.
There is no crack in the logic. No counter claim that can be made. The jury is out.
Irrefutable evidence that I have in fact taken my first step to becoming a cranky old man.
Now if you don't mind it's 730 at night, and I'm off to bed.
Where are my slippers?
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
MANS OTHER BEST FRIEND IS A QUEENSLANDER
There have always been a million reasons for New South Welshmen to be slightly envious of our siblings from the north. Upon examination, and resisting all arguments based on some territorial rivalry, there can be no argument that the quality of Queensland is proving superior in so many aspects.
Cathy Freeman, Steve Irwin, Shane Watson, Grant Hackett, Stephanie Rice and Pat Rafter.
All Queenslanders. And those unbeatable Maroons. Also, all Queenslanders. Well that isn't totally accurate. Greg Inglis emmigrated through the no-mans-land of Tweed Heads, crouched in a gold plated suit case, in a hidden compartment of Wayne Bennet's car. Waking from a daze at the feet of a bronze Wally Lewis, confused and frightened, Inglis was welcomed by the locals and....well you know the rest.
Either way, Queensland definitely boasts an embarrassment of riches.
And as the media vans roll south for the next big story, and Queensland is left to rebuild itself out of the spotlight of headline news, I know they will create a state, prouder and stronger than the one now burried in sludge.
The people of Brisbane, Toowomba, Ipswich and other towns most of us have never heard of before, have reminded us all what it is to be an Australian. To understate any situation. To appreciate what we have despite the loss of so much. And that strange juxtaposition of a willingness to help others and instinctual reluctance to accept help for ourselves.
I've always been amused to to hear Sydneysiders and Melbourners discuss the pros and cons of each others city, desperately trying to find that one aspect of lifestyle that would finally prove once and for all, which is the greatest city in Australia. Amusing not just for the simple fact that as a lifelong resident of country NSW, I wouldn't ever want to live in either city, but in the sheer arrogance in assuming that it was a race in two.
Cathy Freeman, Steve Irwin, Shane Watson, Grant Hackett, Stephanie Rice and Pat Rafter.
All Queenslanders. And those unbeatable Maroons. Also, all Queenslanders. Well that isn't totally accurate. Greg Inglis emmigrated through the no-mans-land of Tweed Heads, crouched in a gold plated suit case, in a hidden compartment of Wayne Bennet's car. Waking from a daze at the feet of a bronze Wally Lewis, confused and frightened, Inglis was welcomed by the locals and....well you know the rest.
Either way, Queensland definitely boasts an embarrassment of riches.
Living in New South Wales, the only thing more exciting than the March election, and the end of the state Labour government, is the thought of the inevitable Underbelly series starring Lisa McCune as Kristina Keneally and Mick Molloy as Joe Tripodi.
Jaded by a NSW Labour government that has raped its once proud people of prosperity and dignity it was amazing to watch the Queensland Premier, Anna Bligh, speak with such honesty, sincerity and empathy as mother nature swallowed up her beautiful state. I have no doubt her demeanor stirred her people, and indeed the country, into action.
Although credit for the military precision and organisation of the recovery would have to be placed on the shoulders of one Major-General Mick Slater, Bligh has been a beacon of humanity in Queensland's darkest hour.
The willingness of every Australian to extend their open wallets to the cause was, although not surprising, a source of immense national pride. Queenslanders took the hand gratefully and, on the day now forever known as Salvation Saturday, declared 'We'll take it from here.' People from around the country, and indeed around the world, saw a community mobilise to help out friends they'd never met.Jaded by a NSW Labour government that has raped its once proud people of prosperity and dignity it was amazing to watch the Queensland Premier, Anna Bligh, speak with such honesty, sincerity and empathy as mother nature swallowed up her beautiful state. I have no doubt her demeanor stirred her people, and indeed the country, into action.
Although credit for the military precision and organisation of the recovery would have to be placed on the shoulders of one Major-General Mick Slater, Bligh has been a beacon of humanity in Queensland's darkest hour.
And as the media vans roll south for the next big story, and Queensland is left to rebuild itself out of the spotlight of headline news, I know they will create a state, prouder and stronger than the one now burried in sludge.
The people of Brisbane, Toowomba, Ipswich and other towns most of us have never heard of before, have reminded us all what it is to be an Australian. To understate any situation. To appreciate what we have despite the loss of so much. And that strange juxtaposition of a willingness to help others and instinctual reluctance to accept help for ourselves.
I've always been amused to to hear Sydneysiders and Melbourners discuss the pros and cons of each others city, desperately trying to find that one aspect of lifestyle that would finally prove once and for all, which is the greatest city in Australia. Amusing not just for the simple fact that as a lifelong resident of country NSW, I wouldn't ever want to live in either city, but in the sheer arrogance in assuming that it was a race in two.
The people of Brisbane have never entered the argument. I now know it was never a case that they didn't believe their city was the equal of Australia's larger capitals. Perhaps the people of Brisbane have always been content to leave Sydney and Melbourne to their delusions because they knew what the rest of us are starting to understand. That it's not the size of the stadium that matters. What's important is how many XXXX drinking, twang talking, Lockyer worshipping, redneck yokel Queenslanders you can fill it with. Sorry, old habits die hard.
Until next time.
Until next time.
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