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Dear Noah,
A lot of people in this world don't have great Dads. Some are abusive. Some leave. Some are around but really not around. I don’t know what those things are like. Some people do have great Dads. And I am lucky to be one of them. Your Papa/My Dad, is a good man. A great Dad. Noah, I want to be your great Dad.
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Part 1
Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 My son has enormous brown eyes smooth, plump cheeks, and a little button chin that can melt your heart like butter in the microwave When you blow raspberries in his neck his giggles spill over like a waterfall and your melted-butter-heart explodes with joy My son has fresh eyes for the world a wide, open heart and I cannot tell him how much I love him cannot kiss, cuddle, tickle, snuggle-the-poop out of him anywhere near enough I have an abundance of that weird, want-to-squeeze-and-use-naughty-words-to-describe-the-intensity-of-my-love kind of love (You know the one right?) My son also has a blood curdling stomach churning brain deafening wild banshee scream with sharp, prickly edges that can endure, repeat and build in intensity for small windows of forever Part 1
Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Sometimes chicken, chips and salad taste absolutely incredible. And it has very little to do with the chicken, chips and salad. Like when we were sitting in a room with a dear friend, a mate, a brother, who had jumped in the car and travelled 1.5 hours to bring this meal to us. Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 There are some clear differences between being a Mum and a Dad. We could start with the obvious: Noah didn't grow inside my body for 9 months. He also didn't emerge from my private parts. I don't happen to have breasts. Each of those things means there is something between Sam and Noah that goes beyond the experience of parenthood I will ever have. Mysteries I will only ever observe in wonder. For Part 1, click here.
For Pt.2, click here Choices and opinions. They are riddled throughout the path towards parenting, and seem to exist in every moment once you arrive. Disposable vs cloth, breast vs bottle, prams vs wraps, pink vs blue. Welcome to the (Parent) Hood. Pt.227/6/2016 For Part 1, click here.
A few months ago, I had poo all over my hands. Let's give that some context. I was in the parent's room at Macca's. It felt like there was poo all over the floors, the walls, the ceiling. There was poo smeared up Noah's leg, on his hands, on his feet. I needed back-up, badly. Welcome to the (Parent) Hood. Pt.120/6/2016 This morning, my son tried to eat my nose. He’s currently commando crawling around the house, banging the ground with assorted kitchen utensils that have been offered up for entertainment and finding remnants of toast or capsicum on the floor from one of yesterday’s meal times. He squawks and squeals with delight, while eating one of his Mama’s Havianas.
Thoughts are banging around in my head. A writer who never writes trying to squeeze out some words, during this brief window of opportunity while little man licks Sam’s footwear and she sleeps. I have struggled to write poetry lately. This morning I wonder if it’s time to let go of that for a while; if it’s time to tell different stories with different words, to pause and let the beautiful chaos of the last seven months bubble up and out into whatever form it needs to take. Categories
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