First days of the new for my girls

Up well before 7 this morning. Put the coffee on the stove top, prepared a Bear's brekky. Got a girl up, while her mum frantically lurched from one side of the bathroom to the other.

Today both their lives changed. Beloved went back to work, and Bear, having been for a few short visits to get the feel of the place, spent her first full day in childcare.

I waved them off. Bear was waving and smiling from the back. It breaks your heart.

She went well, apparently, though neither sleep nor food were high on her agenda. But when Beloved picked her up she was fusty, and she took a long time to go to bed. She was a bit upset.

So I'm told anyway, I didn't get out of work until 6.30, I haven't even laid eyes on my girl since the morning.

There has to be a better way...

Queen of slang, my daughter is nang

The Bear is at the cusp of noveau-English. As discussed below, she uses nang-nag to capture the essence of being, the power of infinity. Either that or she's pointing out something more mundane like a poo that needs flipping (they're kindof like vege patties now, so when changing nappies we just carry the whole lot to the toilet and 'flip' it in!).

Now it is confirmed, nang, the base word, means cool.

My girl is clearly uber, what can I say?

Other words making the rounds include "dat" (while pointing at a cat) and something approaching "dadadad". Yes, she's started doing this while indicating in my general direction.

Today I came in tired, a bit depressed. Slunk into the couch, smiled at Beloved while Bear continued her feed. When she'd finished she sat up, saw me, sat up a bit straighter, clapped her hands, smiled and said something along the lines of "dadadigdablanangnangdaad".

Picked me up like a chairlift.

Twists of the knife: Hitchens on Bhutto

Both contrarian and iconoclast, Hitchens is someone I don't always agree with, but always enjoy reading. Even as he mourns Bhutto's assassination on strategic grounds, he reaches forward and twists the knife into her character, reminding us that most of what most of us have read about her hasn't probed much further than her Oxbridge education and gender, paired with pictures of this light-skinned stylishly-dressed beauty guaranteed to enhance her mainstream Western appeal. Dark haired Diana of the East.

He notes that the moderate icon played a role in fuelling extremism. As with the CIA's support of the Mujahadeen, the following smacks of short-sighted idiocy:

"...when she was prime minister, she pursued a very active pro-Taliban policy, designed to extend and entrench Pakistani control over Afghanistan and to give Pakistan strategic depth in its long confrontation with India over Kashmir."

Someone say something about coming home to roost?

For me her obsession with righting her father's wrongs brings to mind the great lame Megawati, a bit of an icon alongside her father's memory in Suharto controlled Indonesia. Neither Megawati nor her bapak had much to offer the country in the long run, and I do end up wondering why a country of umpteen million gets stuck with the privileged children of its previous blights coming back after power like it's a private dominion.

I suspect there's truth in Hitchens' assertion that:

"...the PPP, a supposedly populist party ... never had a genuine internal election and was in fact—like quite a lot else in Pakistan—Bhutto family property."

Then there are the nukes, and the corruption allegations. And her family's gift to world peace:

"...the two main legacies of Bhutto rule—the nukes and the empowered Islamists—have moved measurably closer together."

Rest in peace m'dear, your death only slightly less tragic than those of the innocents in the crowd.

But you're no Mother Teresa. Damn, Hitchens has tarnished that icon too.

Those would be stars

In the dark we stand, looking back down the track to her great grandpop's house. 4 generations dined there this eve, celebrating 85 years, a lucky man, a skillful shot, a dogged survivor. We are all grateful he saw off Kokoda and Borneo. That he married a fine lady, whose nickname became Bear's middle name, and built a family on a fine piece of dirt.

We stand on that dirt, in the dark, the voices of the others fading as they enter the other house behind us. I hold Bear close, she works a piece of my neck between her right fingers, holds my upper arm with her other hand. It is so dark, dark like it never gets in the city. But I can see her wide-open eyes in the starlight.

"Those are stars. Twinkle twinkle indeed, the real thing" I tell her. She takes in everything, silent, amazed.

Much is pitch black, but the outline of the tops of the trees can be made out. Above them, the rich spray of unfamiliar stars. Down the track opposite great grandpop's there's a weak reflection from the water of a small dam. In other directions are hills, precursors to the Snowys, and in closer the vines; Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Sauvignon Blanc all have their genesis on this land. Like the trees, they can be made out in places, but as black-on-black adjustments to texture and shape.

No cars, voices, music or humming appliances. No bogans shouting at each other randomly. You realise how penetrating the background noise of the city is when you get out this far. Here the frogs and crickets are a different medium altogether, as loud on the ears, maybe, but softer on the soul.

We stand for several minutes. A normally fickle and restless Bear remains fascinated, her eyes still wide, her breathing even and slow. I am in awe too, of the place, the dark, the quiet. And of the little ball of wonder in my arms, this tiny girl who puts such faith and trust in me, to be sitting so calmly in this alien darkness.

I kiss her head. She has coined a new word on this trip; "nang-nang." Nang-nang, her Uncle (beloved's sister's beloved) has deduced, means infinity- everything entirely, expressed as an equation of nang.

I am a grumpy old man in some respects, have been since about the age of 7. But standing there in the dark I realise that Bear's capacity to make me completely happy, content and at peace with the world, just by being herself, is nang-nang.

Being a home dad is as easy as...

Mud crab tying. A sport in the NT. Someone with several beers in them has to tie a live mud crab without hurting or damaging the poor critter. Unlike mud crabs, children don't generally sever fingers. However the moment Bear feels the change table touch her back she summons up an incredible amount of torque, arches up onto the tip of the back of her head, reaches diagonally across and behind her head with her right hand until she has a vice grip on the back of the table, then yanks, pulls, and squirms until the nappy is on and sealed. Ten minutes or so later. At which point she relaxes, sucking her thumb calmly...

Being a wicket keeper. Not that I could ever catch a ball. How about a heavy skull? The answer is- don't stuff up dad or it'll be off to the GP again. Today's example, she's hauled herself up to standing position by the couch, holding on as she is wont to do. She stands there, as per usual, me dangling a couple of feet behind, half an eye on her, waiting for the usual process whereby she tries to lower herself back down and I gently assist. Suddenly she simply lets go with both hands, no warning, and falls directly sideways with her head hurtling towards the floorboards...

Being a hypnotist. Whose method involves an intuitive mix of low-pitched (or very high falsetto) songs, patting, holding at just the right point on the upper arm while rocking, and a high speed re-tuck under the sheet that would make a drill sergeant proud. This arvo it was the re-tuck, amazingly effective on occasion.

Being one of those bright-jacket-wearing, shouting, pointing, traders. Trying to watch something small and squiggly while fiddling with crap in your hands, all the time knowing everything you have is on the line. Picture being in the kitchen, her food, my coffee, 2 cats getting underfoot, and somewhere, always moving just out of line-of-sight in the living room, a Bear with a passion for climbing and eating.

So yes being home dad's surprisingly straightforward... and yes, my hand slipped under the nape of her neck about 2 inches from the floor. Bear life, I say, Bear life. But it's heaven to be here instead of wedged into my cubicle pushing through files at work. On such a nice day. Speaking of which, it's park time...

Yes yes yes yes yes!!!

Eat it. Lap it up. Those of us on the side of good may lap gently, savouring.

Those on the side of bigotry, small-mindedness, and a complete lack of conscience...

Those who lied in public, in the media, on the web, about the reasons for going to war, or for persecuting boatloads of desperate people...

Those who trashed everything we've fought for in this nation from the Eureka Stockade to Mabo...

Those who sneered, and oh how they sneered, at anything passing for intellectual thought wherever it tried to manifest on our continent...

Those who pretended the earth was flat, and denied that which was incontrovertible, refusing to sign up to the future...

Those grubby little self-serving rodents who worked so hard to trash the concept of egalitarianism wherever it lingered...

Eat it. Take it all down, swallow it whole. It's been a long time coming and we won't forget the breathtaking nastiness you brought to the table as you ruthlessly attacked the very notion of civil society and tore us decades into the past.

Oh, how it tastes. The Pommery is pretty fucking nice as well!

Here's cheers to the true believers!

Here's cheers to the lefty blogosphere!

Here's cheers to armagnac'd for predicting that Workchoices was a bridge too far way back when they brought it in... and cheers to my, Jeremy's, Guy's fears of the past few days proving to be baseless- some things you'd rather be wrong about!!

Here's cheers to the future, because we aren't in the '50s any more!

Here's cheers to K-Rudd, man of the hour!

...And here's a whopping CHEERS to Maxi, because, no matter what the last few postal votes bring, you've delivered the the sweetest, most blissful, humiliation, and served it on a plate to the rat....

c'MON Australia...

Don't let me down.

Just take the plunge.

It's time.

Heading off to the hustings. Knew it would be close, as the late polls are showing. The world my Bear will grow up in may be fundamentally altered by the last minute impulse of a few thousand people today.

c'MON people...

Coalition Cracking; sounds of love and joy

Losing confidence in the will of the people? Threaten to use lawyers to overturn their decisions:

The legal opinion was provided to the NSW division of the Liberal party and Mr (Sandy) Street SC is absolutely categoric in his advice that there would be a need for a by-election if Mr Newhouse is elected for the federal seat of Wentworth.

(Sandy Street, formerly Rocky Road QC, of Bedrock?)

The man with the job of selling their climate change policy thinks it's retarded. He's not alone:

Former New South Wales Liberal leader Peter Debnam has broken ranks with the Federal Coalition, saying the Kyoto protocol should have been ratified long ago.

The New South Wales Opposition energy spokesman has told an energy conference clean coal is an oxymoron and nuclear power is not a realistic option for Australia.

Bet he's thinking of another moron as he says it.

Back to the lawyers for a quick cover-up so the next phase of Workchoices stays under wraps.

Then it's off to slouch in the couch (was Peter's slouch deliberate, or a result of an excision of the backbone?) and try to tell everyone that you love each other. As if we couldn't tell already!

But don't relax too much, those funny country folk who share your bed have a habit of letting one go just as you're drifting off:

Barnaby Joyce has contradicted his party leader, deputy Prime Minister Mark Vaile, by saying he would not try to block Opposition Leader Kevin Rudd's planned industrial relations changes in the Senate...

A nasty distraction for Vaile as he tries to pick up popular support for the idea that public bodies should participate in cover-ups to assist the Government of the day:

Mr Vaile suggested bureaucrats should be subject to tighter restrictions during the caretaker period of an election campaign.

Although given it documents highly improper misuse of public funds I guess none of us would be any happier in his shoes.

Scrambling. Dusting off old clothes, CVs, moderate dissenting policy positions. Quite gratifying to observe.

4 days out, I'm feeling slightly optimistic.

Diet solution found!

Put on about a kilo and a half- 50 % of my promise to Bear. Upped my benching by 10 kilos. Commenced growth of a manly mo. Consumed protein en masse. Worked hard for weeks on end. Walked around house with handgrips. Push ups on my knuckles up from 2 or 3 to over 10. Almost ready to cultivate super mullet and fake tan.

Spewed for an hour, shat for a day.

Lost a kilo. 2 steps forward 1 back, to be mathematically precise.

So if you've come here because you googled the heading on this piece my advice is don't waste money, just hang out with a baby with gastro.

Keep the champagne corked - the marginal dictatorship saves its worst for last

Rudd is not trouncing Howard. I predict this, claim it, without the armament of extensive psephological analysis of poll numbers. They interest me, but election night results interest me more.

The election isn't being fought on any of the grounds it should be; the long history of abuses of power, the disregard for the environment our children will grow up in, the rise of sneering racism and anti-intellectualism in our culture, embedded by the endorsement of small-minded self-serving besuited bogans.

It's 70% pocket and 30% gut. Work Choices is pocket, Howard's tax cuts and economic claims are pocket. And that's a conservative gut, one that enjoys its overcooked steak and 'taties.

The economy isn't bad. Sure he lied about interest rates. But anyone with a modicum of intelligence knew that the first time around. And since when did lies lead to a poor outcome for an Australian election candidate?

It's not a rational argument. I mean, if it were, there is no way on earth a party that has so messily botched up foreign affairs would be leading the polls in that department. Surely no conservative views Iraq as anything other than the mother of all fuck ups by now?

Last week's 4 Corners had interviews with several people in marginals, following their reactions to various announcements as we entered the campaign. The one who embodied the difficulties faced by social democratic parties more than any other was the woman with the godfrigginalmighty mcmansion.

There she was, with a huge behemoth behind her, or indoors with vast plasma TV and a thousand other spoils. I don't begrudge her this, beyond thinking there's no accounting for taste and moderation. But all she cared about was her pocket. Each promise to give her a handful more bucks caught her attention, to the point that she was coming across as a potential swinger. No wider issue even registered.

A swinging voter in a marginal; key election winning territory. And she, with all her needs and a busload of wants amply met, could not care less about any policy that impacts anyone except her.

She's a natural creature of the Right; singularly greedy and lacking empathy. Yet in a marginal dictatorship she's all that counts, politically speaking.

She's undecided. They're undecided. I hope I'm wrong and he slams it through next weekend. I do give Kev odds-on, but only just. The champagne's corked and stashed. It ain't over 'till the CUB lady sings.

A face full of gastrovom makes the love go around

Wednesday was the first of my new daddy days, pursuant to a 4 day week. A poor Bear had been pretty quiet through the night. I strolled in at 7, excited about my new role, figuring she'd be in great sorts.

The smell of vomit hit me immediately. She'd actually crawled her way around the cot during the night and deposited about 5 separate, foul pools of vomage. I don't know why she didn't tell us, she must have been miserable.

The day progressed.

It was a joy being on Bear time. Beloved went off in the arvo on a photography course, a present from Bear and I. We hung out in the park, swung on the swing, slid on the slide (well, the 2 foot bit at the bottom, she's a bit small to come all the way down yet!). I chatted to other parents, it was nice.

Yet Le Bear was fusty. She didn't eat much and kept spitting it back at me. After Beloved came back, we were changing her when she made an 'announcement noise' and suddenly a big flood of vomit filled her mouth and started pouring out. At that point, she decided to blow a great raspberry. I copped a faceful.

I don't know if that's when I caught it. What I do know is that this is the gastro from hell. Last night Beloved had a horrible session of impersonating Linda Blair then, before I could finish laughing, I was hit with the same. Everything I had eaten and drunk for hours, there in the sink, mocking me. Blowing bits of broccoli and carrot out my nose for the next 40 minutes.

And so it kicked off. We each had about an hour's sleep all up. I took the first sickie in aeons, after nearly falling over when I got out of bed. And all day we've gone from being crumpled on the couch, to attending to Bear and some choke risk she'd started engunging, to feeding her, to grabbing short naps, to being crumpled on the couch.

How much fun can you have!? Both of us violently ill, a recovering Bear needing attention, all my work files buzzing around in the back of my head like blowflies. Our muscles ache, joints are sore, every 20 minutes or so we just completely flake.

If this is how the poor girl felt on Tuesday night and Wednesday, then she's made of firmer stuff than us.

The weekend's trip to Rutherglen is off. Misery loves whole familes apparently...

Hours drag at the Royal Children's

We did not cope well with the F word.

In the shower, le Bear waves her little reverse wave from her perch in Beloved's arms. They head off downstairs. I close my eyes and breath up the steam.

There are two thumps in quick succession and beloved lets out a sound that's neither shout nor cry but somehow both. Time stops. The water hangs in mid air around me. I shove the shower door aside and start running.

For a moment, there's a thought in my mind that hasn't yet congealed but it is surrounded by a mist of pure fear.

Bear starts crying as I turn the corner at the top of the stairs. I'm instantly relieved because I can see they are both ok. Beloved holds her, they are getting up.

Just a slip onto her bum. A Bear was held tightly, as she should be.

The crying doesn't cease immediately. She protects her leg, uses the other- clearly in some discomfort. But things seem to improve, and I go to work.

A bit later she's still a bit ratty, still not shoving with that leg when she commando crawls. Beloved calls. We agree, a visit to the GP just to be on the safe side.

GP says all fine, but perhaps, just to be sure, drop in on the Royal Children's.

I join them in the waiting room from work, with chocolate for Beloved and food for a Bear. The nurse thinks she's fine, but a quick once-over by the Paediatrician should confirm it.

He thinks she's fine, but an X-ray might be ideal, just to be sure.

We hold her down, wearing our heavy lead suits, and she has a cry on the X-ray table. Not nice for a girl...

The X-ray looks fine, says the Radiologist. I'll hand it back to the Paediatrician for a final check and you'll be out of here.

We wait a bit longer, chat to other parents. It's a sad place, the Royal Children's. A girl has damaged her eye falling in a cartwheel, somehow. She is the embodiment of pathos. I chat to her dad, not really saying anything useful. We shrug, and wait some more.

The Paediatrician walks in with the X-ray. A hairline fracture, he says.

We just stand there. Neither of us has ever broken a leg. A Bear isn't 10 months and she has a fracture.

It was a sad, sad night.

Meanwhile she recovers in days, without a fuss, and is charging around again as if nothing happened.

We hate the stairs. Oh how we hate the stairs.

Tsunami set to wash away dead wood

What is that pompous fool talking about now? A recession? If a recession was threatening to hit Australia, now, after more than a decade of Peter Costello being Treasurer, how could that possibly be a positive for him?

Is this a tsunami we had to have?

My thinking is that a tsunami of irritated voters threatens Costello and if I were he I would be ringing all my mates on Collins St hocking my CV around.

Getting it all wrong

We split at the supermarket. Beloved and Bear headed home for a feed, I went in, with my pottering mother, on a mission to buy just two things- muesli and cat litter stuff. Half an hour of pottering later we emerge laden down with random items.

I got the wrong muesli. They didn't have the preferred brand (Lowan Tropical, since you asked) so I picked up something that looked nice. I mean, it is birdfood and all, is there a difference? Oh, how I've learned about birdfood, sorry muesli, this evening.

It was wrong, all wrong. It has clusters that dissolve too quickly. It is too high on simple sugars. It's made clear I've made a major stuff up and this will need to be rectified by beloved going herself the next day.

I'm a failure.

So, after I drop my mum at a random church we found for her, hidden away between a couple of quiet suburban streets just where you expect a huge brick monolith to be planted, I head back to the Supermarchet for round B.

I painstakingly read the contents of each and every muesli packet there is. I make sure the leading contenders have no nuts (in case we then touch Bear), are called muesli, look completely like birdfood with no novel features like clusters, and have markedly less sugars than what I bought before.

I note in the process that what I bought before has less sugars than almost all the 'proper' mueslis, but, mine is just to do or die.

I get the rolls royce. It's the better part of $10 for a tiny pouch. I cannot go wrong.

Scroll down...

You know it's coming...

Just about there...

I fucked up royally. This muesli has a code word in the title. Apparently bircher is lithuanian for 'needs soaking overnight or in the microwave like some sort of lumpy porridge.'

Do I give up? What do you think? I'm actually so far past my wits end generally, covering a 1.9 FTE load at work, trying to keep up with what's going on at home, that I just coast on from issue to issue. Flatlining. Not at my best.

This corner of the Planet too Lonely for some

Met by a roar of indifference, Lonely Planet has caused a quirky individual cultural icon based in a struggling suburb in a small nation in the South to be swallowed up by a vast British media beast:

Lonely Planet, which is famous for its international travel guides, is being sold to BBC Worldwide by founders Tony and Maureen Wheeler, and advertising magnate John Singleton who became a shareholder in 1999.

Cue vaccuous weasel-word tripe:

'Joining BBC Worldwide allows us to secure the long-term future of our company within a globally recognised media group,'' the Wheelers said in a statement. ''In our discussions with (BBC), we felt that BBC Worldwide would provide a platform true to our vision and values, while allowing us to take the business to the next level.''

De da da da. They can publish 500 titles but can't come up with a sentence free from inane jargon to explain their decision. I mean, the next level? Does Maureen want to be Secretary General of the UN?

With significant operations in Australia, the US and UK, Lonely Planet publishes about 500 titles including specialist activity guides, shoestring guides and phrase books in various languages. The company also produces and develops factual programming for international broadcasters through Lonely Planet Television and online.

Times are tough.

I know, I'm not making any real point, they're entitled to do whatever they want and no-one has any dignity in business. It's just a shame.

They lead their field, they are already global. They have built so much out of their warehouse digs in Footscray and are an exemplary Aussie start-up and exporter. Despite the considerable handicap of not being based in one of the two nations who think they are entitled to completely dominate most aspects of publishing and the media, they've managed to go round the world and back and completely change travel publishing. If they can't stay here, how can anyone?

Hey Tony and Maureen, would it be that hard to drop the drivel and just say "we did it for the money"?