Bonding, it helps...

Mighty Mouse is starting to smile. He did so for me today, the biggest smiles I've yet seen him pull. It was magic. Later, I walked him around All Nations Park for a while, both of us silent, listening to my thongs scraping the path. A man stood practising Tai Chi, the cooling breeze promised hope for the small towns to our east and north.

I tag teamed with Beloved and Bear and I had the playground (Playnet, or "PlayInIt") to ourselves for a while. We laughed, drummed on the superstructure, hung out talking crap. We walked back slowly, kicking spikey seeds along, counting ducks and, when I was needed, she held my hand. Sitting on a concrete wall near the duck pond she broke into an unprompted rendition of "Wheels on the bus..." and I joined in the refrains.

Such good things, so much else is irrelevant. I'm a conflict of emotion this eve.

None of it is getting any better

The stories keep coming out. Children die from horrific burns, unable to be saved. More families incinerated, loved ones lost, parents burying children, vice versa.

We are all Kinglake, Marysville, Flowerdale now. There is a burnt scar that will sit in all of us forever, like a line in bark or rock indicating a time of trauma that changed everything. It is being formed still, with each new story, an ongoing wounding.

And I know it is nothing on what thousands will feel who are so much more directly affected. My countrymen, I'm sorry, it's so awful and you are so brave.

Fires, floods, recession and rent seeking

Who knew that among all this tragedy, some businesses are still determined to profit.

Nick Xenophon is determined to use a time of national calamity to seal his place in parliament and get his palms greased.

Yes the man's got a right, generally, to push hard for his constituents and the indeed-neglected basin. But this assertion

a credible stimulus package needed to deal with the problems of the Murray-Darling Basin..

is a rationally unsustainable non-sequiter. A credible stimulus package needs to be designed to provide stimulus, in a credible manner. The more the bit players hack away for their pet causes the less credibility is has.

Turnbull, as others are rightly observing, is starting to lose his footing, the rope is tight and the branch isn't bending any more.

Rudd is in excellent form, coming across as completely genuine in his awkward but heart felt efforts to empathise with the bushfire victims while at the same time setting up the most important re-calibration of political economy in this country since the era of Hawke and Keating. The awkward nerd is holding the arrogant, sneering merchant banker and twisting his nose...

But back to Xenophon and I am just going to wait another 24 hours because I am sure he can't really be planning to scuttle the entire package. I trust a deal will be done, and we will move on. He can take some money from schools and build a desal plant on the mudflats and things will move on.

Why don't we give him some of the bushfire assistance money while we're at it, clearly he's sitting on the most needy part of the country?

More early analysis at Larvatus and Pollytics.

UPDATE: I'm determined to reduce my unnecessary habit of sliding into potty mouth, and I've started above with a couple of minor edits. Kudos to Pavlov for her thoughtful counterbalanced words on this topic.

UPDATE II: Deal done it seems. Good, moving along.

"I-iiiit's Daddy"

A nice way to be greeted at the door, after pounding the pavement a little too hard between the station and home.

I was shown to the chair where I throw my bag and coat: "Here daddy".

Bear started working the tea set, pouring the plastic pot into the plastic cup she'd selected with its matching saucer. She brought it across and explained that it was tea. Good to know, a girl's also brought me "daddy's mach-ee ARTO.'

I sipped and asked about her day, Beloved told me while Mr Man fed peacefully under her chin. Apparently at child care a girl stated that her dad was "fighting fires", to which Bear responded helpfully: "I saw the fires on the nueews".

My face relaxed for the first time since I woke this morning. I listened as she "dum dummed" through "boo da-moob" (by Strauss, in case you're wondering) while pushing the little island around her bath. After, wrapped in a towel, she smiled at me in the mirror and said "I love you daddy".

The cats wandered around the perimeter of the garden while I emptied Mr Man's bath and brought in some washing. The breeze was cooler than at any time in the past few days.

The cats are eating. Bear and Mr Man are both asleep. We sit. It's nice to just be.

She was asking for it

Something called Natalie Bennett, writing in the Guardian, attempts to make a name for herself from the comfort of her warehouse conversion in Shoreditch by blending pseudo-environmentalism and cultural cringe into the bushfire version of the old "if only she didn't go out in public in that short skirt" argument.

Does the Guardian also think all those silly Asians should leave the tsunami zone?

Thanks for that bit of intellectualised xenophobia, Nat. Don't slip on the ice on your way to work... (via twitter)

UPDATE: I'll leave this as written to capture how her piece, and that sneering tone, made me feel. Hurt and angry in a nutshell. I suppose having taken a few deep breaths and distracted myself with some policy analysis for half an hour I don't feel as catty. We do need frank assessments following this tragedy and though I don't think she makes any useful points (Australia's 21 million population should move back to blighty? We should all live in humpies? Chop down every tree as per the UK, now her loved and adopted home?) and is highly insensitive, it is probably best that we Victorians give everything at least half-a-read in order that, when the ash settles, we can see if things can be done better.

Let me just add one final point; that if she didn't live a life of extraordinary privilege she would see people like my old welfare clients, who are proof that not even London manages its population and resources in a way that gives security to all of its population. But I guess they don't eat at the Ivy.

UPDATE II: The tactful Right Wing version; Abortion Done It. Unbelievable.

Their name is Hubbard and they lived in Flowerdale

They are old family friends. We have been largely out of contact, such that my incompetent parents do not have a current phone number. I googled and found a couple of listings - they were heavily involved in the local community- but that turned out to be their old number. The missing persons number doesn't have any registration for them.

I fished with Terry Hubbard when he came to the NT, and in turn I stayed on his farm, the 3 Sisters, and played saxaphone to the cattle. He is a big gregarious man with pink cheeks and a room-filling personality.

The bushfires razed Flowerdale to the ground. We saw it last night, I stopped washing dishes and stared mute as they ran across the charcoal stumps and pieces of tin sticking out of piles of ash in that post-apocalyptic desolation. They are still looking, they said, expecting to find more things that they don't really want to find.

Only then the worst possibilities hit me. If you know anything let me know please.

Elsewhere, a beautiful and poignant piece by Barista, and others from Guy, Pavlov's Cat, Helen, Legal Eagle, Hoyden and LP. A constant stream of updates as the fires take over Twitter.

The weather said 20 and showers. Fall where you're needed, you contrary bastards.

UPDATE: Flowerdale is angry and feels abandoned. Scouring articles for names, nothing yet.

UPDATE II: Thanks Leonard.

UPDATE III: Just got word they are alright, my mother rang the hardware store where he used to work. Apparently the fire stopped short of their property, a result that was beyond my hopes for them. Can relax and get some work done now!

The eye of the apocalypse and why I'm not feeling sorry for myself tonight

Melbourne squirms, wringing its wrists, not knowing what to do or how to help, as all around us firestorms are razing houses, removing historical towns from the map and burning people to death.

Just last night I was talking to Beloved about feeling a bit depressed, the usual career confusions, lack of sleep, blblblb (insert further navel gazing).

Today I go to sleep and my family are safe and I am rather the-fuck over my little whinge, and glad we are alive.

I don't know how you would put one foot in front of the other and keep going:

He had skin hanging off him everywhere and his little girl was burnt, but not as badly as her dad, and he just came down and he said `Look, I've lost my wife, I've lost my other kid, I just need you to save [my daughter]'.

Rudd looked awkward as a huge man mountain broke down in tears in his arms, but he's doing the right thing just being here. How can anyone who is safe, whose home is out of harm's way, show empathy without feeling trite? For what it's worth I'm gutted, but I don't deserve space to write about this any further.

Rudd, put your money where your mouth is and we'll know you're genuine. But thanks for being here. Me, us, all who are safe and well, can donate.

A Thousand Kisses Deep

Aside from an exceptional rendition of The Partisan, I was blown away by a spoken word piece at the Leonard Cohen concert, so much so that I feel the urge to share it here.

A Thousand Kisses Deep...

Read the words...

Hear a truncated version of them unfold...

Top 5 Bear singfest numbers

Top of the list has to be "So what.... I'm a rock star... got'm rock moves... an' I feeeeel aaaalright, tonight, s'alright, tonight....... so what... I'm a rock star..." On it goes, Pink should be impressed. Sometimes there's even air guitar.

But fear not, there's also age appropriate music like, um, Ladyhawke; Paris is Burning.

Justine Clark probably comes in third with I like to Sing, although I might be just showing personal preference for Ms Clark, who I've almost bumped into on Spring Street. Almost the same spot I saw Denton today. But I digress...

Fourth and fifth (probably a bit higher in truth, but truth can be disturbing) would have to go to some Wiggles action, probably 5 little ducks and Henry Rockpuss (Octop...).

But the best thing of all is when she pulls out the tambourine, or xylophone, and says "daddy do it toooo", and we slam out some noise and in the middle she's smiling and she says...

"Jamming!"

Get out of the way Malcolm

Get out of the way.

I got a leave pass and unbelievable seats and saw a genius

!



..But you don't really care for music do ya...

On the exponential slowing of the blog that won't reach zero

If raw honesty makes for the best personal blogging, then anonymity is almost a pre-requisite. The best writing I've done was probably the first few posts as the groom stripped bare, before I caved in to my conscience and told my now-wife where she could find it. Since then, I've progressively shared the blog among the people I know in the real world and reached a point where the only people who definitely wouldn't see it are my parents.

The problems with this were embodied by an incident where I had a spray about someone, the kind that make for good, expunging, therapeutic personal blogging but which don't really embody any overall deep resentment. Their behaviour on a particular occasion tripped a few parental wires, but not so that I'd want to do anything to hurt their feelings. Perhaps I assumed that no-one was still reading, but they, being media savvy, may in fact have a feed reader. The next time we met they didn't meet my eye, and seemed unhappy, and though I don't know for certain I suspect they read and recognised themselves in the post.

Even by then I was self censoring. The gap between what tears you up inside and what can be said is vast, and encompasses perhaps the most interesting emotions- the hurt, anger, jealousy, fear, resentment and complicated love that we all try to make sense of in respect of our closest and dearest.

I have written little since Bear was born, Mr Man suffers an even greater deficit of words. But this is in part because I love them dearly, and I know, having been one of those who didn't get it, that writing 'oh I love you so much my kidlets' a hundred different ways just isn't exciting for others. Perhaps not even for me- I find I want to experience parenting more than write about it.

I can tell you Zoe was right, as of course I knew she would be: it's damn hard finding time to hit cafes or read papers. And yet it hardly matters, moments spent idling with my family are the best things ever, far beyond the worlds of career satisfaction or political critique.

What has been left out of my posts is all the close tension with family and friends, most of which they are not aware of. The abject disappointment Beloved and I feel as we find that people's talk is not matched by their walk. As we envy other friends whose family are closer, more helpful, more excited about their children. The complex posts I could write about how we know we were once like that, debating particular behaviours and what they mean. The things other parents do that we have doubts about. The things we do that we have doubts about...

The tensions between Beloved and I as we work through a period that breaks many relationships. Hanging on to the hope that some time in the future we will go out again, look each other in the eye and talk about how much we love each other. It probably wouldn't help the situation to write about how I feel gutted by each criticism or how I dread us becoming our parents- not in the 'uncool' ways, we're there already, but in the ways that drain love from a relationship.

We're ok, even good... But often I've needed to scream and I have nowhere to write it and no-one to tell.

My political blogging has been on the backburner for years. This is partly because I've found unless you write political posts all the time that readership quickly moves on- the action is all on huge meta blogs like LP which, good as they are, also represent the death of a different kind of punditry. It's also because I now work at a level in policy where these things get sensitive. There is a high level of checking, testing, and vetting and this has the palpable effect of excluding many more interesting and left-of-centre personalities from the senior levels of public life.

And I've lost most of my readers, the bloggy ones who comment and give life to the posts. This is a self-perpetuating effect because when I write about something deeply important to me and get few or no comments, I don't want to write about it again. But of course it is natural that, given how little I've written, there are less comments. I don't mean to sound petulant.

So I constantly think about closing down. The best of this blog is probably behind me, but that also makes it hard to end. It spans a wedding and 2 births and in places manages to perfectly capture moments and feelings in a way no other medium could. I know I should love it for what it is, a chorus to a play in several acts that has now reached its conclusion.

The conclusion is comedy, not tragedy, and through all the tensions parsed above I am happier than I ever thought I'd be with my fantastic family. They have been the main subject of this blog, and they, and I- we- are now embarking together on the rest of our lives.

A different trajectory. A related, but different, narrative, that may well deserve its own space.

Then comes a peace

Mr Man returned home but life as a family had an extended definition until today. I heard a saying that visitors are like prawns, after 3 days it is time to throw them out, no matter how nice they are, and I think that is remarkably close to a reliable rule.

That said, for every private moment lost a special moment was gained. So, while Bear's second birthday present giving was not only interrupted but completely and thoughtlessly railroaded to the point where a dad stormed downstairs and banged things around in the kitchen, there was also much bonding with otherwise barely familiar relatives.

In fact, while the visitors were down to meet a Cub, it was a Bear who held most of their attention. Which, given how little she sees of most of them, is probably a good thing.

The Little Man is my Zen child; remarkably peaceful, balanced, and calm (let's skim over some punchy wailing last night as he got a bit out of sorts!).

He has received a few less presents and cards, which I suppose comes from the now-familiarity of the baby thing, but this has its benefits. Being able to buy him a special soft toy will be cute- Bear had a mountain of them so I felt too guilty to add to the sprawl last time. And on that note Cubster will have loads to pick through, much of it still close to new condition.

The house is quiet, we've turned the TV off and are pottering through our space, rediscovering a home. Bear sleeps, book on pillow as she's taken to doing, and Mr Man lies in blissful ignorance of the world in his bassinette.

Minh is curled up somewhere and Mao, of course, is doing ever-smaller circles around the room as he sizes up my lap. It is time to make some space and hang out with my fam.

Can't complain.

Everything's gonna be alright babygirl

Little Mr Man is cradled in my left arm, face against my chest, sleeping. A Bear has slumped into the pillows on my right, curled into my side under my right arm, and is off with the fairies. Beloved chats with her mum, I am lying back thinking nothing, at peace.

I notice Bear stir, a slight adjustment, then her eyes open a little.

Suddenly she is up on her feet grabbing at my right shoulder crying, pleading "No Daddy No Daddy No!!" I squeeze her in, I can't move, can't put the Cublet down or hand him to anyone, can only tell her over and over that I love her and that everything's gonna be alright until she calms, somewhat, and slumps again.

It tore my heart open.

She's been good, actually trying hard not to show her confusion and fear I think, making an effort and being helpful. And I think things are going as well as we could expect with 'the adjustment'. But there's a melancholy in her eyes and it doesn't help that we are living between two homes at the moment.

Poor baby girl, everything's gonna be alright...

A Son is Born

Son. I have a son.

After a rather nonchalant beginning, kicking around for a couple of hours while Beloved's contractions went from 'need a rub' to 'volume=11', a Little Man made an entrance, casually pushing through in about 5, gritting, grunting contractions.

Sunrise over the city behind us and Ben Harper warbling softly in the air.

I took a Cublet as he came out, kissed his messy little mop of velous hair, then passed him to a very satisfied looking mum.

It's a beautiful day.