Stenka has enrolled the heir in London's most exclusive institution somewhere in the midst of Marylebone. I trust in Stenka's judgement as I trust in the indolence of my vassals.
Monday, 22 February 2010
A London school for the boy
Discovering where to send one's child to school is something I understand other parents loose sleep over. Not so at Castle Studebake where outside education is discouraged -- considered a mere distraction from our inherent wisdom, omnipotence, invincibility, penetrating underhand badminton serve and the sort. It is thus that the decision making process is a short one carried out by Stenka XVII, one of the Castle's henchmen, and a direct descendant of the great thief Stenka Razin.
Stenka has enrolled the heir in London's most exclusive institution somewhere in the midst of Marylebone. I trust in Stenka's judgement as I trust in the indolence of my vassals.
Stenka has enrolled the heir in London's most exclusive institution somewhere in the midst of Marylebone. I trust in Stenka's judgement as I trust in the indolence of my vassals.
Wednesday, 19 August 2009
The great bottle feeding conspiracy revealed
Over a month ago I wrote about the impending doom that hovered over Castle Studebake like a dog's leg over a fire hydrant. My wife had begun discussing the introduction of formula into young Throckmorton's digestive system.
My fear was that bottle feeding might simply be a conspiracy to keep me up at night with fatherly duties. Now, a couple of weeks into the dreaded operation I realize that my fears were justified. I am a shell of a man, barely capable of coping with twist-off caps and such necessities of life.
The feed I have been made responsible for by the omnipotent Chairwoman of the all powerful Family Planning Committee, aka my lovely wife, is referred to as the 10 o'clock feed. In fact this feed only takes place between 1:30 and 4 am. As you can imagine this ensures that I am a completely useless soul during all sunlit hours.
The second highly demanding factor is that my heir, Achilles Renoir, has decided that he is really not interested in the bottle at all, but would prefer to play two games at which he excels.
The first is called "Shit in a fresh diaper", in which I change the boy, and twelve seconds later his face widens briefly, followed by a storm in the drain. This game repeats.
The second is called "You thought I was sleeping, sucker", in which Kikuchiyo feigns sleep throughout all my thorough assessment techniques, but as soon as I lay him down in his crib he opens his eyes wide, smiles, grunts and shits (thus initiating another round of "Shit in a fresh diaper").
Here is my advice to all new dads:
1) Read everything you can about the benefits of breast feeding.
2) Print out the most radical claims you can find.
3) Insert these print outs as bookmarks in every one of your wife's baby books.
4) Assure your wife she is making the best decision by breast feeding for longer than a medieval Swedish peasant woman.
5) Enjoy your rest.
My fear was that bottle feeding might simply be a conspiracy to keep me up at night with fatherly duties. Now, a couple of weeks into the dreaded operation I realize that my fears were justified. I am a shell of a man, barely capable of coping with twist-off caps and such necessities of life.
The feed I have been made responsible for by the omnipotent Chairwoman of the all powerful Family Planning Committee, aka my lovely wife, is referred to as the 10 o'clock feed. In fact this feed only takes place between 1:30 and 4 am. As you can imagine this ensures that I am a completely useless soul during all sunlit hours.
The second highly demanding factor is that my heir, Achilles Renoir, has decided that he is really not interested in the bottle at all, but would prefer to play two games at which he excels.
The first is called "Shit in a fresh diaper", in which I change the boy, and twelve seconds later his face widens briefly, followed by a storm in the drain. This game repeats.
The second is called "You thought I was sleeping, sucker", in which Kikuchiyo feigns sleep throughout all my thorough assessment techniques, but as soon as I lay him down in his crib he opens his eyes wide, smiles, grunts and shits (thus initiating another round of "Shit in a fresh diaper").
Here is my advice to all new dads:
1) Read everything you can about the benefits of breast feeding.
2) Print out the most radical claims you can find.
3) Insert these print outs as bookmarks in every one of your wife's baby books.
4) Assure your wife she is making the best decision by breast feeding for longer than a medieval Swedish peasant woman.
5) Enjoy your rest.
Sunday, 16 August 2009
Baby product review: Flavored pain relief
As the sun rose above the horizon this morning, and my ego fell yet an inch further below sea level, Hastrobal asked me the first question to which I could not respond with either a self-amusing lie or an answer. I understand that this is undoubtedly the beginning of a lifetime of new inadequacies to be appended to my current immeasurable inventory of such, but, well, but... I give up.
Kikuchiyo, the little interrogator, is two months old and following a pair of immunization shots was recommended a dose of pain relief.
Off I went to the store in search of something called Calpol for the relief and Nurofen for the dropper which comes with it. (The fact that the dropper didn't come with the drug of choice was a beacon of the idiocy to come.)
There under the consumer-neon lights of the grocery store aisle was a line up of the drugs in question. And then I noticed something odd which I hoped (in vain) Throckmorton wouldn't ask me about.
The great morons in the baby departments of our honorable drug companies decided to flavor their elixirs orange and strawberry.
That's right: Orange and strawberry.
I don't even know where to start to describe how dense a person would have to be decide that flavoring medicine for babies anything other than the flavor of MILK is acceptable. It's not. It's flat out asinine.
Exree spent about an hour sticking his tongue out in disgust at the stupidity of the decision makers at the Calpol headquarters. And then, of course, he diminished my reputation for intellect with his innocent query.
It is a dark artificially flavored day at Castle Studebake. The vassals are stirring. Beware, drug companies, beware.
Kikuchiyo, the little interrogator, is two months old and following a pair of immunization shots was recommended a dose of pain relief.
Off I went to the store in search of something called Calpol for the relief and Nurofen for the dropper which comes with it. (The fact that the dropper didn't come with the drug of choice was a beacon of the idiocy to come.)
There under the consumer-neon lights of the grocery store aisle was a line up of the drugs in question. And then I noticed something odd which I hoped (in vain) Throckmorton wouldn't ask me about.
The great morons in the baby departments of our honorable drug companies decided to flavor their elixirs orange and strawberry.
That's right: Orange and strawberry.
I don't even know where to start to describe how dense a person would have to be decide that flavoring medicine for babies anything other than the flavor of MILK is acceptable. It's not. It's flat out asinine.
Exree spent about an hour sticking his tongue out in disgust at the stupidity of the decision makers at the Calpol headquarters. And then, of course, he diminished my reputation for intellect with his innocent query.
It is a dark artificially flavored day at Castle Studebake. The vassals are stirring. Beware, drug companies, beware.
Thursday, 13 August 2009
Dad's in charge!
Earlier this morning, or late last night, depending on how you look at things, Throckmorton and I were deep into a yawning competition (I'll have you know, dear reader, that I, Drake Studebake, was in the lead, 12-11.) when we were suddenly interrupted by the omnipotent Chairwoman of the all powerful Family Planning Committee, aka my lovely wife.
"You're in charge this morning!" She bellowed at me. "I'm going back to bed." And away she went.
I panicked.
Hastrobal cowered.
What the hell was I going to do?
Well, I did what any man would do in my situation, I put Kikuchiyo in his chariot, patted down my hair, zipped up my fly and headed out in search of baby loving women.
The first one I found was in our local newsagents; an elderly Indian woman with little round glasses at the end of her little round nose. She asks me every morning if Achilles is a boy or girl. No matter. She saw the baby, cooed, snapped her fingers, even did a little dance, scratched his belly ever so lightly then turned to me and inquired about the gender of the beautiful baby before her.
Once the nice lady had run out of dance moves, we moved on.
Our next stop was our wonderful local bakery, a mecca of baby loving women, most of whom are French, which appeals to my little Renoir. As soon as we sat down, a bouquet of lovely faces appeared over Throckmorton's chariot and the boy looked pleased. He showed off all his moves: he blinked, first quickly, then slowly, he stretched and farted, and then he performed a magnificent diagonal yawn (thus evening the score in our competition). The ladies were impressed and celebrated by bringing me, the great creator, a buttery croissant and black coffee. Exree fell asleep, and life was good.
So you see, dear reader, when Drake's in charge, life's a breeze. It's all about strategy and technique.
The only trouble is that it's only 8 am and I have four more hours to go. Maybe I'll turn the clocks forward throughout the flat...
"You're in charge this morning!" She bellowed at me. "I'm going back to bed." And away she went.
I panicked.
Hastrobal cowered.
What the hell was I going to do?
Well, I did what any man would do in my situation, I put Kikuchiyo in his chariot, patted down my hair, zipped up my fly and headed out in search of baby loving women.
The first one I found was in our local newsagents; an elderly Indian woman with little round glasses at the end of her little round nose. She asks me every morning if Achilles is a boy or girl. No matter. She saw the baby, cooed, snapped her fingers, even did a little dance, scratched his belly ever so lightly then turned to me and inquired about the gender of the beautiful baby before her.
Once the nice lady had run out of dance moves, we moved on.
Our next stop was our wonderful local bakery, a mecca of baby loving women, most of whom are French, which appeals to my little Renoir. As soon as we sat down, a bouquet of lovely faces appeared over Throckmorton's chariot and the boy looked pleased. He showed off all his moves: he blinked, first quickly, then slowly, he stretched and farted, and then he performed a magnificent diagonal yawn (thus evening the score in our competition). The ladies were impressed and celebrated by bringing me, the great creator, a buttery croissant and black coffee. Exree fell asleep, and life was good.
So you see, dear reader, when Drake's in charge, life's a breeze. It's all about strategy and technique.
The only trouble is that it's only 8 am and I have four more hours to go. Maybe I'll turn the clocks forward throughout the flat...
Sunday, 9 August 2009
Curse these super dads
Castle Studebake's walls are once again echoing a woman's rather suspect words.
This time it's a tormenting oration which begins with "do you know that" or "are you aware that" followed by "Johnny's dad", "Michelle's dad" or "Oscar's dad" and ends with some incredible fatherly feat never before witnessed by a resident of this grand establishment.
"Do you know that Johnny's dad handles all the night feeds?"
"Are you aware that Michelle's dad changes all the disaster diapers?"
"Do you know that Oscar's dad massages his wife's feet while she feeds?"
The mind boggles. Who are these goddamn super dads and where do they find the patience for such outlandish acts of generosity?
Well, I'll tell you:
Johnny's dad cries in the park all day and calls his wife the remorseless oppressor.
Michelle's dad thinks he is part of an elite military force, has a cube-shaped head, and eats sugar out of packets in cafes.
Oscar's dad has zero personality; and evidently has a foot fetish.
I'd hate these men, if they weren't so pathetic. As things stand it just isn't worth it.
The moral of the story is this: Dads, if you perform super human feats at home, please swear your partner to secrecy. Your acts put at risk civil, spiritual and misguided partnerships the world over. Moreover, people will come to despise you.
This time it's a tormenting oration which begins with "do you know that" or "are you aware that" followed by "Johnny's dad", "Michelle's dad" or "Oscar's dad" and ends with some incredible fatherly feat never before witnessed by a resident of this grand establishment.
"Do you know that Johnny's dad handles all the night feeds?"
"Are you aware that Michelle's dad changes all the disaster diapers?"
"Do you know that Oscar's dad massages his wife's feet while she feeds?"
The mind boggles. Who are these goddamn super dads and where do they find the patience for such outlandish acts of generosity?
Well, I'll tell you:
Johnny's dad cries in the park all day and calls his wife the remorseless oppressor.
Michelle's dad thinks he is part of an elite military force, has a cube-shaped head, and eats sugar out of packets in cafes.
Oscar's dad has zero personality; and evidently has a foot fetish.
I'd hate these men, if they weren't so pathetic. As things stand it just isn't worth it.
The moral of the story is this: Dads, if you perform super human feats at home, please swear your partner to secrecy. Your acts put at risk civil, spiritual and misguided partnerships the world over. Moreover, people will come to despise you.
Saturday, 1 August 2009
July poll results
The results for the July Oh Shit, I'm a Dad poll "What should I train young Studebake to be?" are in.
32 votes for Conquistador... The winner, yes, but I've decided to ignore that. Too much research involved.
23 votes for Lama... I'm somewhat disappointed. Such an economical career path (from a parent's point of view).
31 votes for Belorussian commissar... How could you have voted for anything else? What is life but a quest for a title and a long desk with a bowl of wrapped candy at one end and a large plastic phone with big numbers on the other?
19 votes for Postman... Would have been a pleasant existence. Early mornings are the pits, though.
Once again, dear readers, please remember that Castle Studebake does not recognize democracy as a logical decision-making system, and will therefore ignore popular votes.
Therefore, despite your advice, young Studebake will soon commence training to be the greatest Belorussian commissar the world has ever known.
My lovely wife, aka the omnipotent Chairwoman and sole member of the Family Planning Committee, will soon quake in her boots when our little Belorussian commissar slips on his dictator's onesie and shakes his little fists.
Past poll results:
June: Name young Studebake
May: Advice for the father-to-be
32 votes for Conquistador... The winner, yes, but I've decided to ignore that. Too much research involved.
23 votes for Lama... I'm somewhat disappointed. Such an economical career path (from a parent's point of view).
31 votes for Belorussian commissar... How could you have voted for anything else? What is life but a quest for a title and a long desk with a bowl of wrapped candy at one end and a large plastic phone with big numbers on the other?
19 votes for Postman... Would have been a pleasant existence. Early mornings are the pits, though.
Once again, dear readers, please remember that Castle Studebake does not recognize democracy as a logical decision-making system, and will therefore ignore popular votes.
Therefore, despite your advice, young Studebake will soon commence training to be the greatest Belorussian commissar the world has ever known.
My lovely wife, aka the omnipotent Chairwoman and sole member of the Family Planning Committee, will soon quake in her boots when our little Belorussian commissar slips on his dictator's onesie and shakes his little fists.
Past poll results:
June: Name young Studebake
May: Advice for the father-to-be
Friday, 31 July 2009
Baby product review: Baby Gap newborn trousers
Dear designers at Baby Gap,
What a stroke of genius to put pockets on trousers for newborns! So useful!
However, as much as Hastrobal and I try, we cannot manage to fit a flask or his corncob pipe in either the side or back pockets. In the future, please, please, please accommodate for these most essential elements of a newborn's life.
Past product reviews: The hippie baby sling
What a stroke of genius to put pockets on trousers for newborns! So useful!
However, as much as Hastrobal and I try, we cannot manage to fit a flask or his corncob pipe in either the side or back pockets. In the future, please, please, please accommodate for these most essential elements of a newborn's life.
Past product reviews: The hippie baby sling
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