Some people have lazy Sundays. People with toddlers don't. Doesn't bother me, though; instead of watching football from the comfort of my couch, I'm out playing it with my little fellas.
Hmmm, I'm about one fifth of the way to having a full team. Maybe it's time for Zoe and I to have a little chat*.
(*About me taking a trip to the doctor so that ridiculous ideas like trying for a full team become null and void...)
Tom escapes his cage...
...and makes an astounding discovery: sky.
First, stupification...
...then adulation. All hail sky!
Bob the car washing guy has already taken me to be the sucker I really am. He knows that I'm the one to speak to on Saturdays when he comes round to do the car. He cottoned on in record time that if he speaks to Zoe, he won't be able to charge 4 times the going rate. Or use our phone to make international calls. Or relax in my armchair while I gather together cleaning materials for him (that I had to buy).
Following our little debacle last week, Bob knows that I'm even more easy game than usual, and he clearly intends to get as much mileage out that fact as possible. So it was no surprise that when Zoe answers the door to him yesterday, he immediately asks to speak to me. Hanging fire until Zoe is well out of earshot, he proceeds to not only ask for the equivalent of a Doctor's hourly wage to spend 10 minutes hosing my car, but he actually asks me to give him money towards buying a house!
"Don't worry," smirks Bob, "I only need $38,000".
"Wait there," I whisper. "I'll just go and get my wallet. D'you want cash or a cheque...?"
My one time sanctuary (the living room):
The Blitz, London 1940:
I detest you, Wiggles, but thank you.
In order of priority, I live for:
1. Family
2. Adventure sports and travel
3. The West Wing
Those who know me, know that I am not imbued with the gift of patience. In a very rare and monumental feat of self control, I've managed to avoid watching any West Wing on TV so I can watch it all on DVD. In one sitting. And when it does come out on DVD, West Wing will take pole position in the above list.
Zoe, who (to my utter disdain) does not like the West Wing, has somehow seen the final episode. And is itching to tell me how it all ends. My world will come crashing down around me if she does. It's like waiting for the bullet to hit, and like a torturess, she delights in it.
Tom makes a quick escape after hurling one of daddy's golf balls at the neighbour's pride and joy, her brand new Mercedes.
And then, upon appearance of the horrified neighbour, in an instant and without a flicker of remorse, points the finger of blame squarely at me.
Evidence in hand, and betrayed by my own flesh and blood, I can do nothing to stop the look of guilt that quickly settles over my face.
We have a guy,'Bob', who comes round to wash our car every week. Now Bob's a nice guy and he charges us pennies for toiling away in the hot sun and removing a week's worth of toddler debris and half of the Caribbean's beaches from the back seats. The problem is, Bob bangs on the door every 5 minutes asking for more soap, water, new rags, to use the phone, go to the toilet, read my books, watch my DVDs, borrow my wife and so on, and so on, ad infinitum. Now, perhaps I'm being uncharitable, but on Sunday, the day after my hikeathon, I simply couldn't be bothered to get up from my armchair every three minutes for an hour to face his requests. Add to this the fact that I was wearing only my underwear. As is my wont (because it's damn hot here). So when Bob knocked politely on the door, I quickly turned the TV down and ignored him. I then smugly sank back into my armchair thinking he would politely disappear when he was suckered into thinking no-one was at home.
Mistake number one: I should have realised by now that one of Bob's more admirable traits is perseverance. He's a firm proponent of Hickson's maxim, "If at first you don't succeed..."
Mistake number two: I had taught Max how to answer the door last week.
The next farcical ten minutes went something like this:
[Polite knocks quickly escalate to banging]
Max: "Daddy..."
Me: "Ssssshhhhhhhh...."
Max: "DADDY....!"
[Banging stops; Bob's smelt a rat]
[Banging resumes and increases exponentially. Bob's breached the moat and and has deployed the battering ram]
Max waves bye bye Barney and makes for the front door in slow motion.
Me: Much flapping of arms and silent mouthing of "NOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Max: The look says it all. What's your problem Daddy? We always open the door when someone knocks.
I'm powerless to stop him because I'm crippled from yesterday's stroll. Max reaches for the door handle and I have two choices:
1. Stay seated, in my underwear, and face the music (Bob will be able to see me from the front door).
2. Hide.
I quickly decide on option 2 and crawl into the alcove under the stairs. The banging stops as the door creaks open.
Bob: "Hello. Where's Daddy?"
Max: "...." (Oh, now you've lost your voice, you little tyke...?)
Bob: "Hello! HELLO! HEEEEEEEEEEELOOOOOOOOOO!"
I'm now in a classic Catch 22 situation. If I reveal myself, Bob will know I've been hiding from him. If I don't reveal myself, Bob will join the rest of the neighbourhood in thinking we're neglectful parents because we leave our 2 and 1 year olds to fend for themselves. As I'm trying to come to terms with my predicament and think of a cunning way to extricate myself from it, Max quickly rules out the neglectful parent option. He comes back down the hall and he looks from Bob, to me and back to Bob. And then the finger of God rises and Max points towards my hiding place. Rumbled.
Out I crawl. Bob has a victorious smile on his face.
Me: "I was, er, just looking for Max's playdoh..."
Bob: "Want your car washed?"
Me: "I'll just get the bucket for you."
I'm ecstatic today because Tom reached a crucial milestone this morning. Forget the usual walking, talking, toilet-training milestones. Swimming is far more important as far as I'm concerned. You don't need to know how to speak properly to get on the ASP (professional surfers) World Tour. In fact, it probably helps if you can't. And Tom took his first step towards the ASP today by happily de-clinging from his mum in the pool. He may have spun round in circles and starting sinking after a few minutes, but he's got his confidence and that's what matters.
Those pro surfers earn a packet and start early these days, so I'm thinking that if Tom is on the tour by the time he's 15, I'll be able to retire by the time I'm 43. Nice. I'm thinking Hawaii. Or maybe the Seychelles.
Yes, I'm definitely losing the edge. Hard to know why, but maybe something to do with old age (yep, turning the big three zero this year). Anyway, you know how after several years of marriage, you can stay completely focused on the ball game on TV and still manage to answer your wife's question without being fully conscious that she'd even asked one in the first place?
Well, Zoe says to me this morning, "Sorry for being so snappy with you lately".
"You haven't been snappy," comes my intsaprogrammed response.
What the...?!
A year ago I would have milked that for all it was worth ("Yeah, it's been tough around here, but I just took it coz I love you. But maybe I could go climbing with Dan this weekend to de-stress. Oh, and the boys are having a few beers on Thursday..."). I must confess, I'm at a complete loss. The disappointment in myself is complete. Any advice from the more experienced on how to reverse - or at least halt - the decline would be most gratefully received.
I may be the breadwinner in our family. I may be the only one who can surf, wakeboard, dive and hang off the side of a mountain (yet).
But anyone can earn a buck and anyone can learn how to surf. Zoe out-talents me by a million miles. Here's one of her works in progress.
Oh, and she does this at the same time as caring for thrashing the boys. Respect.
I'm looking forward to seeing Oddybobo's photos of her trip to the Honda store to buy her little fella (3) a motorcycle helmet. I'm all excited with the knowledge there's a chance they make them that small!
One day recently (while Zoe was otherwise engaged...) I tried to teach the little monsters how to ride my Honda Fireblade (bearing in mind Max hasn't even mastered his trike yet). Talk about learning to get to warp 8 before you can crawl. Luckily - I suppose - Max couldn't quite reach the handlebars...
It looks like my cunning plan has worked and we may have conquered Tom's fear of the beach. I say 'may' because I'm not counting any chickens - I'm reserving final judgement until tomorrow's trip. But today, by the end of the afternoon I had him running up and down the beach squealing with delight. And get this, he even ventured, albeit cautiously, to the water's edge.
OK, so it had nothing to do with my cunning plan. I was tempted to take the credit, but much as I'd like to, I'm afraid I have to cede it to icecream, and Mr Cornetto in particular. When we arrived on the beach it looked like we had gone back to square one, with Tom squealing like a stuck pig as soon as he caught sight of, shock, horror - sand. We tried the same technique as yesterday, eventually putting him in a little 'sand pool' Max and I had created through an hour sweat and toil ("You will like it, Tom..."). But Tom was wise to that trick and clung for dear life to Zoe.
That is, until an icecream vendor came along and one Cornetto was all it took for him to forget primal terror. Within seconds, the beach was suddenly OK. That one Cornetto may have cost the equivalent of a 15 course dinner at the Ritz, but it's the best 8 squillion Bolivars I've ever spent.
Ok, so Tom is making a tiny bit of progress on the beach. He's still not happy with it, but I devised a cunning plan yesterday to help him on his way. I bought him one of those little plastic blow-up swimming pools (only just big enough for him to squeeze into) and we plonked him that at the top of the beach. After 10 minutes or so, he was happily splashing around, and leaving him with Zoe, Max and I went down towards the sea, dug a hole in the sand and filled it with water. We then got Tom and plonked him gently into it. Cue much screaming. But after 5 minutes of gentle coaxing we managed to get him to sit in it. I wouldn't say he was actually having fun, but every now and then he forgot he hated it so much. We'll try again today.
Tom hates the beach. No, is terrified of the beach...We just can´t understand why because he has enioyed it in the past. But now, when I try to put him down on the sand he screams. A bit like the way he screamed when he had to have yellow fever and typhiod vaccinations in the same sitting.
Forget the long term ramifications of Tom hating the beach (I live for it), a two week beach holiday just isn´t going to be a great deal of fun if he does (there´s not much else to do here) . It´s now my mission in life to get him over this sudden and unexplained terror.
Although incredibly hungover from last night's celebratory beers, I'm feeling supremely chilled out this morning in the knowledge that I don't have to go to work and that our flight to Margarita is at a very civilised hour. I went to the shops with Max to get some last minute stuff and for the first time for ages I wasn't in a hurry. Some woman actually overtook me in the car park and gave me a dirty look because I was driving at snail's pace. Chill out lady! Hey, and I didn't get stressed out when Max demanded some sweeties at 900 decibels in the supermarket (something that usually embarrasses the hell out of me and makes me want to throttle him, a la my hero, Homer Simpson). Why can't life always be like this?
In celebration of the fact that I've got two weeks of pure and uninterrupted beach time ahead of me, I'm heading out for a bit of a salsa session tonight. Well, when I say salsa, I use the term in the very loosest sense...Obviously after I've had 7 Carib beers I'm the salsa king, but I have a sneaking suspicion that my dancing rates somewhere between appalling and laughable.
I probably shouldn't have given poor old Max a lesson, because at age 2 he still thinks I'm cool and does his best to emulate me. Here he is wining (Trini dancing) a la dad, at his 'Carnival jump up'. His street cred at nursery must be in tatters...
There is generally very little argument in our household, but when there is, it invariably involves me and a new hobby or upgrading equipment for an existing one. The lastest source of discontentment is my desire, no NEED, to learn to fly. A friend of mine started flying lessons a few months ago and now it's become my life dream...
I really don't know why Zoe is getting so upset about it. It only costs about 1/8 of my annual salary. So what's the big deal? There'll be plenty left over for things like school fees and food. Who cares anyway? That stuff is just dull. Flying is fun! But Zoe, like most women, is extremely cunning and completely outwitted me by actually asked me to justify my need for a privates pilot's licence. My response of, "It's 50 quid cheaper here than in the UK", just didn't cut it. She just doesn't understand...
I eventually had to cave in and promise her I'd sell my kitesurfing gear to pay for the lessons...Yeah, right, AS IF!
My little Tom has just had his first birthday. It's an important milestone as far as I'm concerned, because he's developing his character and I'm starting to form a picture of whether or not he's going to be up for paddling out with me to catch that early morning swell by the time he's 5.
It seems unlikley at this stage because he's far more wary than his brother. I was devastated the other week when I took him to the beach and he cried when I took him in the sea. I must have patience. He's only one for God's sake! But I'm not a patient person. By a long chalk. I want my little man to come surfing with me NOW!
He might not be a daredevil yet, but he is incredibly special. He never whinges or cries without reason and he's usually happy. He's just, well, chilled out. Added to the fact that he's also cute (in my very biased opinion), this makes him a babe magnet of note. So, so what if he's not into adventure?
What am I saying? Women over kitesurfing?! I don't think so somehow. It was that attitude that got me into this mess in the first place!
I'll give it another 6 months before I make my mind up about Tom's potential for extreme sports. That'll give him plenty of time.
Zoe has said that she wants to go back to the UK with the boys this summer to stay with her mum for a month. I'm gutted. I'll miss them a lot. But YEAH BABY!!!! All the surfing, kitesurfing and biking I can shake a stick at! Wind and waves will be out of season by then, but I'll find some somehow. I have visions of weekend trips to Hawaii or Bali. A bit far from the Caribbean, but I can dream. It's just the fact that I could actually go without having to ask permission...
While I never really doubted, it, I now have conclusive evidence that the boys are indeed my progeny. 
