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Father Inc

What’s better than bringing home the bacon? Being home with the bacon.

March 26, 2010

Daddy’s been home these two weeks, the longest break he’s had since he started work. I heart having daddy around at home, he does all the manly stuff like cleaning poop and yelling at the kids while I sleep in. In case you missed that, I actually said sleep in. That’s like the Holy Grail of motherhood. And you would think that it’s going to feel overrated after you have it but oh no, it. is. good.

I can really get used to this, not having to do everything on my own. A 2:2 (two-parent to two-kid) ratio is so much easier because we can divide and conquer. One to hold the fort while the other takes five.

I’ve also noticed that the kids are closer to Kel whenever he’s at home. Tru asks for daddy all the time and he shouts for “dad-dyyyyy” in that sweet baby voice, which is a relief because I can escape diaper changes but I’m also bummed about being displaced as his favorite person.

I know boys need a strong, masculine presence to give them security and all but I miss that special look he used to give me like I’m everything he needs. Now everything is morphing into something once in a while and soon it’ll be “mommmm, don’t kiss me in public anymore, it’s WEIRD and EMBARRASSING!”

I hate to break it to you, kid, but momma’s going to kiss you till you’re 65. Maybe not all over because that would be weird. But kiss you, I will.

We’re all going to be a little sad when daddy goes back to work next week. Tru’s going to throw a hissy fit when I have to tell him that “daddy’s at work, sweetheart”. Baby girl will look all forlorn again. Momma will cry a little and maybe dust under the sink for a place to hide.

But we’ve got three days left, right about the time where you start to feel the blues sinking in. The last few days of any holiday are always bittersweet because at the back of your mind, you’ll always be thinking about how it’s going to suck after. That’s why the last three days of our honeymoon was spent in Disneyland so we wouldn’t have time to sit around and mope.

Three more days and I’m going to par-ty like it’s 1999. We’ve got Kirsten’s baby dedication and a wedding coming up so it’s going to be fun. Hopefully we’ll have some good pics for you guys. Here’s one first, for the record.

by Daphne

Father Inc, getting ready for baby, Product Reviews, stuff best described as not safe for parents

The ultimate bag for daddies.

February 10, 2010

Mothers get all the fun baby accessories. You have the awesome but also feminine-looking beco baby-carrier, Kate Spade diaperbags, the Medela Twin Turbo Breast pumps, to name a few.

Daddies basically carry around the aforementioned which is totally inergonomical and ill-fitting to our muscular frame *flex*.

Despondent by the lack of customised accessories and crackpot gizmos for the new father, I have spent the past year and a half working closely with Deuter to come up with the ultimate bag for dads that is called – wait for it – the BagDad.

In spite of the apparent misnomer it is well known that Iraqis do not make anything besides chemical bombs so I’m not too concerned about the implications here.

The Bagdad is a ground-breaking, cutting edge piece of technology that blends the best of military, motorbiking and culinary equipment.

The Bagdad

1. Milk Distillation/Hydration System

The man-boob debuted in 2004’s Meet the Fockers but the past six years have seen tremendous strides taken in the field of perfecting what is now commonly known as the “milk moob”.

The Bagdad’s milk moob involves a complex liposuction system that basically breaks down the fats of the carrier in yet another complex process similar to that of a woman expressing milk. Without going into the technical details, fathers can now lose anywhere between 10-25 kg wearing the Bagdad and also feed the baby for somewhere between 18 months to a year.

2. Helmet

A child’s mind is his most valuable possession. This helmet has a built-in audio system that will loop the theme song from Special Agent OSO as studies have proven that too much Sesame Street increases the intelligence of a person disconsolately. It was King Solomon who said that “too much study wearies the mind” and I totally concur.

3. Tantrum Stabilizing

This is for strapping the baby’s arms together similar to that of a mental patient in a straight jacket. Best used with the Contoured and Removable Hip Belt with Gear Loops (See below).

4. Food Channelling Sternum Strap

Older babies will move towards consuming solids like crushed oreos with melted butter or shredded lard deep fried in olive oil (cos its *healthier* that way). The food channelling sternum strap feeds your little twinkie baby from an interior storage compartment that maintains it at an optimum temperature to maintain a thin crisp,especially for the shredded lard.

5. Contoured Shoulder Straps for Baby’s buttocks.

There are times when you absolutely need to hoist your baby high up in the air; for example when you’re clubbing and there’s a hovering cloud of smoke just about face-height or when you get caught spitting gum onto the ceiling. It’s self-explanatory, really.

6. Poop Suction (the Deuter Alpine System).

The irritating thing about kids is that they do their business as and when they feel like it. By purchasing the S-plug or the Splug (sold seperately at $39.90) to connect your child to the Poop Suction or as the fancy-pants suit at Deuter insists I call it, the Deuter Alpine System, you no longer have to worry about diaper changes or wet-wipe warmers.

7. Contoured and Removable Hip Belt with Gear Loops.

I’m a firm believer that every child needs to be disciplined. Inspired by Mel Gibsons’s the Passion of the Christ, The Contoured and Removable Hip Belt with Gear Loops will ensure a memorable and life-transforming disciplinary session for your child. You can also customise it by purchasing Barb Hooks with Heatable tips at $9.99 or simply purchase a Whip Extension at $4.99 to give you that extra dimension (and length) for that escaping baby.

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To purchase Bagdad, visit www.deuter.com.

Key in [Motherinc] as the promo code for a 20% discount.

by Daphne

Father Inc, lists you should paste on your fridge, milestones & musings

and Dad’s why you make resolutions

February 1, 2010

Parenting requires a lot of resolve. Which is why parents, of all people, should make resolutions. (resolve – resolutions – root word, geddit?) Your approach may mean the difference between your child becoming a Hitler or a Ben Tennyson.

Here are my resolutions for 2010.

1. Must not refer to myself as Superdad.

Seriously guys, I’m totally overrated. I change a few diapers, take a couple of feeds and I get a prefix that implies overriding awesomeness and infinite ability? To me, a Superdad is someone who brings home the bacon – in a vehicle like this.

Honey, I'm home.

2. Must stop calling wife “retard” and “moron” (and vice versa – not in the sense of “must stop calling retards and morons ‘wife'”, but as in Daf should also stop calling me names, ah, you did get it the first time).

This started waaaaaay back in when we were first dating and we attended this “terms of endearment” course in school, the lecturer was going on about semantics, semiotics and how 80% of all communication is non-verbal. Which was to say you could call your honey-pumpkin “Nazi Puppy” if you say it in the most awshucks, sweety-pie-sixteen voice and STILL could make her goosebumps stand. You got to try it to believe it.

So in a totally non-derogatory sense we have been calling each other “hey moron“, “what’s up, retard” for years and people around us are so used to it, they think our marriage is on the rocks otherwise “Did you call her ‘sweetheart??’ Are you guys quarreling again?” Plus it *helps* put people at ease when they’re doing projects with us.

[Sidenote: Daf and I pulled of this awesome scam a few years back. We were introduced through a friend of ours to this lady and for some reason she immediately assumed we were siblings (as apparently, we both look alike, fair enough). This went on for almost a year and every single time this lady bumped into us she would go “Hey, why are you guys always together? You’re giving people the wrong idea, how to find girl friend and boyfriend, like that?”

We were having a meal one day with a bunch of friends and she couldn’t help but to remark again on our perpetual proximity to one another until a bewildered mutual friend went “What the hell are you talking about, they’ve been together for 4 years!”

Total awesomeness.]

Thing is Truett has been a sponge of late and taken to calling Daf “baaaaaaabbbbbeee” in the way i call her when she’s across the room/hallway/hawker centre from a distance. It’s only a matter of time – if we don’t stop – he’s gonna calling his friends mentally-handicapped individuals in the un-PC way. If people ask, I’ll say something along the lines of how the nurses at Mt A thought he had failed the Oscar test and mentioned it to him repeatedly when he was under phototherapy. Poor boy.

3. Must stop grinning and nodding approvingly when child does something awesome (but dangerous).

I’m a firm believer that parents should always think their kids are the most awesome (I know, i overuse the word. It’s an “honorable mention” sort of resolution to cut down on it) creatures to have roamed the earth, the finest species of mankind ever produced and vastly superior to all other children be it red or yellow black and white.

But when Tru attempts to fling himself off a 2m high platform and lands immaculately with a shoulder roll (that’s *how* parachutists do it, mate), one must not get carried away with thoughts of son being the incarnate of Maximus Decimus Meridius and do celebratory chariot race around the playground with him on piggy back.

That is because he may actually get injured or worse, die, although I do think its more important that what you do in life echoes in eternity!!

4. Must not play Winning Eleven/Football Manager/FIFA and leave kids unattended.

When you become a parent, you basically surrender all rights to personal rest and recreation. No afternoon naps, no late mornings, no movies, no GAMING.

So on the off-chance I get presented with the opportunity to cradle a Playstation 3 controller in the bosom of my fatherly being (ok, yucky expression), i unleash the repressed desires of my sub-thirty-year-old consciousness to get my GAME ON.

This happens on the weekly visit to Mother-in-law’s house, because Brother-in-law (BIL), despite being only a year younger, is very much single, certainly kidless, free from the shackles of feeds and woggly baby legs. As such his status enables him to be the proud owner of the holy trinity of gaming consoles – the PS3, the XBOX 360 and the Nintendo Wii.

The ideal is when everybody is around i.e. the adult to baby ratio readjusted to a favourable 5:2 whereby I get to play reasonably undisturbed. The problem only arises in a 2:2 ratio where it becomes a rather iffy situation if the 2 adults are in question BIL (player 1) and “superdad” a.k.a player 2.

BIL has a rather nifty stereo system hooked up to the gaming “altar” so it drowns out the sound of screaming kids in the adjacent room, not that I *ever* did that. I’m just saying it y’all.

5. Must not buy toys that promote either 300 B.C or 2010A.D violence.

It started off innocuously with two water pistols which i thought would be handy in giving me some added range for taking down those pesky ceiling lizards. However it also marked the introduction of “pulling the trigger”, “aiming”, and “shooting to KILL” to a nineteen-month old boy.

A visit to a friend’s house not too long after became the initiation to swords, then maces then death-by-steamrolling and finally, chainsaws. I’m not even joking about the use of chainsaws; without going into the details it was a game of “doctor” gone wrong – horribly wrong.

Therefore, Truett and Kirsten will play with cuddly bears, petite trucks and vegetarian dinosaurs at most. That way they may secure a job in the United Nations or Green Peace. And we all know how important the United Nations are.

*****

So that’s my list of parenting resolutions. Feel free to be inspired. You’re welcome.

by Daphne

Father Inc, stuff best described as not safe for parents

Now I can’t even fart in public anymore, not that I used to do it. I’m considerate that way.

January 28, 2010

If you know Daf and I personally or read this blog long enough, you would know that we were both classmates from the same university and took a course that landed many of my peers jobs in the media industry.

And apparently being young parents is a news angle because we get approached for soundbites more often then I would have liked.

Daphne has been in the news for her wisdom-in-a-neat-box quote of ” a wedding is but for a day, marriage is for a lifetime.” Hear, Hear.

We also (reportedly) beat the recession of late 2008-2009 by stocking up on expiring can food and a diet of spinach and tofu.

So some time back, she did yet another email interview with a writer friend from a woman’s magazine which had to be weird because it was another of those too-much-information types.

The first signs of regret came quickly – a few weeks ago a colleague (more of an acquaintance actually, he was from the other side literally and figuratively speaking, but the devil is in the details and I don’t want to sin) came up to me out of the blue and said “Hey! I saw your photo in this woman’s magazine. Man, you looked different back then, dude.”

I mumbled something about putting the “fat” back in “father” and made a quick escape, scrambling to recall which it magazine it was and the context of the story.

Stepping into my boss’ office on the same day brought a cynical, split-second stare and a rhetorical “I read your article. Good job there.”

And the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back came when a colleague that sat right behind me (no escape!) spun her chair around and blurted suddenly- “I saw your wedding photos! Man, i dig those suspenders. You looked different back then.” Incidentally, this was the same girl that declared my virility to the entire office when she found out that Daphne was pregnant with Kirsten less than six months after Truett was born. (Which was also why I was really keeping my fingers crossed during the recent pregnancy scare. I love them kids, but one at a time please.)

I mumbled something punny about “Dad’s the reason why” and headed off to the pantry pretending to make a drink -without my cup. Drats.

But there was no escaping the paparazzi and 2 days later I got a message on MSN.

“Read your article, good job dude. “

“Uh, yeah. Thanks. What the heck were you buying a woman’s magazine for anyway?”

“I clicked through a link on Asiaone.com, man. I thought it was about handjobs or something.”

By the mountains of Kilimanjaro, the story was online, on a major news site nonetheless. And totally searchable on Google if you key in the right words. Heck, we should have charged loading fees.

And if the camel’s back wasn’t broken (is there a gay joke in here somewhere?) he was truly, completely severed into two when my mother started dishing out very descriptive advice on family planning and the host of contraceptives out there. Apparently she read the article too.

Note to all mothers, do your children a favour – avoid any description, not matter how matter-of-fact your execution is, avoid ANY description that conjure mental images of you getting it on with Dad. Just don’t do it. Please.

Well the fact is we’ve been bumping into people on the streets, shopping centres, parks that have been reading Mother, Inc. While no doubt Daphne can work the prose as a kickass writer, I wasn’t getting quite comfortable with the meet-and-greet thing. So, this will sound totally idiotic since we’re evidently not celebrities or anything but I’ve been feeling like I can’t even “let it rip” in public. I’m just afraid people may be like, “hey you saw the guy that just farted, he’s actually the husband of Daphne from Mother, Inc. You know that blog with all that stuff about handjobs and getting it on.”

Sex does sell though (there, you’ve got the context of the interview) and given the rising divorce rates in Singapore, I suppose there’s no nobler cause than towards the building of strong marriages through some smokin’ hot sexytime.

You can quote me on that, thankyouverymuch.

by Daphne

Father Inc

SuperDad’s Guide to dealing with spoilt brats and bullies (that are not your own kids)

September 5, 2009

The thing about kids is that while they can be dripping with the saccharine sweet kind of cutesiness that makes you go all awshucks and woggly over them, under the right conditions (i.e. teething, being sick, turning two) they can all become Chuckies (or the Brides of Chucky, depending on the gender).

We’ve all met them before (and it so happens that all of us have had the luck of the draw – none of them are our own. I raise my child up in the fear of the Lord, y’all). It was a nice quite afternoon at the East Coast Park, you were chilling sipping your cuppa of budgetta lattes when suddenly a shrill wail reverberates from the play area.

“Daddy this boy pushed me and broke my arm and punched my nose and called Mommy a whore!” (ok it may be any of one the above and not all together probably just the pushing bit but you get the drift).

The options in such a scenario are limited and these are the usual suspects.

(a) You can usher your boy away and tell him its ok, kids are mostly brutes and assholes (sorry daddy is not supposed to use that word anymore) and that’s why mommy says homeschooling is good now smile at the boy shake his hand and walk away.

The problem with this is that it is too cliche to be of any value to your child in the long run (turn the other cheek? bah!), unless you want your son to grow up to be a geeky stiff-necked academic (we call them President’s Scholars here).

Hence, peruse option B

(b) You push the offending boy, karate-chop his arm with one hand while smashing his nose in with your right hook and while he’s still screaming from the pain and shock from seeing his humerus stick out like Eduardo Da Silva’s shin, call his mother a whore in that looping sing-song voice “nah-nee-nah-nee-nah-nah, your mother is a whor—ore, nah-nee-nah-nee”

The problem here is that Social Services will haul you away from that child and your child.

So what’s a good parent to do? Here’re three alternative methods to get PAYBACK TIME without getting jailtime, or worse, landing up on the front page of the New Paper.

(a) Do something completely ridiculous and out of character for the typically sane parent.

If you’re at the playground, throw sand at the offending child’s eyes. Parents with newborns may want to consider flinging poop. If there are no objects around to improvise from, pinch the kid when he is being distracted. Smokers, set his Baby Guess jeans on fire and then put it out before it actually burns him.

If Brute accuses you of physical harm and Brute’s parents approach you, look completely bewildered and appalled at the idea that you could have done such a thing (I’m an GROWNUP, for crying out loud!). Brute gets a telling off from Mommy and Daddy for lying.

If you did the fire thing (always a good choice), you may even get a reward for saving his life. We all win.

(b) Offer him our *special* treats.

Daf and I always carry around in our diaper bags candies and chocolates that also double up as laxatives or constipatives for the young ‘uns. It’s kinda our own little experiment and family-owned business, if you’re not living in Singapore I’ll be glad to send you some. If you’re Singaporean, I am obviously kidding about this and my IP address is actually 221.123.44.1.

The idea is that spoilt brats and/or bullies are almost always obese and would never refuse candy or chocolate even if they are suspicious of your intentions. You would think that being as fat and engorged on candy as they are already their own saliva would taste like maple syrup but it is the paradox of the Turkish delight.

Mind you, these special treats won’t actually kill them but cause them enough trouble at an – importantly – delayed reaction time. So while your own child may be dismayed that you seemingly just rewarded foul behaviour, you can smile at him with a twinkle in your eye and be assured that two hours later that what goes into Brute may not come out for at least a week or come out very quickly at one go. In liquid form.

(c) Accuse the child of swearing.

For whatever reason, parents that don’t bat an eyelid when their kids behave like little Kim Jong-Ils go all ballistic when they find out their child uses improper vocabulary.

So here’s how it goes. Brute’s parents arrive on the scene and Brute has a Dursley catch-me-if-you-can smug look on his face. This is what you say:

“Your child just yelled the word f*ck”

They’ll be all flustered and panicky and go “My son would never say a word like that!”

This is where you turn towards Brute and ask in a gentle voice “Boy, did you say the word f*ck to me just now?”

Chances are that he’ll yell “NO I DID NOT SAY THE WORD F*CK!”. You then put on a sympathetic look, give a knowing shrug, and lead your child away to a safe distance away from the subsequent fallout. Victory is yours.

These are just some of the methods I employ when facing a sticky situation of disciplining a kid that is not your own child. If any of the above has happened to you before, I just want you to know that I do not frequent the Ikea@Tampines and I am not that “uncle” that mixed a moshy looking paste into your kid’s McFlurry.

by Daphne

Father Inc

A Cool Dad is (NOT) an Oxymoron

August 29, 2009

Let’s face it. If i were to ask you readers out there “How many of you would consider your father to be cool?”, the response I get will probably be similar to me asking “Would you consider Hitler cuter without a moustache and having only massacred 2 million Jews instead of six?” or “Do you prefer being long sleeved or short sleeved?” while polishing the blade of my Hatori Hanzo.

The truth is most of the time, our dads embarass us, not in a purposefully conceited manner but in that lovable but doofish sort of Dad style – that makes them so NOT cool.

So he claims to be the top scorer for the high school basketball team that came just 2 points short of landing the state championships (i should have taken the game winning shot, he laments). But after seeing how he shoots (brings new meaning to the underhand method, urgh) and watching him screen your friends out from rebounds with his well-formed behind, all illusions of your dad being the Lebron James of his time shatter and you vow never to invite him to your pickup games again.

So he used to be the lead singer of a rock and roll band; apparently if American Idol was launched back then he would have made it to the top six on his sheer stage presence alone and then ace the competition plus a recording contract with his soaring pipes. Then he picks up Guitar Hero and screams an overly jazzed up rendition of FreeBird, and as your friends watch in a mixture of awe, shock and horror, you vow never to invite him to your video game sessions again.

Once I told some relatives at a family gathering that I was going with Daphne to Mount Faber for a drink with some friends. Upon hearing that, they started giving me knowing looks and winks as we left, much to my bewilderment. Later, I found out that Mount Faber was apparently a hotspot for couples to get some hanky panky action, and that my Dad used to bring my Mom there. FML.

Parents- Dads, listen, when your kids grow up, – the following is going to be inevitable.

1. They will look at our wedding photos and laugh at our attire.

2. That is, if they apparently don’t die from laughing at our hairstyles.

3. The football players that you consider great at the moment (Cristiano Ronaldo, Messi) will be to our kids those hippy men in super tight jerseys and tigher shorts running around on the pitch in those sepia-toned footage at half-time interludes.

[Fun fact about me: Apparently, I was supposed to be named after one of England’s football greats, Kevin Keegan. Except that my folks got the spelling wrong and named me Kelvin instead. There is not a single famous football player in the world who has a first name called Kelvin. (Kelvin Kilbane doesn’t count guys, he plays for Hull City.) Again, FML.]

4. They’ll listen to your story of how you met (and courted) their mother and go “Gee, I can’t believe mom fell for that. That is so dweebish. And, honestly dad, I thought I stepped into a museum when I went to Al Fornos on your Silver Anniversary. “

5. One day, you’ll decide to revive those inline skates in the attic. You’ll put them on and go to the East Coast Park and think that the young chaps who are also skating there will go “hey, that guy’s really cool for an old dude, he does inline skating!” Except that when you get there, there are no young chaps but lots of familiar faces hobbling around unsteadily on inline skates, which happens to have been out of production for five years now, by the way.

So what’s an old man gotta do? Me being the ever helpful Superdad, I have here a few tips on how to stay trendy, contemporary and cool when you enter into your golden years.

Don’t try too hard.

This is really the key rule here. I don’t need my father to be doing scat singing a la Jason Mraz to be cool. In fact, I’ll be rather scared of that (oh, nevermind). You don’t have to wear baggy hooded jackets and a long, blingy chain to be cool. It’s very disconcerting. Stop it.

So, attire wise, you want to dress your age, but NOT how people dressed at your current age back when you were young. I know that’s sounds complicated one but chew on it.

Change your hairstylist.

This seems to be an arbitrary and somewhat insignificant point but I cannot emphasize the importance of this. I have seen too many photos of friends’ parents and parents’ friends and have concluded that they would have been better off doing permanent hair removal on their heads and then specially customizing a wig (or a set of similar wigs for washing) to reduce the carbon footprints involved in driving to the barber and turning on the electric shaver because THEIR HAIRSTYLE HAS BEEN THE SAME FRIGGIN’ ONE THE PAST FORTY YEARS.

Noticed I said to change your hairstylist and not just your hairstyle. Look, much as Uncle Murasamy from Sri Nada is a very skilful barber, he probably hasn’t updated much of his skills set and not found a need to, so don’t be upset when you bring along a magazine, point to Beckham’s do and leave the salon looking more like Scary Spice.

Don’t bring up past glories unless you’re asked. Even then, be self-effacing and pretend to be embarrased by the fact that you used to be Prom King.

You should go all like “Ah, that was a long time ago, you don’t want to hear about that/see those pictures.” Make no mistake, you really want to but that is one heck of a bait. Your kids will go, “Aw come on dad, Prom King! I wanna see some photos!” and you’ll be all “Hmm, i’m not quite sure where they are now, but there may be a few pictures in the third drawer of the brown cabinet in the basement study room, to the left of my Harry Potter box set and right below the stack of my limited edition Michael Jordan basketball cards.”

On this point – strategically hide “contraband items” (like weed) in places where your children will undoubtedly excavate when they are bored.

Your kids will be like, “Oh cool, my dad smokes weed!” Then they’ll see a vision of you looking stoned in your hippy hairstyle, glazed eyes and goofish smile and all and start to think twice about taking drugs. 2 birds, UNO STONE.

Write a letter to yourself, address it to Agent [your surname] and stamp a large-assed “TOP SECRET. TO BE OPENED BY ADDRESSEE ONLY OR CERTAIN DEATH TO FOLLOW”

The inside prose has to be convincing and you may want to research some John Le Carre novels for reference. Self-destruct papers are cool but risky if you live in a house with loads of country-style, wooden furnishing. Safety first, Agent Zero.

With these handy tips, you’re well on your way to be not just a Superdad, but a cool dad as well. Stay safe and if anything does screw up, refer to this.

by Daphne

Father Inc

The biggest relationship secret ever, unveiled.

August 8, 2009

For those that are popping by this blog over the weekend and expecting just the random musings of a dad of two with absolutely no take away – eat your heart out, because what I’m going to share with you is something that is going to change your life irrevocably and immeasurably for the better.

I’m not talking about good advice here. I’m talking about a movement. A campaign. A paradigm shift that is going to shatter your predispositions toward logic, justice and women.

This is post is really meant for men. If you are a woman reading this post, and are in any sort of a relationship – you need to share this with your partner. Email them this post. Put it up on your Facebook. Retweet it. Shout it out on the streets. We’re talking about millions of lives here.

I am putting forth a hypothesis, no, a definitive truth, that will shorten the duration of quarrels, prematurely terminate conflicts, and ultimately effect an increase in the life expectancy of men to finally match that of women.

Here’s how it goes.

Men should sincerely apologise to the woman with the greatest remorse possible in every single conflict.The apology must be made regardless of the reason nor the circumstances leading to the conflict.The apology must be heartfelt, sincere, non-patronising and suffer the dual tests of continual agitation & abuse .

In other words, the man must just say sorry.

Just say sorry.

Repeat after me.

Just say sorry.

Before you start hurling inflammatory comments at me (watch it fellas, this is a mommy blog after all) – i have already prepared an FAQ to address those concerns you may have. Now put the gun down, young man.

*************************************************

1. What should I “just say sorry” if it wasn’t my fault in the first place??

A: Whether it was your fault or not is really subjective. There was no overarching, neutral and benevolent authority that chronicled the details of what happened that led to the conflict and then decided that it was my fault.

The famous Johari Window talks about a potential blind spot every person may have, whereby your faults are known to others but not known to self.

It is probably your fault.

2. That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. Everyone was appalled at what you did. There’s no way on planet earth I can apologise for that!

A: Remember the time when I asked why you loved me, and you sang that incredibly cheesy song about letting the reason for love be love and it wasn’t even quite right because if I asked why you liked bacon potato chips would you have said “i love sour-cream and onion Pringles, just because.”?

3. Uh, I’m kinda confused. Look, I do love you, but that DOESN’T MAKE WHAT YOU DID RIGHT!

A: People value many things in this world. Amnesty International is commendable in that it values justice and honours symbols of freedom in oppressed countries, like Aung Sang Suu Kyi.

Modern society came to a point where it eschewed dogma and started to value logic and rational thinking. As a result, civilisation advanced in many forms, be it arts, culture but in particular, science and technology.

4. What has that got to do with ANYTHING?

A: I need you to value me above justice. I need you to adore me above freedom. I need you to cherish me more than logic and rational thinking. I need you to love me because of me.

5. That doesn’t make sense.

A: I need you to love me more than your love for sensibility.

6. Look, YOU are the one that made the mistake. YOU should be the one to “just say sorry”. Why should it be me?

A: We bleed every month and get utterly terrible cramps through no fault of my own. We are expected to stay in shape but if you eat and get fat, you are just being a “regular dude”. We need to strip and squat down to pee while you just “whip it out”. We cover the choicest parts of our body to prevent you and your menfolk from grabbing at them. We have to spend hours powdering and grooming our faces to prevent our “out-of-bed” look from dispersing crowds as though there was a zombie invasion when we go onto the streets. We squeeze out an entire human being from within ourselves through an opening no bigger than the size of a ten-cent coin.

Moreover, women have been marginalized through the ages – the pain of thousands of years of suffering weigh heavily on my soul, as though they were my own.

7. Wow. Alright, I get the point. It’s my fault, and I want to “just say sorry”. What exactly do I apologise for?

A: If you raised your voice at me, you need to apologise for that. If you didn’t but you ignored me or were cold to me for any duration longer than 30 seconds, you need to apologise for that.

If you didn’t raise your voice at me, nor did you ignore me – you need to apologise for not saying sorry earlier.

8. This is one of the craziest things I have ever heard. Are you sure it’s going to work at all?

A: I may take advantage of your expected subservience in the face of total indignation but that is merely temporal. Chances are – but I’m not promising anything here – that a couple of years down the road when I have cooled down sufficiently, I may accept some responsibility for what happened. Or I may not. It really depends.

9. That’s amazing! Sign me up for the “Just Say Sorry” Campaign!

A: Sign yourself up. And get your dude friends to sign up as well. Visit www.justsaysorry.org to make a pledge.

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Oh by the way, this is a chain letter type of post. If you have read this post, you need to send it to at least five other people, or they may get “accidentally” run over by the love of their (albeit short) life in that harmless looking pink Vespa.

Remember, Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned.

Just say sorry!

by Daphne

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