No, not the movie.  Me.  The fat boy.  I’m running.  Not now, obviously.  No, I’ve joined a running group here at work.  Twice a week, we all start off at the same time and place, and then for the next half-hour they run away from me.  It’d be a pretty short run the other way around.

Still, I’ve done it thrice now, so I figured it was time to start benchmarking and striving for improvement.  Today we did 4.55 km in 36m 23.14s.  Well, they did it a lot faster, but hey, for the first time, I wasn’t the last one back.

I beat the guy who stopped to buy some lunch and shampoo on the way.

This morning, while I had my sleep-in (I get Saturdays, E gets Sundays), E interviewed our three year old, D.

1. What is something Mummy/Daddy always says to you?
   (Mummy) “Let’s go to the pet shop to buy some fish?”
   (Daddy) “D, can you and pick up the toys, because it’s almost bath time.”

   This is fair enough. I get home most days just before bath time, and I’m the only who gives him his bath most of the time. Last night the toys looked like two tornadoes had run through them, but most of the time the boys have gotten home only just before me, so there’s not that much to pick up.

2. What makes Mummy/Daddy happy?
   (Mummy) “Hugs & kisses.”
   (Daddy) “Tickling me.”

3. What makes Mummy/Daddy sad?
   (Mummy) “Hurting.”
   (Daddy) “Not giving him hugs.”

4. What does Mummy/Daddy make you laugh?
   (Mummy) “Tickles.”
   (Daddy) “Tickling.”

5. What was Mummy/Daddy like as a child?
   (Both) “I don’t know.”

6. How old is Mummy/Daddy?
   (Mummy) “15.”
   (Daddy) “I don’t know.”

   Not sure if my wife was happy to hear that one or not…

7. How tall is Mummy/Daddy?
   (Mummy) “This tall.” (He stood up.)
   (Daddy) “This big.” (Standing tall is what E wrote, but when D says he’s standing tall, he’s usually on tip-toes.)

8. What is Mummy/Daddy’s favourite thing to do?
   (Mummy) “Washing clothes.”
   (Daddy) “Play with blocks.”

9. If Mummy/Daddy becomes famous, what will it be for?

   D didn’t really understand this question, so she didn’t push it.

10. What is Mummy/Daddy really good at?
    (Mummy) “Hanging the clothes outside.”
    (Daddy) “Sleeping.”
11. What does Mummy/Daddy do when you’re not here?
    (Mummy) “Come find me.”
    (Daddy) “I don’t know.”

No earth-shattering revelations tonight, just a father’s pride.

I have two sons, D (who is 3 ½ ), and M (who is 1 ½). D has always been an early talker, and now M is showing signs of being the same. For all that he’s a carbon copy of me in appearance (down to the same birthmarks), D has always been Mummy’s boy. M, on the other hand, bears no strong resemblance to me, but he’s a lot closer to me emotionally. I’m not sure how much of that is because he can’t claim his mum’s attention as much when he has to compete with his brother, and how much of it is a natural inclination, but I don’t care. He’s Daddy’s boy and I’m not going to look that gift horse in the mouth. Usually dads have to wait a lot longer to be looked up to by their sons (or so I hear).

Back to M. For the first year of his life, he rarely said the word “Mummy.” It’s not that he couldn’t or didn’t know how, he just simply refused to say it. He took to “Daddy” right away. I used to get a little smile when E would try to get him to say “Mummy” and he’d just ignore her. Then she’d prompt him to say “Daddy” and he’d say it back and then look at me. It was one of those cute things that made us smile at him and call him a cheeky bugger. We knew he’d come around eventually. And for the record, he has.

But last night, as we were putting the boys to bed, Daddy scored another one. I was in the study. Apparently, that’s when M decided to construct his first sentence. He walked around his room, then looked up at his mum and asked “Where Daddy?”

That’s my boy!

Very quick update: We went out this morning, a bunch of my work mates and I, and shot the hell out of each other with paintballs fired at high velocity.

The back of my calf.

I didn’t come out of it too bad, and I’ve counted least 20 welts on me. That was helped by the fact that I had the best frakking gun money could hire, which gave me an extra 10 metres of range over most of the other players. I mitigated this by volunteering to wear the bright orange flouro vest which designated me as a general. Turns out the generals could only be killed with a direct hit below the knees. Once my team (aka my guards) all died, I did a runner for the opposite end of the field — figuring (a) a moving target is harder to hit, and (b) it’s even harder still to hit a moving target below the knees. I almost made it, too…

My other thigh.

One of my mates brought a video camera with a snake-like telescopic aperture, which he duct-taped to his helmet, giving us a good helmet-cam video. I’m looking forward to seeing the footage.

By the end of the day, I’d been hit so many times that I no longer cared that much. So when the free-for-all happened at the end, I simply walked out like the Terminator and started picking people off. Got a few good head shots, and since my gun (modelled after the Heckler & Koch MP5) could fire off 8 rounds per second, I rarely hit anyone just once. Photos will follow, and video will come once I get a copy of the video.

side view

Arm and shoulder

Bicep