Daddy Daughter Day

In order to justify the choice Saturday of a man - namely, to reside on the couch, sport on at least two screens whilst devoted 1950s style wife brings me an assortment of drinks and snacks - the modern man must accrue a brownie point or two first.

As such, Saturday mornings having become something of a Daddy Daughter tradition. And a fine tradition it is too, as they want to do at the moment is go out for coffee.  

One of the single best things about living in Argentina has to be the ways kids are welcomed everywhere they go. Your kids can do almost anything without attracting a negative comment. People understand that kids are volatile and loud; that babies cry, need attention, spill and break things. From your abuela having her morning cafe con leche to your business lunch, everyone indulges your cherubs.  

That said, one hates to take advantage, so we try not to hit anywhere more than two weeks in a row. That and the thinking that you score extra cute points through novelty value, which means scoring more free biscotti, medialunas and other such edible delights.  

Leah shows her experience, adopting cute sister pose on cue.

The girls are well up for this, and as a couple of chantas in the making, they have long since learnt that the bigger the eyes, the more free stuff you get. They even practice en route.

My standard order is the cafe con leche, Leah: the submarino. Maia is used as bait for medialunas, and, as an apprentice learning the ropes, has to fight for anything else she can get. Credit to her she's an absolute natural and at this rate she'll have her regular order too before she's even out of bibs.

FACT: The Bigger The Eyes: The More Free Stuff You Get

At the moment we're on a 50/50 success rate: we're paying for about 50% of the stuff that lands on the table. I don't even think of ordering medialunas anymore. That's like paying for ketchup in McDonalds.

All in all, it's a good ruse and long may it last. Given that Maia eats like a small horse, it's making solid financial sense too.

Plus, as a father, unless you are physically beating your child in the street for no obvious reason, people treat you like some sort of martyr/hero. All you need to do is show a rudimentary understanding of your kids' names and ages and you're gold. This is monumentally unfair on the mothers, but you take what you can get.

You're Round.

And we get a lot. Not to mention the satisfaction that brownie points are accruing the longer we are out. In synthesis, I'm on for a tennis and football marathon this avo. Vamos River! Vamos SW19!

25 de Mayo ¡Dulce de Leche Para Todos!

Leah had an acto at jardín on Thursday to celebrate 25 de Mayo, which is Independence Day, essentially. We don't have an Independence Day in the UK - generally people celebrate becoming independent from the UK, although it's looking possible that SNP Scotland might have one fairly soon.

But I digress.

We were there to bond. It was going to be tremendous. 

Bingo, from 1810. 

After a series of cute parent-child games such as bingo with epoca-1810 appropriate collectables, such as water wells, ladies with flowing dresses, traditional foods like empanadas, and black slaves, we were send through to gather in a ronda.

Leah's Maestrita:   

I know what a ronda is because since she has been going to jardín, at a moments notice Leah might be seized with a fit of enthusiasm, gran my hand, and start dancing in a circle singing: ronda ronda ronda redonda and pointing at things that are round. 

A momentary affliction, nothing more. It might be genetic, as her mother is often seized by a similar illness, whereupon the merest glimpse of open green spaces possessed her to twirl in circles singing The Hills Are Alive... in a way that could lead an honest man to throw himself under the nearest moving vehicle.   

Historically accurate. Amongst other things...     

After the ronda was finished, we were each given a post-it and a pen, and asked to write one desire, one wish, for the future in Argentina.

Feeling a little self-conscious, I didn't feel that, as a foreigner, I could write anything particularly profound, so I scribbled the message and handed it to Leah, who took it proudly to her teacher. Leah returned with the post-it, saying we had to put the name of the family on it, so I wrote, nice and clearly La Familia Fergusson.

These were then all attached to the 'hope tree', for all to see.

I wonder if, from the following messages, you can spot our entry:

- Unity in Argentina! - 

- Equality for all people in all places in the country - 

- Liberty! Equality! Solidarity! - 

- How wonderful to share this beautiful day with such friends  - 

- Toffee for everybody -

- That one day our country will find peace, and friendship -

Yes, it's the one you think.

Sign Fail: Que Paso?

This is our street: JJ Paso. Passo. No, Paso...  

¿Que Passo?

Mr Cock

Ah, you couldn't make it up. 

Need a portrait taken of the kids? Or perhaps just some clothing emblazoned with a catchy moniker? 

Look no further than Mr. Cock, situated in Olivos, a Northern Suburb of Buenos Aires, a location chosen no doubt with the English speaking community in mind, further indicated by the English Babies & Kids on the sign.

Beautiful collocation there: if you're thinking Babies & Kids, think Mr Cock. You can see what he's going for. You can almost hear the camp suburban post coffee morning one-up-man-ship, can't you?

Well, of course, we get all family our portraits done at Mr Cock's. 

Can't you? No, me neither. 

Sorry. That name again? 

Yes, it was Mr. Cock. Really.  

  

I'm sorry, Mr Cock's, but you've got that horribly wrong. 

I'm looking forward to the forthcoming Call Mr. Cock TV advert, which I pray is modelled on the rule of repetition so beautifully displayed here:



If you're thinking Babies & Kids, think...

Parenthood. Yet another thing they don't you.

FACT: Small children get folded up by folding cinema seats. 

Nobody tells you anything. 

I thought I was going to pull off a parent miracle. Brownie points for being a Top Dad whilst doing absolutely nothing, putting my feat up, and watching a movie aimed as much at me as the kids. I thought this was going to be a seminal moment in being a father.  

Rio: The Movie Someone on the internet watched it with their kid and thought it was ****. Good enough for me.  

We had the sala to ourselves as apparently I was the only parent not at work last Friday lunchtime. This was class, because Leah no longer had to sit on me, dropping half eaten sweets and spilling juice onto me, and blocking my view, and could head offand dance in the aisle.  

She had to sit on me because I could no longer hold her chair down with the outside of my right knee without cramping up. It's an 86 minute film, but to be honest I barely made it through the title sequence.  

Leah, dancing in the aisles. Me, stretching the cramp away.   

I'm clearly not alone here. Only 3 months ago, Kelly asked Yahoo! Answers 

Turns out that booster seats are the answer. My comment below:

How do you keep the theater seat from folding up on your small child?

When I take my 3 year old to the movies he always has a hard time sitting in those fold-up seats. They fold up and sandwich him when he sits down. As a first time mom I have to ask... what is the trick here?

• 3 months ago
• Report Abuse

Other Answers (3)

• Jimi

  Booster seats most theaters have them

  • 3 months ago
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  My comment: In a country where they don't use booster seats for kids in a car, what kind of a freak am I going to look carrying on into a movie theatre? 

Level Crossings

It's not uncommon to have accidents at level crossings in Argentina. Drivers routinely ignore the lights and barriers, treating the level crossing as you would a crossroads. Well, the way you would a crossroads in the countryside. Where there are no cars around.  

Or they stall while jumping the barriers, like this. All credit to the hero:

You see things like this happening all the time, to be fair. 

This is the crossing just around the corner from our place in Martinez. Me, I like the fact that the barrier hasn't been repaired, after it was broken about 3 months ago by a truck trying to speed under it, and getting the timing wrong. 

Patched up with a bit of string, a nail and some common sense, it now sort of flops down on the road, exhausted, and scraps around a bit. 

You will notice that it doesn't cover the whole road, giving ample opportunity for people to choose to drive around it. Assuming, that is, that you ignore the fact that a loud bell is ringing. Oh, and that a train is coming. 

Which is of course what this dude on the bike - now in the middle opposite - did.

It would, I think, be really really embarrassing to be killed at a level crossing. How would your partner feel telling people? How would your friends keep a straight face at your funeral? 

It's not like you don't know the risks. It's a level crossing. Even without the barriers and the warning signal, you still have to be too stupid to remember to look out for the massive loud train charging towards you.  

Here lies Dougal. He was run over by a train, after he couldn't wait about fifteen seconds to cross the lines and continue doing absolutely nothing with his day, he jumped the barriers, ignoring the warning signal and then - perhaps worst of all - couldn't even run fast enough. He leaves a very embarrassed wife and children who will never know the truth. And no, his insurance doesn't cover him for... that. What a tool. 

I'll keep my phone camera ready for future idiocy. It shouldn't be long. 

Homesickness

I can't tell you how homesick I get sometimes. 

Taken on the street in Glasgow.  

Identity Crisis

Dougal: The Saga Continues...

In Starbucks again. Following the recent entry - the trials of being a Dougal - I knew my Starbucks success wouldn't last.

Having finally - after 4 years of mispronounced Tukals, Dukals and Googles - had my name both spelt and called correctly last week, I'm back on more familiar turf.

Well. Sort of.

Same waitress, same service, same smile. TOTALLY different name. In fact, your guess is as good as mine as to what the frothy cappuccino she thinks my name is.

Judge for yourself. The B stands for bebida (maybe?). The hieroglyphics beneath, that's your Dougal right there.

Maybe I'm now so well know as Tukal that they have their own shorthand for me: TxL

Answers on a postcard to the usual address.

Argentine Wedding Invite

Famous for their late nights, the Argentines. This is a wedding invite our babysitter, Claudia, had last weekend. She was invited for the reception from 1am: 

We look forward to seeing you from 1am at the Club... 

Hair cut

I looked in the mirror and a
complete stranger stared back at me. 

I've finally found a good hairdressers. Yes, not barbers, I'm over them. Hair dressers, where they dress my hair.

It looks identical, costs about the same, but I get a free coffee and Juan Pablo and I talk shopping and style, rather than football and the weather in Scotland, which after 3 years had become tiresome with Carlos Roberto. Also I'd don't have to listen to the Claudio Cannigia got his hair cut as a kid here anecdote ever again.

However, Juan Pablo took me to a place I didn't know I needed to go.

He said something, mumbled, with the inflection of a question, in a language I speak but occassionally do not understand. Rather than ruin the myth that I was fluent in his mother tongue, I simply nodded agreement.

Upon which he took the trimmer and comb that was taking my back and sides from Bushy Clowhead to Military No2, and applied the same treatment to my... eyebrows.

A veritable avalanche of clippings fell to the floor, and with it my illusions of youth.

He stood back, looked in the mirror, and proclaimed - Si, dale, mucho mejor. 

I would have felt almost miffed that I was being treated as some kind of an old age pensioner who has out of control facial hair until I arrived home. On opening the door, Katie took one look at me, gazed to the heavens, and said, as if years of praying were suddenly being rewarded:

- Oh thank God! Someone's trimmed your eyebrows!

Dougal

I have been called Dougal for as long as I can remember. If anyone should be used to being called Dougal, surely it's me. Regular readers will know this is an issue for me, not least as a parent selecting your own babies' name.

But even now, 34 years in, I am still surprised how this name - when communicated to others - has caused the widest range of responses: fascination, hilarity and sometime outright denial. And that was in the UK. In Scotland, even, from where I clearly hail. From teacher's laughing as they read the class list at school, to the name-badge humilation of conferences as I paraded, recently, as Doogkal Surpuchan, to being introduced to an entire assembly by the Head of Drama as Fergal Dougalson, I reckon I've covered the based of humiliation pretty well.

I am aware that it's no John or Mark, but I also don't think I deserve the treatment I sometimes recieve, After all, I'm not called - and yes, these are all real, cause I googled Dumbest Names Of All Time:
- Picabo (yes, that skier)
- Eagle-Eye (yes, the singer)
- Loser or Winner (twins, inspired!)
- Storm (Swedish, genderless)
- Moon Unit (Frank Zappa's kid)

Nevertheless, after 31 years of abuse in an English speaking country, imagine how this translates to Latin America, and to Argentina. Argentines - who are generally called Juan, Diego or María - are never ones to tread lightly around people's feelings, and seem to take particular delight in their incredulity that someone could possibly be called something so clearly a) unpronouncable and b) silly sounding, or c) not Juan or Diego. Or María.

Never is this more apparent than in Starbucks. Now, if ever there was a place to lose your identity in a global latte-sphere then surely to capitalism Starbucks is where you're safe?

Moon Unit tells another white lie. 

Far from it.

All those friendly, carefully considered homely Starbucks touches that you lot get to enjoy - like the writing of your name on the side of the styrofoam cup? - are the enemy of Dougal.

Your conversation goes like this:
- Hi, what would you like? 
- A regular latte, please. 
- Name?
- Mary. 
- Thank you, that'll be expensive. 
- That's fine, thanks. 

Before you are even aware you're waiting, you hear your name called out, confidently, like an old friend. Your coffee arrives swiftly, piping hot, with a smile, and a little Mary written neatly in black marker on the side.

Mine arrives luke warm to sniggers from the staff, who cower sheepishly like schoolgirl bullies behind the coffee machine, pulling straws for who has to shout out my name. And in that time I have answered to the following:

- Dukal? Doo-call. 
- Dugal? Duck-al
- Toogal. Come on, at least give me some credit. That's not even phonetically likely, is it.
- D...D...Er... Diego? Translation being the least bad option. Although this is a little racist, I'll take it. I mean, Salmans don't get called Simon in the UK, do they?
- Tukal. Rhymes with Doo-call. As in Tukal, the Turkish drug dealer.  

I'd long since given up and have been calling myself Juan. But today, half asleep and not really concentrating, she asked, Nombre? I said Dougal. And would you know it, like I'd entered a parallel world where all of you lot live, seemingly seconds later a Dougal was called for, as if I was in Ayrshire, and a coffee was served, with a smile.

Maybe this was a turning point.

But in the negative column, this happened, the memory of which brings me right back down to earth.

Last month, a supply teacher arrived. In the morning in the staff room, I politely introduced myself:

- Hola, como estás? I said.

- Hola, she replied, soy Marialena Milagros de las Paz.

- Soy Dougal.

Judging by her reaction, I mentally re-ran the conversation, because based on her expression I had accidently said Shitforbrains.

- Sorry, she said.

I actually wasn't sure if this was the English version of Sorry, as in Sorry, can you say that again, or if she was actually saying, Sorry, that's a terrible name, as her intonation inferred.      

To cover both eventualities, I said, That's fine. It's quite a rare name. I'm from Scotland. Much like the way Basil Fawlty explains all of Manuel's behaviour.

- No, sorry, say again. 

- Dougal. 

- Doo-kal?

- No. Dougal. Rhymes with Google.

- No, I'm still not getting it. 

- You really aren't are you. Dou-gal.

- Ah, Doodle. 

- No, you see, you just made a totally different sound. Dougal. 

- Doodle. 

- No. With a 'g'.

- Oh! Google.

- Do you work in Starbucks? 

Toddler: Nighttime Independence

Leah, 3, now sleeps in her own bed. This is great, being more independent and all of that. To encourage this whole independence thing I've been trying to teach her the time.

Not "Hey, Daddy, it's ten to nine, get your ass out of bed!" time. More accurately, I've been trying to teach her Time Appropriacy: What Activity Is Appropriate At What Hour.

Finally, after using enough Ketamine
to sedate a horse, they got their
sleepy angel 'money shot'. 

I've seen those Toddler Alarm Clocks for sale in the UK/US or in countries where parents have everything, and they look quite cute, but I can't believe for a second they work. Everything for parents is marketed around sleep and relaxation, and how many parents have you met - ever - who have said: Oh, the first few months were tough for sure. But now, when he wakes up in the night, he just looks to see whether his little freakish sleeping space bunny clock is lit up like an acid trip, and now we don't hear another peep, do we?

Toddlers may still be illiterate, unable to do their shoes laces and a freakin' liability on transport, but there hasn't been an electrical gadget yet that they can't strip down and re-program into Spanish in an unguarded minute.

Dark = Sleepy Time
Light = Wakey Time

Doesn't seem too much to ask from someone who's picked up two languages quicker than I have. OK, it's winter and doesn't get light till around 9am, but you'd think she'd get the gist.

It's not working.

Last weekend, just after we'd had breakfast, we played a couple of jigsaw puzzles (I say 'we', I was watching the FA Cup Final), when Leah turned round and said, "I want bathtime with Mummy tonight" and trotted off to get herself changed.

If only that freaky redrum kid in
The Shining had a Toddler Alarm Clock.
Maybe it would have all ended well.

Moreover, she's become a night-time wanderer. Well, wanderer is a bit much. So far she either heads up to Maia's room where she starts reading her a story. Which Maia doesn't appreciate at the best of times, and definitely not at 217am.

Or, she sneaks in to our room and stands, silently, an eyebrows' breadth from my face and just, sort of waits... till I wake up.... with that strange sensation that something's not quite right before suddenty realising that a person is blinking into my eyes.

You know, the way the kid in The Shining would.