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.