Some people - those who are not wise in the ways of the world- have told me, over the years, that football doesn't really matter, that there are more important things in life, that football is just a game. Up until 2007 when Geelong won our first premiership in 44 years, I would reply 'If only that were true,' such was the pain of having to live through four grand final losses without seeing the ultimate success once.

In the last quarter of the 2007 Grand Final, when we were already 100 points ahead and certain of the win, I sent out a mass text to family and friends that said something like this -

I love yous all. This is one of the top 5 days of my life.

Reservoir Mum and a few astute others sent a message back asking what other events filled the top 5, suspecting that maybe I didn't have too many other passions that would really trouble the list. I replied -

1. Marriage to Reservoir Mum

2. Archie & Lewis's birth

3. 2007 Geelong Premiership

It dawned on me that they were right. I was two short of top 5. So being the clever dick that I am I filled in the top 5 to come up with this -

1. Marriage to Reservoir Mum

2. Archie & Lewis's birth

3. 2007 Geelong Premiership

4. 2008 Geelong Premiership

5. 2009 Geelong Premiership

Happy Birthday Dad. Have a look at me in that photo to the left. Forget for a moment that I look like a Penis wearing sunglasses and focus on the fact that you've done a pretty decent job with me. That's what this post's about. I am a happy, Geelong Football Club obsessed fully grown man who has stopped dropping mice into boiling water ever since you showed me how much easier it was to simply stomp on their heads. Archie thinks that's great too. And that's how these things work - great ideas and skills get passed from one generation to the next. But teaching me how to killl mice is not the only thing you've done for me.

I remember when I was a drowning kid in a fast flowing river. The fact that you had to let go of your favorite fishing rod and lose it to the watery depths to pull me out by my long blond hair really said something to me. Made me feel like I was worthwhile. And when I was diagnosed with a significant illness in my teens the doctor told you to stop smoking and you did that very day. You didn't start again until I moved out of home and bought you a carton of cigarettes to say thanks.

Seems to me that kids start having body issues as soon as they're fully aware that they have one. Tyson held his hand up today and looked at it for a good ten seconds. Going by the look on his four-month-old face, it wouldn't have surprised me to hear him screaming 'Get it off me, its eating my arm!'

When I tickled his foot to calm him down he smiled and giggled while his eyes said, "Dad, where the hell is that sensation coming from?"

"You should be a bit more concerned that your eyes are talking," I replied.

At the shopping centre yesterday, Lewis kept pulling my t-shirt down and pointing out to anyone close by that I had hair everywhere. I tried to distract him with all the pretty lights but he was too persistent and so I tackled it head on:

Reservoir Dad: Yep, I'm hairy. You'll grow hair on you chest one day too, mate.

Sometimes after a long 12 – 16 hour day with kids you just want to ship them off to bed as quick as possible so that you can clean and sweep and fold and stuff and crash in front of the TV for some well-deserved Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares. (Me and Gordon Ramsay are so alike it's scary. Sometimes he points at some dull space cadet and says something like 'You're a fucking idiot' and I can't help but chuckle in amazement at how I was thinking the exact same thing.)

It's when you're absolutely knackered and pressured for time like this that you're less likely to patiently answer a child's left-field questions in a rational manner. And this may explain my response to Archie's question 'how do our eyeballs get inside our heads' while we were cleaning our teeth last night.

It is a very good question and sits comfortably aside such classics as 'Why is everything so green?', 'Why doesn't my shoe have teeth?' and 'How come Gran is getting smaller?'

All home Dads know that questions like these are much easier to handle after several beers and a six pack of Red Bull but they weren't within reach and, anyway, Archie's going to have to wait until he's sixteen to start experimenting with alcohol and stimulants (okay, okay – fourteen, by today's standards, but don't let them listen to the IPod too loud alright, it'll damage their ears!)

Despite the title of this post, I don't actually know much about Zen except that it has something to do with Buddhism, and I'm not going to go clicking my way over to Wikipedia to become a half-arsed expert on it because I'm a time-poor parent and can't be buggered studying anything...

Oh stuff it then, here it is if you're interested.

Anyway, the conversation below contains my definition of Zen. It occurred as I pulled out a steaming hot tray of Aldi nuggets for the boys: