In case you missed the name of my column I’m a dad, not a mom. So providing particularly juicy insight for Mother’s Day would likely fall under the category of mansplaining. So instead, I asked the two best mothers I know, my wife and my own mom, to share their insights and wisdom on this special day where we celebrate the most important women in our lives.

I started with the obvious, what do you love about being a mom?

My mom loves the maternal aspect, “nurturing and caring for your child from babyhood to adulthood,” while my wife called it, “unlocking a different type of love for another person.”

“I’m also discovering the world through her eyes as she learns,” my wife shared. “Yesterday we went on a leaf hunt and I ended up holding a bunch of beautiful leaves for her that I never would have noticed otherwise. I [also] love when she hasn’t seen me for a literal minute and I walk [back] into the room and she comes running with her arms wide open.”

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But being a mom is hard too, right? What’s the worst part about being a mom?

My wife pointed to what I think is also the worst part about being an expat, “the hardest part is not having any family nearby for support.” Interestingly, for my mom, distance was also the greatest burden. “When I went back to work, and had to leave my baby at a crèche. When my parents left the country… my mentor and friend wasn’t a phone call or visit away. Being a new mom […] I needed my mother. Now having my son living overseas […] and missing a lot not physically being [there for] the milestones in their lives.”

I asked if they had been given any advice before becoming a mom.

“I don’t remember life before our daughter,” my wife laughed, “but after she came, people kept telling me to sleep when the baby sleeps. She only ever slept on me during the day, so that was impossible. My brother gave me some more helpful advice, he told me every baby is different and you just need to figure it out.”

That rang true for my mom too, “A romantic fairytale picture is given about motherhood. It’s not reality. There are some extraordinary, special moments. But there are hard moments too.

No one has a manual for parenthood. One can read all the books and attend the maternity lectures but life happens and we’ve had to go with the flow and make the most of every day.

Many family members said babies sleep through from six weeks - this is totally not my experience which was so difficult to process.” Sorry mom! That was totally not our experience either!

“The challenging sleepless nights, the tantrums of toddlers, it’s for a short season. However when living through it, it seems like forever.”

I was curious if there were elements from their moms that they loved and may have shaped the way they are trying to be moms themselves.

“Whether in times of plenty or hard times - the family came first. She loved unconditionally, protected and nurtured no matter what.” Sounds like my grandmother could give Vin Diesel a run for his money in the Fast and the Furious. “My mom was the best cook and put her heart into all her meals. Super delicious. [My favourite memories are] the happy times around the meal table.

For my wife, it was her mum’s love of being a mum. “My impression of my mum, is that she loved being a mum. She was kind, patient, fun and created space for me. I want our daughter to know she is a blessing and I love being her mum.”

There’s always been a part of me that wants to leave a positive legacy in the world. My wife and I have spoken often since becoming parents about our daughter being our true legacy. That we may be forgotten in a few generations but what we’ve poured into her will be passed on.

My wife’s answer came from that same line of thinking. “The Bible has a verse in Corinthians1 that talks about love being the most important thing that remains after death. I want her to remember me making her feel loved, and cared for and special. I don’t need her to remember what I did for my career, or my views on the world.”

My mom was on the same track, “unconditional love. [That I was] always available to listen, to pray, to guide no matter what the circumstances and the physical distance.”

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I asked what wisdom they'd give their former selves on the day they left the hospital with their babies.

My mom with many years of wisdom under her belt had a lot to tell herself:

“Stay calm, enjoy every moment of every day, make the special memories as the early babyhood days pass in the blink of an eye. Trust God daily and never give up on yourself. Love yourself and keep your cup full so you can give out of abundance not from an empty cup. Be present 💝. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Remember, ‘this too shall pass’ [and] there are four seasons in life autumn, winter, summer and spring. Sow love, joy, hope, and peace into your family”

My wife kept it practical: “Don’t let your baby have a boob preference!”

I knew lack of sleep would be one of the most difficult challenges to overcome as a new parent. But knowing what is coming is not enough to prepare you for its reality. The UN has recognized sleep deprivation as a form of torture. My involuntary, highly scientific investigation over the last fourteen months came to the same conclusion.

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Before I go on any rants about how difficult it is to function on little sleep at work, how trying not to snap while Steve is telling you he requires a unique description on his invoice which should have been issued four months ago but he waited until now and it’s an emergency if it doesn’t get sent today… I must acknowledge my incredible wife.

She has carried the team through these long nights, sometimes having to get up as many as seven times in the night to feed our little girl, only completely accidentally kicking me awake every other time. It’s been hard not being able to help her more, I wrote about our struggles with sleep last year:

While I understand why parents get to the point where they resort to cry it out sleep training, we didn’t have the heart to do it. This method involves putting your baby in their bed and only returning in the morning, letting them figure out the sleep thing on their own. But hearing your little one cry for you and ignoring it is excruciating. So we continued to sacrifice our sleep in the hopes that eventually she would stop taking after her father and our sleep prayers would be answered.

Yes, I am apparently the culprit. I am told I was a terrible sleeper as a baby. Things got so bad at one point that my wife began telling single women to check with any men they date if they slept well as a baby before spending any more time with them. It had been a particularly rough night.

Many people advised us that we would have to revert to the cry it out method. That it was the quickest way. At one point we did try a more hands on version where I would go over when she cried, reassure her and set her back in a sleeping position in her crib. I would go back, over and over, with increasingly long breaks in between.

It was brutal. Babies are strong negotiators. Even if you tell them it’s sleep time they tend not to agree. It’s hard to reason with very loud and impressively consistent screaming. We quickly gave up. The limited attempt was not in vain though, her wake ups reduced to once or twice a night.

After a bad round of teething, our little one’s sleep got worse and stayed worse. This time we came up with our own method of sharing the load while trying to help her learn to sleep. I would get up if it was before 3AM, reassure her without giving her food, and cuddle her back to sleep. After 3, she still got Mama.

At first when she realized I was trying to get her to go back to sleep instead of taking her to her mother, she was having none of it. She exhibited high potential for a career as a ninja by squirming, kicking and wriggling in an attempt to escape my clutches.

I tried singing, dancing, clapping, praying, anything to calm her down. After an hour, my arms maxed out from the craziest workout, she exhausted herself. Finally accepting my cuddles until she fell back asleep.

We kept going. After a few rough nights it started to work. My methodology got better. I would start by putting on my noise cancelling headphones allowing me to stay calm. After letting her complain for a bit I would sing her remixes of songs she liked, especially the ones Mama made up for her. The sessions got shorter, the wakeups reduced, and we didn’t feel guilty because I was there for her whether she liked it or not.

Then one night it finally happened. I got up to answer her cries, and as soon as she saw it was me and not her mother she let out a huff and put herself back to sleep. I was too thrilled to be insulted.

“Don’t go off the green path. When your basket is full, you are done. Ready? Go!”

You’d think such simple instructions designed for children would be understandable to a large group of likely educated adults, but the chaos was immediate and ferocious. People streamed into the once-abandoned mini golf course in search of hundreds of little plastic eggs with surprises inside.

With my curious toddler taking wobbly steps between my legs, we moved forward with the mob. Small children were being lifted up and carried through the bushes. Older ones were already sprinting in every direction, many carrying their own much larger baskets than the hotel provided.

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My wife and I eyed the bushes for remnants left after hordes of filthy hobbitses had ravaged them in seconds. We spotted a well-hidden one and encouraged our toddler to explore it. With both of us holding out cameras to capture the moment and my toddler reaching excitedly for the egg, a seven-year-old arm swooped in front of my lens to snap up the hidden treasure.

My wife's teacher skills immediately got the seven-year-old course-corrected and our daughter was able to find her first egg. As we continued on the path, children frantically hunted around us, baskets overflowing with bounty. A dad walked past, looking like he'd gone through a bush backwards, yelling to his oblivious kid that the eggs were all finished. He was holding out his shirt, bulging with eggs that couldn't fit into his child's extra-large basket. My P(doom) increased.

A kind staff member who noticed our daughter planted some eggs in her line of sight as we walked. She lifted one up in excitement as a little boy walked past and grabbed it straight out of her hands.

"Excuse me, can you give that back please?" I said to the little boy whose parents were standing immediately behind him doing nothing.
"She gave it to me!"

Sweating as the Caribbean sun beat down on us, we found the end of the path. Our daughter's basket barely a third full, our faith in humanity dampened. At least there was chocolate in our near future. How did Easter go from our Lord and Saviour sacrificing himself on a cross to co-parenting strangers' children in a mad dash for chocolate eggs laid by a bunny?

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In the Cayman Islands, Easter traditions include a spiced, dense, dark fruit loaf served with cheese and butter while camping on the beach — just as… Jesus did? People who like camping, not us, spend their long weekend avoiding showers and swatting at mosquitoes. But hey, if it means you can escape a three-hour fire-and-brimstone sermon with all the people who only show up to church twice a year, I understand.

Our attempts to attend church with a baby, especially when the service lands right in the middle of nap time, have proven tricky. We attend a church that meets in a stinky school gym but we either end up in a ball pit in the cafeteria or making a swift exit as the school halls echo with screaming. This year we didn't make it to celebrate Easter with our church community, but we did eat a lot of chocolate.

My wife and I have a tradition of hiding Easter eggs for each other and laughing as the other — normally me — takes ages to find them. This year our daughter and dog both showed me up with their incredible skills. I still haven’t found one of mine two days later.

While the traditions around it make no sense, taking a moment to think about God's grace in my life and His incredible sacrifice to fix humanity's mistakes is a worthy pause. As I danced around our living room with my daughter to one of her favourite worship songs on Sunday, I was overwhelmed with how good God has been to us in spite of what little I have done to deserve it. Though I have to have earned some Good Place points for parenting significantly better than almost everyone else on that mini golf course.

The magic of Valentine’s Day. An excuse to pause and, quite literally, smell the roses. For all the consumerism around any widely celebrated occasion, Valentine’s Day is a beautiful excuse to love on your favorite person in the world and do something special with them.

Yes, every day should be special with the one you love and blah blah blah. But life is busy and complicated. Having a day set aside to stop and celebrate love, that’s worthwhile.

I’ve always enjoyed celebrating Valentine’s Day with my wife. We used to have one person plan it and then switch roles the next year, which is a fun way to take turns in surprising each other. The last two years though have been a lot more low key with a little one. This year we ordered some sushi and feasted under the shadow of my wife’s large flower bouquet after the little one went down.

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Having a daughter is giving me reason to consider this day more carefully. As her father, I am setting the example of what she will expect from the man in her life. Not only how I treat her mother and celebrate her - which I always want to do exceptionally well - but also how I celebrate her on these days. It will put a standard in her heart and mind of what is acceptable or not. I want that standard to be exceptionally high.

Not in the sense that she should feel entitled to exorbitant gifts or exotic shows of affection, but that she is worth taking the time to celebrate and love on. That Valentine’s Days for her are special memories with her parents before she falls in love.

My mom often used to get me a card and chocolate growing up, which I did not appreciate enough - thanks mom! My wife’s mom did the same. Maybe that’s why we both like celebrating this day. My hope is that we can pass on a tradition of celebrating love rather than cynicism.

I hope your Valentine’s Day was fun. If not, take solace in the fact that heart shaped chocolates will be on sale this week.

I am writing to share with you that I am alive and well. My beautiful wife has given birth to a little miracle and we are so thankful for their healthy presence, made known through awe-inspiring volume.

In the last year I have seen your messages. Your invitations out for an evening drink, to join you at a gig jamming to sweet sounds, to battle it out on the sweaty pickleball courts of this grand island, to film something in a fit of inspiration and put it out on the internet for all the world to see. For these invitations I am extremely grateful.

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We thought we could do it all. Keep up the DINK1 lifestyle. Just strap the nugget to our backs and head out into the world. Be as strong as our social media influencer inspirations. But we have found ourselves living in what some have termed, ‘the real world.’ This is a most upsetting discovery, for which I did try to submit a complaint but nobody in customer service would take my call.

In this real world we have found that time is not infinite. That waking up six times a night does not fill you with the energy of a thousand suns. That every minute we have must be spent on keeping the nugget alive, keeping ourselves alive, and breathing in every beautiful moment of this incredible journey.

While we may have pulled back from some of our exotic pastimes such as saving money, we are finding our feet in this new life filled with priceless moments. We are reintegrating cautiously but optimistically into society. But be warned we are different.

A powerhouse of love and forgiveness. A nappy changing crew envied by the greatest F1 pitstop teams. An inseparable unit. We can vibe to Old MacDonald, hit record to capture an incredible moment in milliseconds, and these arms can carry and juggle the squirmiest precious cargo.

Looking forward to catching up on what you’ve done with all that free time of yours.

All my love.

This is Charlie,

my five year old, mixed breed pup. He stands 54 centimeters tall and around 1 meter from snout-to-tail. I couldn’t get him to stand still enough to measure accurately. He curls up very nicely to snuggle in your lap. Or stretches out to take up the entire back seat of a Kia Picanto. This dog’s got size versatility. While he fits in the leg space of the front seat of the car, he doesn’t like it, and he’ll be sure to look extremely miserable if asked to sit there while the recycling takes up his usual back seat position.

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Let’s talk build quality

A lot of dogs come with build quality issues from years of inbreeding to maintain a certain unique look. Our boy is built from all the best qualities of many breeds, and while his legs may be skinnier than a catwalk model, he is fast, agile and provides a firm handshake when a treat is involved.

His coat is always silky smooth, even when he hasn’t been bathed in a month. Which is good because he really hates being bathed. Like, really hates it. This model is built with incredible obedience, trust and loyalty. So when you’re doing something torturous like brushing his teeth, clipping his nails or bathing him, he’ll lovingly but miserably cooperate. Only attempting to sneak away when you’re looking in the other direction.

That brings us to performance

Loyalty and obedience play into his ability to be trained, and therefore what a joy he is to be around. There’s no insane barking, or destruction - except for the early months where a few shoes met their demise. He has even learnt that while it is incredibly exciting that your family member has come home after 5 whole minutes taking out the trash, and a parade is most definitely in order, sitting impatiently on your bed and waiting for the family member to put down what they are carrying and let you know they are ready for the parade is the right thing to do.

This feature has begun to malfunction in the last year due to sibling trauma, discussed later in this review. However it can still be activated with a stern ‘BED!’ command, repeated until you feel like you’re speaking another language. Some back talk can be expected.

The training mode on this model requires some patience but he learns fast and is more than willing even without treats. It’s got to be said, the excitement and joy to simply spend quality time without any thrills is an incredible feature.

In more recent years, the old dog new tricks trope has proven untrue with this model. He has learnt to spin, crawl and vacuum up left overs. All recent features provided through over the air command updates.

Herding is built into the model as standard. If family members are in separate areas of the house, they will be herded to one area for maximum quality time together.

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The hard truth

Not everything is perfect. The model has serious selective hearing, the bug is most obvious when new people have arrived in the home or when another dog is walking by and their butt must be sniffed immediately.

Poops are also enormous and difficult to coax from the model even though it is clear the time has come. Often one has to jog up and down a strip in order to ensure the poop comes out in an appropriate place. If this is not done, the waste management system may misfire on a cement walkway, usually in front of a busy gawking crowd.

Sibling Trauma

In the last year a sibling was introduced with whom the model now shares a room to recharge. The sibling’s late night loud demands for food has clearly disturbed the charging process. Their introduction has resulted in obedience features glitching and treat consumption for pain and suffering going up significantly.

However the protective features seem to have been turned up to a whole new level with family protection becoming a top priority. Unless I’m the only one in the house, at which point I am left to fend for myself while a much needed emergency recharge is completed.

Still - despite the odd malfunction - this model is too good to ever upgrade.

Should I get this model?

I have no issue recommending this model to anyone at all, but sadly for you - Charlie is one of a kind. He’s not for sale. While he may have some quirks and glitches, this model brings daily joy, laughter, and loyalty no designer could ever replicate. In fact it’s a bit unfair I’ve even shared this review with you given you can’t do anything but admire my good boy. Sorry.

“Everyone thinks they have the best dog. And none of them are wrong.” W.R. Purche

Dec 31st, 2024 - 10, 9, 8, we sat on beach chairs commandeered in front of the Ritz Carlton as the clock ticked ever closer to midnight. 7, 6, 5, A drunken idiot was lighting a firework in front of his face as I watched, nervous he would send it firing at my pregnant wife. 4, 3, 2, I held my breath, anticipating the year ahead that would change my life forever. 1, HAPPY NEW YEAR! The sky exploded all along Seven Mile Beach. 2025 had begun.

The baby’s coming

After driving our new family car out to a dusty track through the mangroves, my wife power walked ahead as the dog and I half jogged to keep up. She was determined to walk this baby into the world and walk we did. Every day, multiple times a day, with evening sessions in the gym bouncing on a gym ball. Months of preparation had led to the moment we drove to the hospital, DINKS1 for the last time.

My wife, cracking jokes whilst pushing out a baby, delivered our beautiful daughter who wasted no time telling the doctors to give her back to her mother immediately. 2025 is our daughter’s year.

It was messy, beautiful, exhausting, and exhilarating. It’s been fun to document some of it here. The highs were spectacularly high, the lows were unsettlingly deep. This is it, the adulting big leagues.

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Six 2026 Resolutions

As we bumble over the line into the new year, one can only pray 2026 will be filled with calm, precedented events. These are my hopes for the year ahead:

1. Family 1st - Prioritizing my family’s well-being continues to be my number one goal this year. I want to be my wife’s biggest champion, helping her thrive not just as a mom but in her own right. I want to be present for my daughter and celebrate her milestones. I want to travel slowly and purposefully rather than rushed and painful. I want us to laugh a lot, only crying when it’s meaningful. Most of all I want God leading us through it all.

   

2. Stress Less - Something we learnt the hard way over 2025 was that doing the same activities we used to do as a couple with a baby may be important, but they’re hard. Going to a restaurant for example takes preparation. From packing a bag, to ensuring nap times are hit, to successfully navigating a poop-splosion while walking out the door without everybody ending up in tears. At the restaurant you’re juggling adult conversations with entertaining and feeding a baby, while using your third arm to shovel food into your own mouth. Sometimes it all goes to pot and you have to cancel. Sometimes friends are late and you have to leave early. Sometimes you don’t know your arse from your elbow and your wife is doing it all while you pace in a circle malfunctioning.

   
   In 2026 I want to roll with the punches. Try to embrace the Cayman ‘Soon Come’ attitude rather than worrying about things that have never been under my control. Embrace the present, leave the past, let God handle the future. It’s biblical, it’s practical, it’s really hard to do.
   

3. Stay Healthy - Continuing to fight the dad bod trope is important beyond looking and feeling like a snack. If anything is going to kill me, I don’t want it to be me not taking care of my body. While I’ve been pretty good at keeping up on fitness in 2025, my fear of sitting in a cold harsh hospital and waiting mindlessly on medical staff to poke and prod at me has kept me from doing check ups I know I should be doing. See you in the waiting room.

   

4. Creativity - I’ve always been somebody who needs a creative side project. Especially since I started studying accounting. Not so secretly hoping that one day, one of those side projects will take off and become THE project. I’ve really enjoyed writing in the second half of 2025. I’ve loved creating “Dad the Accountant.” If I could incorporate some of my other loves in 2026 like making short films, music, or coming up with some wacky business scheme while including my family in the fun, that would be cinema.
   

5. Friends and Networking - While I’m not a socialite by any stretch of the imagination I do enjoy spending time with people. The thing is, I hate small talk. It’s so mind numbingly mundane.
   
   The weather has been hot lately…
   Yes we live on a tropical island.
   Those mosquitos though!
   
   And yet this is essential to meeting and making friends. Living in a transient place where your closest friends are always abandoning you leaving makes this an essential skill. Never mind that moving along in your career is all about connections and putting yourself out there.

   
   Plus, when you have a child, you're supposed to make friends with other parents, parents with whom your only thing in common is that you both figured out how to procreate.

   
   This year I want to put more effort in by going to the odd networking event, being friendly to other procreators and asking people about their deepest darkest fears before they start talking about some major sports event I have no desire to learn about.

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6. Wield the Robot’s Power - For all the hype around AI, people still haven’t really found ways to utilize it to its fullest potential. Most people seem to just be making funny pictures or sharing their strange pimples with a chat bot to see if they’re dying. I’ve found some fantastic use for AI in my workplace but I feel like there is a lot more I can learn and do here. Gadgets, tech, productivity, this stuff is my jam. But can I get it to make me some jam?

As we bring in the new year from our bed, knowing the nugget will be waking us up at 6AM regardless of what time we go to sleep, I wish you and your loved ones a Happy New Year.

What are your hopes for 2026? To get a cat will not be an accepted answer.2

’Twas the night after Halloween, quiet, not quite,
Not a creature was sleeping, just the dog out of spite.
The milk had been given, and even some food,
But the baby, for sleep, was not in the mood.

A scarier story, you’ve probably heard,
But a sleep bandit loose should make anyone scared.
Sleep is so precious, for growing and might,
But babies want mama all through the night.

“Give her sleep training, she’s old enough now,”
Said friends to us as they furrowed their brow.
“It’ll be hard, but the results will speak loud…”
So we dove in, determinedly unbowed.

She tossed and she turned and she shouted for mama,
But the dummy just kept being provided by dada.
The clock struck one, then two, and then three,
Dad prayed from the bedroom, “Lord, please help her Zzz!”

Finally it came; after hours of screaming,
A ray of hope, in spite of the teething.
The baba slept soundly for eight hours straight.
Maybe, just maybe, this sleepless chapter’s closing its gate.

Under a canopy, a little play-yard had been set up full of puppies. People were holding them around us, while volunteers shared stories and encouraged people to take the cuties home. We played with the rambunctious litter for a bit before my wife picked up Charlie. He sleepily cuddled into her arms and relaxed. We looked at each other. Charlie was joining our little family.

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Charlie was found in a bush in Bodden Town, his mother ran away from the people who found his litter, and they were scooped up and brought into the Cayman Islands Humane Society. A scrawny, malnourished little thing covered in mange. He was originally given a preppy British name by the Humane Society — but we loved the name Charlie.

Charlie came with us everywhere. He snuck into stores in my wife’s handbag, slept on my lap in restaurants as I ate a hamburger over his head. He came to friends’ houses, pools, long drives to Kaibo, even waited outside for me when I went for a job interview. Charlie became an essential part of our daily adventures.

It is amazing how much love and laughter [dogs] bring into our lives and even how much closer we become with each other because of them. John Grogan, Marley & Me

Since we had a baby Charlie has embraced his big brother role, especially since she started dropping food on the ground for him. Nobody can look as exhausted with the world as Charlie, even after a long day of napping to catch up on his much disturbed beauty sleep. In spite of how loud our daughter can be, he’ll check in on her to make sure she’s OK, coming to get us if he feels we’re not responding to her complaints fast enough.

My wife and I have a running bit where I insist it’s time for Charlie to get a job and stop being a free loader. I point to a dog working in the airport, or as a guide. She tells me he’s just a baby to which I retort he is absolutely not a baby and needs to get a job! Charlie is the only member in our household who has a birthright to work in these beloved isles! The truth is, Charlie has many jobs.

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He’s our welcoming committee when we get home, our therapist when we’re sad, our entertainment when he’s feeling silly, and the best coffee buddy on an early morning wake up with our daughter.

On his fifth birthday, the year he lost his only-child status, I wanted to write something to honor our boy. He has been and continues to be a huge blessing to our family. I can’t wait for him to read this. Love ya buddy.

Day 0

No movie, prenatal class or horror story from friends or family can prepare you to watch your wife go through that much pain. But then suddenly the little creature who’s been kicking her for months is screaming at the doctors and blinking its dark little eyes at you and you are overcome with love.

Month 1 - Coming Home

In Cayman, fathers get all of zero days paternity leave by law. My company graciously allowed me two. Just enough to get my wife and child home from the hospital before heading back to the accounting coal mines. Thankfully I was able to take some vacation days as a world of firsts began.

As a dad, you’re a bit useless to the baby in the beginning. Just somebody to yell at until you can hand them to the Dairy Queen. This month was about figuring out how to be helpful to my wife, who just seemed to naturally know exactly what to do while I fumbled about. Holding that sleeping nugget in your arms makes those long nights worth it.

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Month 2 - Meeting the Family

Seeing my parents hold their grandchild for the first time, witnessing my wife’s family show up and support her, core memories. Having family around feels especially significant when we live so far from all of them. I will cherish having the family over in our home for a good old South African braai, with my dad - the Braai Master - cooking the meat for us. Much safer than letting me give everyone salmonella.

braai - noun - SOUTH AFRICAN ENGLISH
a picnic or barbecue where meat is grilled over an open fire.

Month 3 - Being Away

I’ve been blessed to travel for work, and blessed that it’s not so often that it disrupts family life. In fact we’ve been super privileged to turn previous work trips into opportunities for a vacation afterward. But in this early season of having a baby, leaving for a week to be a 12 hour flight from my girls was hard.

I did manage to use the opportunity to buy our daughter a fancy French made high chair, squeezing these bits of wood and metal into my suitcase, and triggering airport searches at multiple security check points.

Our girl starts to go from the odd social smile to a social butterfly. Her whole face lights up with wonder and joy when she sees you. Picking her up after a nap is pure delight, putting her down for a nap a little less so.

Month 4 - Mother’s Day

Mother’s day happened to be on the same weekend as our next vaccine round. In my infinite wisdom I booked a beautiful sushi restaurant to take the girls to. After a poop-splosion on arrival that resulted in me accidentally throwing her nicest outfit in the garbage instead of the poop, we settled into a quiet corner of the restaurant.

Ten minutes in, our daughter decided she was having none of this and we had to make a swift exit before we scared all the patrons away. My wife made a dash to the car while I got our meal to go, slinking back to the safety of our home. I did manage to make a word out of food though which is a shining moment in my limited culinary achievements.

Smiles and wonder are the order of the day. Our little girl has started to become more aware of the world around her. My wife reads about this brilliant idea to tie balloons to a baby’s feet and it provides hours of entertainment for the whole family minus the dog who is terrified of balloons.

Month 5 - One Day at a Time

My father’s day wasn’t a rousing success either. At this point, after a few tough months of trying to maintain our social agenda and failing, having our sleep stolen from the cutest sleep bandit, and hitting new levels of exhausted we hunkered down at home. We stuck to routines as much as we could, we gave ourselves more grace and started to appreciate easy weekends at home more.

One of those routines, which we still do today, is an evening walk. Each day after work we take a stroll and catch up on the day, something my wife and I have been doing for a few years. This has become more relaxing as we get into the groove and everybody looks forward to them.

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Month 6 - Our First Trip

Our first flight as a family, our first vacation together. While great to see family and friends this trip was exhausting, breaking a routine we had just started to get right. We planned to visit my brother-in-law’s Church one Sunday, arriving just in time to the school hall where the service is held. As I lifted our little girl out of her car seat I discovered the biggest poop-splosion she has ever made.

The poop had made its way through her nappy, through her clothes, onto the car seat and poured down into the holes the belts come through, filling every crevice under the seat. In a foreign country, in a random school classroom, soaking paper towel after paper towel with poop. Muttering to myself about the sadist who designs a baby’s seat with holes lined up exactly with a nappy’s most likely point of failure. Dad life can be glamorous sometimes.

These first six months of being a dad have highlighted my many flaws, but also exposed some hidden talents. I do not operate well in any capacity on limited sleep, but I can change a nappy while the subject is doing full 180-degree turns.

The small moments you get to laugh about with your partner as you are both challenged and pushed to the end of your limits and beyond - those moments are priceless. I’m so lucky I get to do this with my hot best friend. This life adventure feels significant like nothing I’ve done before. Like every effort made is investing into the life of this precious little being you’ve been blessed with raising.

Your reward is seeing them thrive.

“You have so many shorts!” my wife exclaimed as I showed her my on-sale Lululemon purchases with excitement. We were in Canada for our daughter to meet the family and were taking the opportunity to do some shopping while she was in a good mood— my daughter, not my wife.

“I wanted this black one, and the lady said I got 40% off if I bought a second neon orange one. I couldn’t not take that deal!” I lamented, feeling defensive. I can’t resist a good sale, outlet malls are my kryptonite. My wife’s already moved on, she’s enjoying the rare chance she gets to shop in an actual mall.

We live on an island with around eighty thousand people. That translates to limited choice especially if you like a particular brand - only one small yoga studio sells the aforementioned Lululemon on island for example. “Too late to take them back, it was a no returns deal.”

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While shorts have been around for a while, starting with school boys and athletes, the popularization of shorts as we know them today is credited to a Nathaniel Coxton who ran a tea shop in Bermuda. The story goes that during World War I, the British Navy stationed in Bermuda would crowd his small store and the mix of boiling teapots and tropical heat made it unbearable to work in there. He took his staff’s trousers to the tailor and had them cut off at the knee. The trend took off and Bermuda shorts were born.

“You have so many shorts, you don’t have to do laundry for a month.”
”Sounds perfect!”

Online shopping in Cayman is an entire ordeal which often requires shipping to a freight forwarder in America. They put your purchases on a plane or a ship and send it to the island adding at least a week, plus a pretty penny in shipping, 22% government tax, and other charges.

Even Amazon, which only started shipping very limited items to the island last year, can take two to three weeks to get a package of toothpaste to you but at least they offer some free shipping. Suffice to say it’s better to shop while you’re on vacation.

Flights from Miami to Cayman are notorious for people carrying piles of suitcases stuffed from weekend shopping trips. Bags are opened on arrival by gloved customs agents as they search for treasures over the duty free limit to charge. In my suitcase they will only find dirty underwear, I’m proudly wearing my new shorts.

While shopping may be limited, living on a small tropical island where it is always hot means most people just live in shorts. One must of course have shorts for every occasion. Workout shorts, sleeping shorts, running shorts, swimming shorts, boxer shorts, brunch shorts, and if you’re lucky enough to work for a tech company maybe even work shorts.

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When visiting London last year, my wife and I were wandering around the city looking for a breakfast spot. I was of course wearing shorts, Summer in Europe can get toasty too. One establishment a friend recommended looked at me like I was lost, before making it very clear I was not welcome to dine there in my shorts. “These are Lululemon madam!” Not everybody appreciates my athleisure only fashion sense. We save the money for breakfast at a nicer joint in Cayman and find a quaint pub instead.

“I’ll go through my shorts drawer at home and give some older shorts away,” I promise, knowing full well the drawer is currently unable to close.

Most days my uniform of black shorts and a tank top for working out and living does the trick. Steve Jobs would be proud of my dedication to simplicity. But some days you need to add some colour in your life. Some days you need swim shorts so you don’t collect sand in dark places. A man needs shorts if he lives in the Cayman Islands, and an array of shorts this man has.

Our little girl is in happy oblivion. She’s wearing her Thumper outfit and has been thumping her legs on her pram happily for the last hour, entertaining the bored people in this enormous queue.

Grand Cayman has a small airport by most standards. Not as small as our sister islands but small enough that you can usually arrive at the airport an hour and a half before take-off and still have time to be bored airside. Saturdays are the exception. Some officials in their infinite wisdom have allowed the airlines to book a bunch of flights back-to-back around lunchtime, rather than spread them out over the day. Chaos, regularly making the weekly headlines in the local newspaper to no resolve.

An official assures the panicked flyers that he has a radio directly to the boarding counter and we will make our flight. It does not soothe the panic in the eyes around us, nor our own. But sure enough, he starts to calmly rearrange the line and get us through.

We get to security. Stroller gets jammed in its bag, laptop and liquids in hand like a pro. Inevitably, everyone else has not realized they were going through airport security and are now fumbling about with their things.

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A lady with a baby pushes in front of me. Um, excuse me, my lady with a baby is already waiting on the other side! I try to tell my face to be friendly, acting like there is no rush at all, and step in line behind her.

An elderly man walks into my wife as we try to redress and repack our bags as quickly as possible. We are reprimanded for rushing even though we were standing still when he walked into us.

Undeterred by our reprimand, we actually do begin to run now. Of course, the gate is the furthest from security, but thankfully, the airport is small, and we’re there a minute later.

My wife looks at me in horror: “She’s pooped! We need to change her.”

The man at the gate calms us down and says we have plenty of time; they won’t leave. So we do an emergency diaper change at the boarding gate. Changing her like she’s a Formula 1 car in the pit lane at Gate 1.

Finally boarded, we sanitize every inch of our seats like we’re people who have lived through a pandemic, while my wife explains to the people behind us that we’re new parents and don’t want a sick child. They kindly encourage her to clean away. The man beside us looks nervous about sitting next to a baby.

We’re nervous too. She hasn’t eaten in a while, and my wife was trying to time her feeding for takeoff. The sucking helps babies’ ears clear so they aren’t in pain and therefore don’t scream. But if we don’t take off soon, she’ll be screaming for her food. We distract her with cuddles as the plane crawls along in a new runway queue we have joined.

Just in time, the wheels go up. Our girl eats; she doesn’t seem too bothered by the pressure changes. We try to calm down from the panic by eating our tiny bag of pretzels and drinking our little apple juice. 🧃

Our daughter— who doesn’t poop that often due to being breast-fed— now decides it’s a great time for her to make another. The moment the seatbelt sign goes off I’m up. I now have the exciting privilege of changing her in the cleanest of places, an aeroplane toilet.

My wife has meticulously prepared for this, so I have a changing pack ready to go. First, I must wait for a man who clearly had some nasty food at the airport and is now depositing it on the plane. My daughter and I slide into the stall as I hold my breath. I pull down the changing table, throw down a disposable doggy pee pad to cover it, and get to work. My daughter thinks this new place is very exciting and tries to touch every surface. I keep batting her hands back towards the safety of the pad, I get her cleaned up and we make our way back to our seats, eyeing the other poop depositor as we walk down the aisle.

Now for the final and most difficult challenge with our little girl. Sleep! We spend the next hour trying to lull her to sleep as she issues some complaints about her parents to the people around us. We eventually succeed and try to take a moment to enjoy the feeling of accomplishment. It’s in this moment that the person in front of me, a white blonde lady with Mandarin tattoos she probably doesn’t understand, reclines her seat.

This time around I did make a mistake. I got a bath ready for my little girl. It was really hot so I let it sit, even threw in some ice cubes. I periodically dipped in my fingers and, as the hospital had advised us during her first bath, dipped in my elbow to test the temperature. Satisfied I’d done my due diligence, I got her ready and placed her in the water. I soon realized the water was far too hot, she started to cry.

I scooped her out, and wrapped her in a towel but it was too late. She was inconsolable, and her skin had gone bright red. I started to panic. What had I done? What do I do? Who do I call? My wife had gone to the hairdresser for the first time since giving birth and an hour into her being gone I’d injured our daughter.

I tried to console her, but I was losing it myself. Do I call her pediatrician? Do I call 911? I grabbed my phone like a man summoning a digital oracle, turned ChatGPT to voice mode and asked it what to do to help her as a first response while I tried to dry her. It told me to run some lukewarm water over her and contact a medical professional. I rushed to the shower with her.

The water poured over us and she started to relax. She likes the feeling of the water gently dripping on her, and it must have felt soothing. But her skin was still bright red, and I was really starting to freak out. Had I burnt her entire body? I had visions of her being scarred for life. Babies have such sensitive skin, I couldn’t just start putting random creams on her. I jumped out of the shower covering the tiles with water and went in search of the pediatrician’s number.

A machine answered, this was an after hours line, I should call the clinic during normal hours. Super helpful, why would it not automatically forward to the regular clinic instead of giving a long story. The slow calm recording on the end of the line was further sending me into panic as I anxiously waited for the correct number to call. “Ahhhhh” I screamed in frustration, dialing the clinic.

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They picked up and I start yelling like a lunatic about speaking to a pediatrician at once. The cell phone reception from our home is not the greatest, and the periodic screaming from my daughter was not helping. I was now playing broken telephone with the person on the end of the line, trying to get them to understand my problem. I finally get on the phone with a nurse who tells me to do exactly the same thing ChatGPT just said! They advise that there are some creams that I can get to put on her later and not to pop any blisters, I make an appointment for them to check her over. I unleash some colorful language while waddling naked through a puddle-soaked apartment, back into the shower, phone in hand.

I call my wife from the shower, she has dye still setting in her hair. She calls to the stylist to get it out, she’s got to go! As I get off the phone I start to pray. Loudly. Some of it singing, some of it gibberish, all of it desperate. I pray for help to calm down so I can do the right thing, but mostly I pray for her to be healed. My girl stops crying and settles, watching me with those big beautiful eyes. Her skin starts to return to its normal colour.

Now the doubter in me knows I overreacted. That she just got a fright from the heat and I lost my cool. But the Jesus lover in me is convinced God intervened. That He healed her. That he saved her from my mistake. Call me a loon as I step down from my soap box, but God stepped in through my weakness.

The good news is, she is completely unharmed. But I learnt a few lessons from this scare.

• Mistakes happen quickly—and often without warning.

• Always mix the bath water before retesting.

• I’d rather overreact a hundred times than under-react once and she gets hurt.

This love of animals often manifests itself through the desire to adopt those that are the most helpless - read mangy-looking. When we first started living together this came in the form of a mangy cat who lived in the bush in front of our apartment and we adopted - he deserves his own column one day - but in most instances it’s not possible to adopt the animal due to it being an elephant, lion, monkey or cheetah that we’ve seen on a game drive in South Africa.

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In Grand Cayman we have a chicken epidemic. I spoke about it in one of the first videos I made when I arrived in Cayman nine years ago. There are chickens on the beaches, chickens in the streets and naturally chickens in our backyard.

In a Snow White or perhaps Cinderella-esque move, my wife has decided to begin building a friendship with a particular hen and her three chicks who we first met at the dumpster in our strata.

Every day she, often accompanied by our daughter and very confused but interested dog, goes out to feed the hen and her three chicks rice crackers. This can be considered recycling as these rice crackers taste terrible. However it has sadly resulted in the hen moving to the hedge in front of our apartment and accosting the dog and I every time I take him out to do his ablutions.

It has also encouraged every chicken in the neighborhood to spend time hanging out in front of our apartment on the off chance that they can get some scraps left by the hen and her chicks. Walking onto our patio is starting to sound like entering a chicken coop, as the chickens race over to me, mistaking me for somebody that likes them.

I am now beginning to fear for my life as I have been chased at least three times this week by a chicken. Being the manly man that I am, I of course waved my arms about like a loon and chased them back. But let’s be real, Chicken Run must have been based on some element of truth, and they are likely plotting my demise as we speak.

I guess what I’m getting at here is if I disappear suddenly it was probably the chickens. I have been disposed of and they have made my wife their queen. Send help.

*Charlie Browns is one of hundreds of nicknames for our beloved family dog Charlie. He’s always happy to go for a walk, and often trying to speak human by grunting at us.

After unwrapping my classic best dad ever mug, and some sweet words on a card from my genius four month old, we threw the bags in the car and the family began our Cayman road trip to the North Side.

Trevor Noah’s podcast played through the car’s speakers to relax our girl while we chatted and enjoyed the beauty of the island views. White monarch butterflies decorated the land to our left while the ocean lapped at the sand on our right. Perfection.

Trevor Noah talking is the only thing that will calm our daughter down in the car. She detests being trapped in the car with the passion of a thousand burning suns.

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We stopped at a beach coffee bar to grab some delicious warm chocolate croissants. I ran into an old colleague and said hi but clearly neither of us are good at small talk so it instantly became awkward. Escaping, croissants in hand, Charlie - our faithful pup - trotting alongside me, we made it to the beach.

Going to the beach with a baby is slightly more involved than going as a couple. In addition to the usual - beach chairs, umbrella, bag with books and snacks, dog bowls, Charlie trying to pee on something inappropriate - there’s also a little human who needs to be carried and kept out of the sun with her own personal umbrella.

She comes with her own paraphernalia all of which needs to make the journey from the car to our chill spot. It kind of feels like you’re the chauffeur to a famous person who refuses to do anything to help you with their things.

The famous one had fallen asleep right at the end of the journey and was not too excited about being woken up. We made camp nearer to the car than we usually would, avoiding some people who thought it was a great idea to play their atrocious music at full blast on a peaceful Sunday morning, and got ready to relax.

Our daughter had other plans. She suffers from what my wife, along with our primary pediatrician ChatGPT, have diagnosed as nap allergies. If we dare say the word sleep she begins to fuss. So instead of reading a book, holding my wife’s hand and our daughter enjoying some much needed peaceful sleep she should have gotten on the ride over, we had to initiate the aforementioned shush train.

As I paced up and down the beach rocking my daughter to sleep over and over, boat engines and obnoxious tourists repeatedly thwarting my efforts, I had a thought. It happens sometimes. Although this parenting thing can be a tough gig, being with her and helping her work through her struggles is the only place I ever want to be.

Once she finally settled and had a little nap, we were able to set up our umbrella in the water and enjoy sitting there together. Her little toes sloshed around in the water, a face filled with wonder at the salty feeling. These moments are where the magic is.

On the drive home we called her grandparents so she could loudly let them know that we had put her back in the evil car seat, and she was not happy about it. It wasn’t until Trevor Noah returned to the sound system that she was satisfied her complaints had been heard, examining her hands as she plotted her next move.

I need to be quick! I open the fridge; its tiny light blinds me in the dark. I grab the bottle and throw it in the warmer. Then I pray. I need her not to wake up before that bottle is warm or we’re going to have a rough feeding session. I pace up and down, wishing for time to go faster and eyeing the timer as I spin on my heel for the next lap. So far, so good. The timer hits 30 seconds, my cue to get her out of the Snoo.

The SNOO is an insanely expensive smart bassinet we took a chance on, knowing it may not be successful in getting us more sleep - it certainly hasn’t.

I untangle her from the sleep sack as she groggily blinks at me, closing her eyes again as she snuggles into my arms. Success - she’s still asleep. She’s so cute. The warmer beeps in the kitchen, telling me her bottle is ready, and the moment of truth has arrived.

I grab the bottle and gently press it against her lips. She accepts it and sucks, but something is wrong. The milk is not the perfect temperature. This bottle is not Mama. Tonight, she only wants Mama. There is no warning besides a second of an upset face. We go from zero to one hundred instantly, leaving electric cars in the dust. The screaming pierces the silent night and reverberates off the walls. The dog doesn’t look up but lets out a giant sigh, keeping his eyes closed, trying to pretend this is not happening again. The shush train is immediately initiated.

The shush train is the most effective tool this dad has in his limited arsenal to soothe a screaming baby. It involves shushing, rocking, and bouncing on the balls of one’s feet.

Slowly but surely, the shush train works its magic and she goes back to sleep. It’s too late - the bedroom door creaks open, my wife is awake, and I’ve failed. Our one bedroom apartment is too small to house a peaceful sleep and an upset baby.

I slip the bottle between her lips again and this time she happily accepts it, guzzling down the warm milk as my brain tries to make sense of this late-night escapade and my failed attempt to make it quiet. The last drop gone, I lean her up, patting her back and rubbing in circles. She lets out a giant burp and I praise her profusely. Drunk on the milk she first thought was inferior I initiate the nappy change. She’s all smiles and coos, helpfully lifting her little legs to assist with the cleanup.

Ten more minutes of shush train later, she’s back in her bassinet, and I collapse into the bed with my wife. We’ll both be up within two hours for the next round.