Ollie was particularly difficult this evening—he talked back rudely at me, did not want to go upstairs like he was supposed to and refused to get into the shower.

But not once did I raise my voice at him. That never was my style.

Neither did I negotiate with the little terrorist. Like the United States, I’ve always believed that merely endorses an act which is not encouraged.

Instead, I reasoned with him, explaining to him why certain things, like getting into the shower, needs to take place every night. This method has always worked for me, but it takes time, and a whole bucket of patience. When he was a year and a half, this little song and dance would last up to an hour and a half. In hindsight, I can say that the time investment was worth it. No, I did not spend an hour trying to convince him. I’d merely state my position and go about doing my work. After realising he’d not get any attention from me till he had done what he was supposed to do, he’d eventually cave in. These days it takes me five seconds to get him into the shower, ten minutes at most, I think wholly because he knows I can’t be convinced away from my stance, and that I have all the patience in the world to wait him out.

Tonight it took me five minutes to get him upstairs and ten minutes to get into the shower, which to me is light years by my current standards. Still, I was patient with him. In the shower he had a lot of fun, collecting soap suds in a small bucket. He wasn’t too happy when I called a timeout for shower time, and he decided to fling his bucket of water at me. I thwarted his attempt in the nick of time by hitting the bucket out of his hand. This was when I almost lost it with him.

I knelt down next to him and asked him why he did what he did. From the sternness of my voice he could tell I was very angry. And he apologised.

This is what I’ve learned over my three years of being a Dad. Almost every time I’ve lost my temper with Oliver, I’ve felt guilty afterwards. And I always end up apologising to him. I don’t know if this happens to other parents, but my kid can still find it within himself to look up to me, to treat me like the biggest hero, mere minutes after I’ve given him the scolding of his life. It is always at this point that I realise this, that no one has the power to make feel so small, as my son.

People have always asked me what the secret to being a great parent is. I tell them it is patience. A limitless amount of it. Love is patient. Love is kind. Be patient with your little one, and you’re half way there.

Unfortunately, a lot of the meat is still missing. I’m only at 9,900 words. I started out by writing the how the story began, but my mind raced ahead to write the middle, and random chapters in between. I can’t seem to pen my thoughts down fast enough. And life seems to get in the way… freelance projects to help us stay afloat, paying the bills, mopping up the mess left behind from those savage monkeys, being a husband, being a dad.

But I guess that’s life. You just have to learn how to navigate around the cones. But this is why we work. To stay afloat, to pay the bills, to buy BB Guns, to be a breadwinner to your wife and your kid.

Sophie is carrying what some of you may consider your biggest nightmare, a smaller version of the two of us rolled into one.

I’ve been warned by Sophie not to say too much about the ejaculate conception so all I will divulge is that it was a cool night in Cairo, and it wasn’t only the camels who had a hump that night.

To date we’ve been to one ultra sound. The baby was bouncing up and down, and we could see the hands, head and legs. I have pictures but I’ll spare you. In my opinion, all ultrasounds look alike – a black and white version of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Expected delivery date is mid Nov.