I love summer. It is by far the best season of the year.
If you disagree with this purely factual statement there’s a high chance you are not a human being but one of our lizard overlords.
Being a regular human person and summer-lover myself, I was determined that my newborn son would follow in my footsteps and embrace the joys of the sun, the beach and the miracle that is Kane Williamson on a cricket pitch. So as summer approached this year, my wife and I set out to make sure our boy would enjoy an idyllic New Zealand summer.
We started strong. Walks down to the beach most mornings. Picnics in the backyard in the afternoon. Beers, white bread and fish n chips for tea, and hanging out with mates as much as our overtired bodies would allow us.
It was perfect.
And bubba hated pretty much all of it.
Maybe it was that his eyeballs weren’t quite ready for the sandblasting on offer at most Christchurch beaches. It also could have been that he didn’t appreciate the mild sunburn he got one afternoon, or the fact that most nights he was not allowed a second beer (for any literalists out there, this is an example of a joke).
Somewhat disappointingly, his general disposition whenever we were outdoors seemed to communicate something along the lines of, “Guys, I’m a baby, not a twenty-three-year-old German backpacker”.