We have a lovely son. By which I mean I will miss my wife dearly when she dies.

It's a ghastly way of starting a post, but science told me to do it. A recent study has shown that a mother's risk of death increases 7 per cent for every son they have, Scientific American reports. Daughters? Don't worry. They may actually improve life expectancy, but the results aren't statistically significant.

(I put that bit in there because my wife works with statistics, so she will know I'm taking this seriously.)

Let's get the necessary caveats out of the way first.

The study may be biased. It was based on records from the seventeenth to mid-twentieth centuries covering eight Finnish parishes. That obviously introduces questions about lifestyle and culture that could sink the whole result - or, as the authors explain, lend it strength because it removes cultural factors. Call that one-all.

The article also quotes a critic of the study who says the results have never been replicated, thus shedding doubt over the whole finding. (This doesn't seem to be the case: a 2011 study found a similar effect in China and Taiwan). Hm, calling that one for the present study.

On that basis, why are sons so bad for Mums? And, perhaps more importantly for me and our family insurance, why do Dads fare so well?

Most of the bad news is physical. Boys are heavier and hungrier for breastmilk. After that, everyone is grasping for straws, pointing to social factors such as girls just being better because they help more. (Strictly speaking, this isn't conclusive in the recent study). As parents get older, daughters are more likely to step into a caring role, even organising other siblings, so are likely to extend their parents' life rather than shorten it. More complicated issues may relate to certain cultures, the 2011 study finds:

(Strictly speaking I didn't need to quote that, but the temptation was too great.)So what about Dads?

The 2013 study excluded Dads because "women pay higher direct costs of reproduction". Having seen my wife in labour and through two complicated pregnancies, I can only agree completely with that.

But I'm willing to argue men experience a similar shortening resulting from parenting a son. It is a physical relationship (as proven by the bruise on my nose caused by a flying heel while watching an episode of Raa Raa with my almost-three year old son). There's a greater expenditure of energy as you wrestle, fight, tickle, lift up to the ceiling until your spleen explodes. In today's society, there may also be additional societal stress for working men - balancing work and life, greater family demands, more late-night work, less sleep, more alcohol. All of these have been identified as risk factors for men's health.

But back to the basics. We have a son. According to this study, that's a 7 per cent chance of my wife living a shorter life, a cut of about one year.

Yes, that's sad (if true in this case). But really, I'm not going to care about it. I'm three years older than my wife and the current life expectancy of an Australian male is 79.5. Women are expected to live to 84. So say she lives only to 83 - that's still another 6.5 years she is around after I am (on average) dead.

I will be mourned, I know. But my son will also be there for my wife. And I still have about 40 years to see my son grow - and work on research that shows he has actually extended my life.

Must go now. I have to read statistical texts to my son while he's asleep so we can start on sociology tomorrow night.

Please visit Cyanide & Happiness to show them some love. It's their take on fathering, not mine. Just want to make that clear.

But I laughed.

As far as birthday wishes go, "I have poo" probably doesn't rank in the top five. (To be fair, it depends on your criteria.) But that simple sentence heralded the start to my best birthday for more than 20 years.

It wasn't a huge celebration. There were no surprise trips to Europe, no gifts that made me appreciate our consumer culture even more than I do now. And there was very little to separate it from the day before and the day after.

And that is why it was such an improvement.

For many years I have experienced a fortnight of depression leading up to my birthday. I don't know if it the result of an internal assessment of my life that finds me wanting, or a sign of something deeper. And I really don't care to inquire, either.

But this birthday was different. I was woken by my son uttering those wonderful words ("I have poo!" - worth repeating) and then my wife starting to suggest that I take care of that little issue. But then there was a pause before she jumped up to take care of him, obviously sparked by the whole birthday thing. I smiled for a moment, appreciating the gesture, before rushing in to help. After all, she does most of the hardcore poo experiences (he's essentially toilet-trained, but there is still some homework) and, to be honest, I was still bemused by the awakening. (Having said all that, I was chivalrous and handed wipes to my wife from at least two feet away.)

That day marked the start of a week-long sojourn with old friends. We drove from Adelaide to Halls Gap for the holiday, a 530km trip that was extended by two hours because the Transport Departments of Victoria and South Australia decided it was time to repaint every exposed road marking. It was long but uneventful, but we arrived too late to indulge in a hastily-bought frozen Sara Lee Chocolate Cake. (My first - and I won't hear you knock it until you try it.)

Our friends have a lovely seven-month old girl - meaning there were times when our catch-up was occurring at two different paces as we managed children's needs. And so it was that the cake came out the next day when the others were out but we had a "time to settle" window.

We wanted to do the birthday thing so our son was familiar with the routine for his own birthday in five weeks, and so we lit the candles and began to sing - he joined in full voice. And then the "Hip-hip hooray!" - at which point he easily outshouted us. And then blowing out the candles - all him.

He out-birthday'd us.

And it was the most delightful thing I could have wished for.

So let five weeks pass and we will have another celebration, one where I can try to out-sing and out-shout my son, one where I can watch as he blows out his own candles, and one where he can enjoy the delights of his own day rather than ride in on my own.

It's not that I want a huge birthday celebration; it's just that now I seem to have something to celebrate.

Fathers are giants.

They can pick up a small child and throw him or her over one shoulder and run through the house, competing against the giggles with a whining suggestive of - but otherwise not at all like - a fire truck siren. Or that same strength, combined with anger, can be threatening when it explodes without warning. I've been in both situations.

The first case happens regularly, racing up and down the house until I run out of breath, my son calling out "Slow down, Daddy!" when I know he is loving it. (I do slow down). The latter... There was one case where I lost my temper with a low-hanging lightshade over the kitchen table. I was on edge, I was angry for no reason, and I turned around and bashed that lightshade so hard it swung and hit the roof. My little boy looked at me, confused - and I saw the beginning of a new emotion, fear.

It remains one of my most shameful moments.

I have improved my temper, but it's also interesting to see my son's temper - fiery, angry, fierce, strong. No, I'm not going to get into that question of whether I was the role model (I believe it is an inherent trait) and yes, the lampshade deserved it. Between you and I, it doesn't have much longer in this house.

But I digress.

Fathers are giants. They are physically strong, carrying bags that children can't budge, carrying children that won't budge. They are emotionally strong, providing the consistency of love, discipline and protection within which children can grow, learning their own limitations and those limitations that define a good character. And fathers are necessarily strong, doing the things that need to be done.

This week provided such an opportunity. We have two cats. One is very pretty. She stuggles to catch moths but will stand her ground when other cats approach her territory. Her name is Paris because she is pretty but very dumb like... No, I don't need to go there. The other one is sooky but is also the huntress of the house. Malika catches birds and mice, and then needs a cuddle late at night.

She was at the back door this week, so I let her in - only seeing the shadow in her mouth after she disappeared under a couch. There was then a crunching sound, a munching sound, squelching even. Yes, a mouse, judging by the last bit of the tail she was eating like spaghetti. She had caught another mouse a few weeks back and disappeared under the bed. My wife asked me to remove the mouse - which, only five minutes later, was only one-third of a mouse. Not even a half-eaten bit.

This time, it was all gone. All tidied up with only the image of that dancing tail to disturb me. Five minutes later, the wretching began. We know she has a weak stomach (poor thing, unbalanced diet, obviously) and it is always my job to clean the vomit. In this case, barely-digested meat with dark, wet, furry patches and bits that I tried not to identify but somehow stay in my head.

Now, I know this doesn't rate up there with being a giant of a man. I'm not building a rumpus room for my children with a couple of bricks, a tarpaulin and knowledge of medieval architecture and projectile weapons. (Thank God for the internet, though!) But to my mind, that's what a Dad is. Your job is to do the things that need to be done. Like cleaning up cat vomit, wrangling spiders without resorting to chemical treatments and finally, killing baby birds dying painfully on a footpath on a hot summer day.

You can be squeamish, you can hate it, but you can be relied upon to do it. It ties in with a sense of duty, or perhaps is just a mark of character, but I would love to raise a son and daughter with that strength of purpose. And if I can do that by being that, I will try.

For the record, the temper is still there, just better managed. And for the record, by reading this, my wife is put on notice it is now her turn to clean up cat vomit. Oooh, yes, and there's no time limit on that one.

My son loves to draw. Energetic squiggly lines racing across the page ("a sheep"), a frenzy of yellow ("a pineapple, the sheep is going shopping") and a ball of bustling brown ("the sheep is going to buy doughnuts").

(Ok, the sheep wasn't going to buy doughnuts, but if it is going to the shops it may as well buy some. Thank you. And no, I'm not sharing.)

It is the only activity where he is able to sit for any length of time. Kicking a ball? Once, twice, and then on to the next thing. Jigsaw puzzles? Mum and Dad can finish that. Drawing and craft? Fine, give me the scissors and glue and leave me alone.

You can link this to some family ability.

One of his grandfathers is a professional illustrator and was a car designer of note involved in the design of the original Monaro. And his father (me - sadly, we don't do great-grands in our family) has a healthy drawing ability that was never fully developed for reasons that may shortly become apparent.

My wife and I were going through boxes - a hobby that will keep us busy for many years to come - and discovered exercise books we had each drawn when we were five. Mine was a project for a trip to Queensland; my wife's was the product of a European adventure. But the difference... Ok, let's just suggest all psychologists and counsellors should start charging now.

Three pictures stand out from my project. The first shows a round young face with streams of tears from each eye, and scrawled across the top (with advanced writing skills, if I do say so myself) is "no one will guess who this is". Another picture shows an angry-looking man with a raised arm entitled "Dad". And then there is an obviously female figure standing next to a child in bed with the words "I like you".

For the record, there was no physical abuse, so don't read too much into this. Think of it instead as a reflection of emotional tension.

And my wife's pictures? Double-decker buses, buildings, rivers - all objects with people added as an apparent afterthought, all without colour or faces..

Again, don't read into this. She hates buses.

We settled into the obvious comparison. She is a matter of fact person; there was no need for colour in her functional drawings and their grounded depiction of objects.

Mine obviously reflect massive emotional tension in that trip - anger, sadness, a need for comfort that was provided for - but also shows bold strokes, a personality brimming with colour and confidence. (With obvious need for future therapy).

Right, now you can all judge me, let's turn to my son's happy and healthy drawing.

As they take form, are they going to reflect happiness? Or will they reflect the distress and anger when we deny him a second glass of milk because he's just delaying bedtime again, misinterpreted 40 years later as a sign of a deeply flawed childhood?

A bigger question for me: Will I stand over him as he draws, watching for questionable pictures taking shape, only to jump out and yell "I'm fun and brimming with enough love to underpin a strong character for you and your future?" Or do I instead see those pictures forming, rush out and wrestle the pencil or texts from his hand as I throw colored paper, scissors and Clag at him like an emotional smokescreen?

Perhaps I take the middle ground: interrogation. Who is this? Where? When? Why? What is happening? I CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!

Sorry, carried away at the thought of a Movie Night.

So again, fatherhood becomes less about absolutes and more about becoming a detective. Or perhaps even a mixed Yoda/Bene Gesserit vision of the future, constantly shifting and clouded with emotion, looking for clues that can be interpreted one way while being completely different.

Could there be anything worse than this second guessing? Of course.

In looking for something, I actually create the idea, thereby creating the very thing I was trying to avoid in the first place. Sort of like a time-travel plot ... But you only get one chance.

What?

Oh, yeah. That's just life.

Ok, I'm admitting defeat on this. He gets to draw. I don't censor or interfere. And in 40 years, he gets to wonder why all of his drawings have doughnuts in them.

We're all happy.

My generation has a lot of explaining to do when our kids hit 18.

Climate change?

"Well, yeah, we sort of knew, but it was difficult getting everyone to agree on what we needed to do. I mean, this stuff is really complex. So, yeah, we're sorry, but you were the one who wanted to play soccer/go to theatre/hiking/dancing/boarding school/interstate cribbage championships, and how were we going to get there and back? Fossil fuels, that's how, so it's really your fault if you think about it carefully."

Social imbalance?

"Well, yeah, we sort of knew, but it was difficult getting everyone to agree on what we needed to do. I mean, this stuff is really complex. So, yeah, we're sorry, but you were the one who wanted to play soccer/go to theatre/hiking/dancing/boarding school/interstate cribbage championships, and how were we going to get there and back? Global economic trade, arbitrage and exploitation of advantage, that's how, so it's really your fault if you think about it carefully."

It was never going to be that easy so I decided to prepare my son from an early age with the background knowledge that would prepare him for his stewardship of this planet. 

At night I would point to the Moon and explain it was really a huge rock that was continually falling towards the Earth, matching rotational speeds to the point where the same aspect always faced our planet. And then there were the concepts of waning and waxing, frame dragging and Lagrange points - difficult enough for a 40-year old, let alone a baby aged six months.

Of course, one day he would need to vote so we spoke about Parliamentary Democracy, Republicanism and the inherent weaknesses of alternative models. I think he grasped the essential points, but he got all cynical and farty when I tried to explain the concept of a hung Parliament and its failure in the face of absolute politicking.

But he's now almost three, so it's time he took responsibility for his world. And all the others.

My generation (and yes, I'm looking at you, even if you're a different age), my generation dropped the ball on Pluto. Nine planets, a couple of asteroid belts - all well and good until August 2006 when the International Astronomical Union declared a planet could only be a planet if it's orbiting the sun, is shaped by its own gravity and has cleared its own orbit. Unfortunately, Pluto couldn't carry its weight and so was consigned to the new class of dwarf planets competing against a new role-call of Trans-Neptunian Objects.

So somehow I have to explain to my son that I've lost a planet, effectively cut our Solar System by more than 11 per cent, and I still have an addiction to fossil fuels and concerns with this current iteration of Parliamentary Democracy.

And then last week there came a lifeline: There is a competition to name Pluto's two new moons. The proposed names are in keeping with convention: Acheron, Alecto, Styx, Vulcan and nine others all named after Greek and Roman underworld figures.

That's fine for posterity, but I think it lacks perspective. We are not naming these moons for the past, we are naming for the future. And on my rough count above, we're not doing well so far.

So I did the right and proper thing: I asked my son what Pluto's moons, P4 and P5, should be named. I explained the significance of the issue and linked it to his existing knowledge of our own Moon (a four-day old waxing crescent a touch over 394,437km away when this post went live) so he was prepared for the decision. After all, it is his responsibility to justify to his children and peers the outermost face of our Solar System.

According to him, the first moon (P4) is to be henceforth known as "Mighty Poo". This may have had something to do with toilet training, and his language made it sound more like "My Tee Poo", but he has made his decision, and I am going to let him take responsibility for that.

Pluto's second moon, previously known as P5, also has a new name: "It Go Wing Wing". To be fair, this is somehwat reminiscent of our journey home - I was met at the train station, and the train warning bells go "ding ding" or "wing wing" as we all know - but again, it is his decision.

So those people who favour Hercules, Hypnos or Orpheus, move over. My son has spoken. He wants none of your stultifying tradition, none of your ties to a past that decided to throw off one planet and create a new list of more than 1200 objects. No, for him, Mighty Poo and It Go Wing Wing will faintly haunt the night sky, looking over him as he plays and sleeps, lives, loves and grows old.

And as for the International Astronomical Union - God, I'm sorry. So sorry. I really did expect to get something better than that.

(Image credit: NASA/ESA/M. Showalter)

A friend called Mike once said his biggest challenge as a father was moderating his emotions in front of his children. His mind is creative, filled with absurdity, images, music, joy and delight - and their dark counterpart. But his main concern was protecting his children from the emotional ripples that charted his disturbance.
I have the same concerns.

Just when I wasn't expecting it - and in spite of my efforts to avoid the trap - I find myself trapped in the 1950s. (Not the cool bit that is shown on Mad Men, you know, the styling, the tight scripts and the acceptability of long lunches with alcohol-fuelled creativity.) I have become the main breadwinner, responsible for covering our bills and providing a reasonable standard of living. Yes, it is a first world problem - others survive on far less with fewer complaints - but the doubts, frustrations and dumb setbacks drain all the enthusiasm that was once there. And I can't leave immediately because I am the main breadwinner, charged with providing. Providing.

Don't worry. This isn't about wallowing. There is a point to be made.

These emotional perturbations haunt me. They sap the colour from moments I am sharing with family, from precious moments I have with my son. I can remember sitting with him while he was playing. Five minutes later, I awoke, realising I had been completely absorbed with my escalating imbalance. And I reach out to put myself in the moment once again but then realise he's moved on.

So that may be a little overdramatised but how do I protect him from my own emotional issues? Can I? And will that make a difference?

I can remember feeling my mother's raw, angry emotions - but not the age at which they began to register. In some ways, I credit those experiences with my own emotional awareness. At the toughest end, I implicity learned the emotional states that invited exchange, and those that shut people out to protect the self.

But is that right?

There's probably no choice in the matter. My son has to cope with the father he has, a man who laughs easily but struggles to control the loudness that shouts down reasonable self-belief. And it may be that my son will have his own issues. He may reflect on my experiences as years pass, perhaps even understand them to a degree. I'm yet to achieve that point with my own father, so it's an unknown, but given the emotion is real and can only be contained to a limited degree, perhaps I need to accept that and try to normalise it, explain it.

And, just maybe, in his own innocent way, my son will provide the answser. He is sleeping in the next room at the moment, his breath strong and vital. And tomorrow he will spend the day with Mum, shopping and playing. When I come home tomorrow my head will be filled with thoughts, self-doubt, self-loathing, frustration, anger and confusion. And he will be there to forgive me and to trust me, calling out "Daddy! Daddy!" before cheekily bowling me over, heralding an hour of trying to shepherd this wonderful creature into bed to recover from another exciting day so he can amaze us with his new steps the next day.

And my role? I am a provider. I am a frustrated and, at times, angry man. But above all I am a father, charged with protecting my son from the doubts that being a father raises, from the challenges and frustration I feel. And perhaps just one more day of his beauty and love - his magnificent innocence, delight and cheekiness - and pure energy that is my son will push out everything else and leave me with the quiet mind I need. The mind I need to enjoy the growing boy he is.

Usual busy morning. Breakfast, battle over getting dressed, battle over whether nappy gets changed, battle over where nappy gets changed, actual nappy change finally occurs to save the world from the evil that has been created, wash hands, brush teeth, get bags, get to the car for the drop-off at child care and then off to work.

I'd be grumpy too.

So to break the cycle of frustration (including a record 20 minutes to get a t-shirt on) we try something that I really need to do every day. We play for 10 minutes.

This morning it is his doctor's kit. I'm given the doctor's ID badge and told to wear it for the day (still in my pocket as I approach work) and he begins to heal my aches and pains.

My left index finger is the focus.

"It's sore," I say, and he begins to work on it. He pulls out a clamp and holds it and then the syringe comes out, and injects into my finger.

"Ah, that's better. All fixed!" I say.

A few moments later the hyper-critical part of my brain engages and I realise I have potentially opened a way for my treasured son - a boy likely to engage his potential, to connect with society while standing apart from it to mindfully assess how he can improve the world - I have opened the door for him to become a druggie.

Thought process: pain is felt (input) - must fix pain (assessment) - use drugs to stop pain (solution) - drugs will solve everything (I blame my lost life on my thoughtless father).

And then comes the most wonderful words from my son: "Your finger is sore again".

"Yes it is."

"I will fix it."

He clamps my finger, just like I've shown him, and then applies the syringe.

This time I'm ready to save my son from a drug-addled life.

"Oh, thank you so much. It doesn't hurt as much anymore. But we still have to fix the problem, to make it better. Can you do that?"

"Yes," he says and pulls out scissors to cut off my finger.

Lessons learned today: Drugs are not the solution, and I am an awesome Dad.

Why third guessing? Quite simple, really: I wanted to move beyond second guessing. And just as the third age is supposed to be the answer to everything, surely the third guessing must get you so close to the answer as to be right?

Ok, I'm obviously not an expert in number theory so let's just play the averages and hope it all works out.

This is simply an attempt to make some sense of what has become a convoluted life. Married happily for eight years, one son about to turn three, a brief life for our much-loved premature daughter, a good job that has started to pale - and there is now a realization that, despite all my efforts, I have to be disciplined and responsible. Well, more disciplined and responsible.

I'm not that bad now, but that desire to make significant changes when you're the main income earner... Yeah, it's the first time I've felt that since my son was born and it's a constant these days, shadowing my every move at work and eating away in the dark recesses of my mind on Sunday afternoons.

The last major change was much easier, and that involved a change of city (Melbourne to Adelaide), a change of career (accountancy to journalism) and a change of pace (what - Melbourne accountancy to Adelaide journalism isn't enough for you?)

So this Third Guessing is simply a chance to explore what's going on as it goes on. I'll be upfront about most of my mistakes and welcome any suggestions that follow about how to avoid them the next time.

And maybe you will learn to trust me a bit and share your own stories, good and bad. I'll start the ball rolling, but I really look forward to not being the only one out here.

(So now it's almost midnight and I know my wife will ask me why I bother complaining about being tired when I stay up too late, night after night. She's right, of course, but now I'm left contemplating how to end a post that is an invitation and therefore has no definitive ending... Perhaps you now have a little more sympathy for my predicament or can maybe see a little bit of my plight in your life. And that is what is going to get us through.)