There's never a camera when you need it

There it was.

A rogue hair in the dinner.
And another on the table.
And a bunch in the plughole of the bath.

Yep... its that time again.
Oh yeah, {to the tune of Hammertime}, Moulting time.

As with all things baby related, the changes not only come thick and fast for the bub, but also for their long suffering mum.

In the case of hair loss, its all down to mum's hormone levels, cos during pregnancy the oestrogen thingys delay the hair folicle growth resting phase when the hair normally falls out. This delay leads to luschous manes and hence sexy mums.

But, as an old lecturer of mum and dad used to say, what you gain on the swings you lose on the roundabouts, and hence, a few months after birth... out comes all that extra hair and the Farrah Fawcett phase comes to a close.

All in one big "waiter there's a dozen hairs in my soup" fashion.

(In fact there's one of the blighters on the keyboard here as we write.)

If only losing a few extra hairs was all mum had to endure.

Lets just say, at least in Mistress P's case, swimming can be dangerous.

Especially if you're mum to a spectacularly keen little fish (lets, for sake of argument, call him Master M) who has developed a Thorpy-like kick off the pool wall.

Cos that's what he did.

(Just as instructed by his coach.)

Do a Thorpy-like kick hard off the wall.

And headbutt (with the back of his head) mum clean in the eye, knocking her semi-senseless and giving her a doozy of a shiner.

Ouch.

Strangely, dad's suggestion that mum just put purple eyeshadow on the other peeper to match wasn' t taken seriously. Or, for that matter, appreciated.

"And don't go round doing that 'she burnt the chops' joke either" warned the black eyed one.

Right you are.

For some reason, the past fortnight has actually been a succession of such "Funniest Home Video" moments, if not non-PC jokes.

At least one involves Little Miss S, who at the ripe old age of 5 and a bit months, is finally able to sit up on her own.

(You kinda forget how such little milestones actually are so big.)

Ok, she can't actually get herself vertical on her own, but once plonked in position she can balance there for a fair old while and seems dam pleased with herself into the process.

However, and as alluded to by the "for a while" bit, she inevitably overbalances sideways and clonks her head on the ground/pillow/parent.

That said, not all the video moments in the

household involve getting clonked (unlike on the show).

For instance, what do you get if you mix a 2.75 year old who keeps wanting to go faster, a 40th birthday party out in a park in the (36°C) heat, a playground complete with "wizzy teacup thing" that you sit inside and spin round at warp speed, and eating too many chips?

(You're probably way ahead of us already.)

Dad was watching from afar, and suddenly noticed the "whoop whoops" of an excited lad had turned into a sudden and decidedly un-2.75 year old quietness plus a chameleon-like colour change to some shade of green.

Dad leapt up.

Ran over.

Stopped the cup.

"You ok mate?"

Lets just say the reply was in technicolour, covered much of the teacup/playground including wider surrounds, and that its always amazing how much more it seems when its coming out rather than going in.

Poor lad.

That said, we are actually very proud of some of the stuff that comes out of him. Or rather, his growing ability to control it.

Yes, we have a lad who is almost (...almost)... {da da daaa daaaa} potty trained.

The process thus far has involved wall charts of stickers, a couple of Thomas the Tank Engine bribes, a bag of Freddo frogs (rewards for a dump well done), and Rory the racing car - who is really Lightning McQueen - pull-ups soon replaced by a six pack of 'Rory' Reg Grundies.

The turning point may well have been his childcare.

Dad arrived to take the boy home to find the lad dancing round a pole.
As you do. (Thankfully minus the heels and g-string.)

When he saw dad he bolted over, dispensed with the customary hug, grabbed dads hand and lead him away.
To the dunny.

Dropped his duds.

Dropped his pull-ups.

Sat up on the (special mini kiddie) toilet.
Did a wee.
Jumped off.
Put on his pull up.

Pulled up his pants.

Fushed the loo.
Washed his hands.

Dried them with paper towel.

Put his rubbish in the bin.

Then stood there - all smiles and waiting for applause.

And well he might.

What a bloody good effort.

Encore!

But it didn't end there.

Fast forward a few days and there's Mum, freshly out from the morning shower and enjoying a moments solitude.

She hears footsteps and a pushing at the closed bathroom door.

Followed soon after by a rattling at the closed and latched back door flyscreen.

Then quick running steps down the corridor and the distinct creaking and clanking of the front door being swung open.

Then.
Silence.

Mum realises the boys done a runner, out into the street.

Flings on a robe, bolts through the house and bounds out into the front yard praying not to see boy pizza on the tarmac/that her bits are all exposed to the general populace walking by, only to find...

Master M, middle of the front yard, duds 'round the ankles and pull-up at half mast, having a wee on the grass. A Funniest Home Videos moment if ever there was one.

(Note image for someone travelling past: Front yard of dying grass containing a somewhat dishevelled and panting lady in dressing gown and sheepskin slippers standing next to her naked son while he's having a wizz on the lawn. We're all class here in the Baghdad end of Hampton. Here's hoping the Googlemaps Street View car wasn't driving past.)

But as dad points out, this is also one of the key realisations when becoming a man:

The world is my toilet.

(Dad is so proud.
Always.)

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Festival of the firsts

Ok. We don't know what's been put in the water round here (aside from flouride and some form of soma), but 2010 is already proving the Year of the First.

We're talking real life-changing, big-time, no-going-back from here matey, firsts.
With a capital F.

For little Miss S, well it almost comes with the territory, being a professional card-carrying 5-month old and all that.

She's had her first shower in a real shower. And not even a water saving one (ohh... errr...).

Her first meal in a pub (the Dava in Mt Martha; scored five 'Yeehas!' out of five on the playground scale from Mike, though inversely scored five rat droppings out of five on the Gordon Ramsey "Fook me this is crap!" scale for the food.)

Her first time in a cot (as opposed to a basinette).

Her first sleep in her own room (well, mum's study really).

Her first sleeping bag.

Her first roll over from back to front (soon mastered).

And then her first roll from front to back (arguably still a fluke).

And then there was the biggies....

After gradually showing more and more interest in the family dinner times, and not being content any more with being banished to the rocker on the floor, she was plonked on a lap. Which lead to her staring intensely at every mouthful of food ingested by mum, dad and the bamix (imagine the mess a bamix would make if applied to your dinner at the table. Thats about what happens when a 2.75 year old is let loose on a plate of spiral pasta bolognese with a fork). And arguably her first genuine whinge.

Hence, and somewhat contrary to WHO guidlines, it was time for...

...her first solid food.
MMmmmm... mashed banana...!
Slurped off her mums fingers like a 4.5 month old possessed (Date: 29/12/2009)

She's now had an assortment of textures and flavours, with the current fave being farax (i.e., rice meal) mixed with Gold 26 formula milk and a formerly frozen cube of pumpkin.
Or Banana.
But never the two at once.

This solid food caper has, inevitably and unfortunately, lead to her first...
...stinky poo.
(Description removed for the weak of stomach.)

The other biggy from the girl was, finally, after literally a couple of months of persistant coaxing... drinking from a bottle.
First 50ml (in one go).
Then 100ml.
Then 150ml.

To the uninitiated this means... freeeedom.
Mum no longer has to be within tittie flopping-out distance of the lass at all times, rather she can indeed rock and roll all night and party every day, safe in the knowledge that her bub wont starve without her.

Of course mums boobs may explode unless vacuum pumped at regular intervals, but that's a relatively minor inconvenience in the grande old scheme of things. (The aforementioned bottle feeding also lead to a mum first by the way... her first full day back at work without bub.)

The final first for little Miss S; well being of the climate-changed generation (Gen Z the internet generation - phooey), it was about time she went through her first 43.6°C (110.5F) day. After all, her brother had already seen four of them; seriously and sadly, the same number as anyone who lived the entire 20th century in Master M's Melbourne.

The corresponding night was also the equal hottest Melbourne night (minimum 30.6C) since records began in 1856.
Indeed we knew it was hot; the boy kept demanding that his "heater" be turned off.
"Mate" reasoned dad, "that's a fan - it'll keep you cool."
"TURN. HEATER. OFF!"
"ohhhkaaay..."

Yawningly... there's one first still lacking from the little Miss S tally.
Sleep.
Not one full nights kip through in five months.
Sleep oh sleep; why have you forsaken us?

Of course the firsts don't end with the girl.
The Boy is racking them up at a fine pace too... can't be outdone by your little siss after all.

The big BIG first was the first poop in the loo.

Explanatory note: If you don't have kids; imagine the joy you'd get from lying in your favourite chair at your favourite spot in the world eating your favourite food from your favourite chef all the while having horizontal mumbo with the A-list celebrity your spouse has given "ok, if you ever get the chance you can bonk them, {sigh}" rights to, well... thats approximately half the pleasure you'd get from not having to change one nappy overtopping with crap cos the kid deposited it themselves in the toot.

This is all part of the first attempt at potty training.

As a result, right now we are on high level "Spencer" alert; that be "Spencer" from the Thomas the Tank Engine movie. (The boys first ever full length movie by the way.)
Hence...
A wall chart, stickers, and 20 poops/wees and Master M is on the first bus, front row, to Spencer city.
He is somewhat excited.
So are wee (scuse pun).
He's almost one of us.
Nappie-less.

As part of this pot-trainin' process we've also had...

His first day in Reg Grundies. Or at least first few hours...
...a little boy emerged running into the unfortunately closed bathroom door pleading "potty!", the delay resulting in somewhat sodden nethers and subsequent demanding for a Pull-up.

"No mate, you want undies" recommended dad.

"NO!" replied the boy, while raiding the change table, finding himself the last "Rory the Racing Car" (who is actually Lightning McQueen from the movie Cars, but lets not burst a bubble here), Pull-up. Putting it on himself (itself a first) and tearing off like a man possessed.

Note to selves: leave door open.

Finally... a first for dad.

Or rather three.
All unfortunate, all (possibly) related to lack of sleep, and all demonstrating why mum is amazing in how togther she is after 5 months of waking nightly.

First first (and one for the "don't tell the council nurse/Victoria police" file.)

First drive off in the car with boy unbuckled. (Only discovered when approaching the home driveway and the rear view mirror revealed a boy standing up, getting himself ready to leave prior to the car coming to a stop.)

Second first: Arrive home, same trip, to find the house front door wide open. (To any burglars watching.. note; first time. And we have a cricket bat.)

Third first: juggling the two kiddies (and himself) to get breakfasted, dressed and de-pooped, dad managed to successfully burn, nay cremate, SEVEN slices of toast!
Seriously.
Seven.
They were counted out as they dropped into the compost bin; the rats (after their entree at the Dava) ate well that night.

Ahh... the festival of the firsts.
January 2010.
You gotta love it.



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Xmas 2009; Doin' it for the kids

We made it out alive.

From Xmas day that is.

The girl's first ever and the boy's first where he actually understood the concepts of Santa, presents, being good and eating till plum pud pours out your pores.

Unfortunately Master M didn't seem to quite grasp the associated concepts of:

a) Giving people what they want ("What do you want to get Dad Mike?" questioned mum. "Salty!!" {Salty being a Thomas the tank engine character...})

b) Keeping presents secret ("Dad, Dad,... I got you Salty!!")

c) The exact date of Xmas ("Dad, Dad,.. open your Salty present NOW!!!" ...demanded on Xmas eve.)

d) Sharing ("Dad, Dad,... you share your toys; I want Salty!" declared the boy.
"Ok... I'll give you Salty if you give me Bill {one half of 'Bill&Ben' of Thomas engine fame; not the doper weeds}" replied Dad.
"NOOOO!!!!" cried the lad. "I have both! Gimme Salty.")

Such a day was, we imagine, fairly typical of a million kiddies houses in Melbourne alone.

The girl, of course, had little concept of what in the wide wide world of sports was going on, other than this coloured paper stuff was great to chew on and sparkly ribbon things got caught in your toes.
Hence her antics were decidedly everyday.

Eat.

Poo.

Sleep.

Cry.
All the good stuff.

Ok, she rolled about a bit and indeed displayed many feats of strength as discussed previously.

And she did seem rather chuffed with a couple of her pressies; the soft-yet-crinkly book (which she chewed) and most of all the teething ring from Nana that she gummed on for much of the day.

For the boy, however, it was anything but ordinary.

The fun started at the ford-foresaken hour of 6:15am.

There was the sound of little footsteps and a muffled "ooohhhh..." followed by the unmistakable rustling of wrapping paper being interrogated by little fingers.

"Hey Mike,... whadchya doing?" mum called.

"Errr.... n.o.t.h.i.n.g...." came the all too innocent reply.

"Has Santa been?" dad queried.

"YESSS!!!"

There was clearly going to be no stopping of this irresistible force, hence out of bed it was for all and sundry to the wonderful sound of sparrows farting.

Granted the boy was a little confused about the actual status of Santa's visit. The problem being that the little bit of milk left in the glass and mostly eaten Christmas cake and crumbs left on the side table by the tree actually said to him that Santa hadn't been. Or rather, as there were left overs, he was at least due back.

At this juncture we offer some worldly advice.

One trap for young players that we learnt from last year; don't have all the chocky for breakfast - the sugar rush is too much for a present tearing toddler to bear and it all ends in tears about an hour later. Instead we had tea/hot milk and toast while perched in front of the brand spanker new "Hero of the Rails" Thomas full length feature movie.

All before 7am.

It was almost sane.

Presents done, it was off to the paternal family do.

More food, more kiddies, more chaos, and a wonderful walk to the beach afterwards to burn up the pore pouring pud.

This, of course, being our second Christmas feast of the week.

Two days earlier it had been the maternal nosh up, complimented by a good old Aussie stinker of a hot afternoon (39degC /102.2F) to go with the roast chicken, amazingly yummy nutloaf for the vegetarians (which always gets dad singing "nutloaf city limits"; he cracks himself up), lashings of gravy and the funny hats/terrible jokes.

Finally, and in the spirit of dad's Welsh ancestors sending all the pre-pubescent boys 'down pit', we give you a Christmas tale of father and son.

Dad had received a remote control plane for Christmas.

It is small and very light and hence quite twitchy in a bayside seabreeze.

Add that to the fact that dad is at best an amateur aviator/moron and you get a plane performing a perfect stuka divebomb into the backyard hedge and ending up on the ground wedged deep behind the undergrowth against the fence.

"Awww crumbs {or words to that effect}" said dad, as he tried to think of ways to retrieve the damn thing from the impenetrable wilds of suburban Melbourne.

"Mmmm... small hole under bush; dad too big (especially after pud) for hole; must find something small and monkey-like... HEY BOY!?!?"

Hence;
One boy sent down pit.
One plane rescued.
One dad happy/possibly in breach of UN child labour laws,
One Xmas saved.

But of course it's all about the kids.

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Festivus and the rest of us

Ah, Xmas.

The silly season.

In the little house at the Baghdad-end of Hampton we appear to have a split in the ranks when it comes to the festive season.

First there's the girl.

For those with a working knowledge of Seinfeld, little Miss S appears to have adopted the Costanza family tradition of Festivus (for the rest-of-us), including a fascination with alumimium poles (high strength to weight ratio so the dangling toys can be yanked upon with force - though traditionally our household has actually had a stick; seriously), airings of grievencences (i.e., lots of crying when in need of cuddles/nappy/feeding) and finally, most importantly, displays of feats of strength.

In the Seinfeld version this final aspect from Festivus involved wrestling the head of the family to the floor until they were pinned.
It could take hours.
However little Miss S has chosen to demonstrate her feats in ways peculiar to herself.
Namely: 1) a vice like grip on any finger to stray within reach, including the subcutaneous fingernail insertion (dads still too scared to cut them after last time), 2) atomic powered tummy time, completely with head raised in a super up-dog yoga pose, and 3) the most impressive feat of strength of all, her incredible tummy crunches/sit ups.

No, we've never heard of a 4 month old doing sit ups either, and yes, we're serious.

She lies on her back and lifts and holds her upper body in the air for ages, cooh'ing and ahh'ing as she goes.

The girls going to have better abba-dabba's than Sports Illustrated-era Elle. (Lock up your men folk. No, seriously. Lock em up.)

The boy on the other hand appears to be a bit of a Yuletide traditionalist; he's a Santa man.

Hence; "I phone Santa!" announces the lad at seemingly random intervals.

Case in point - family at the evening dinner table.
Boy dials north pole on imaginary phone (here's hoping he has one of those cheap phone cards).
"Brrrring Brrrring, Brrrring Brrring..."
{Dad, hiding behind little Miss' S head on the opposite side of the dinner table...}
"Hello. You've reached Santa's workshop. Your call may be recorded for evaluation purposes. To assist us to provide the best possible service, please press (1) if you've been naughty or (2) for nice."
{Boy, somewhat confused, takes a little while to make a decision:}
"1 and 2!" he announces proudly. (Score one for honesty...)

Similarly, on the way home from one birthday/Xmas BBQ and onto another, the lad decided that a follow-up call to the big man was in order, as he'd spied a "Bill&Ben" Thomas trainset that morning that he had (note, not just "wanted") to have.

Therein began a half hour conversation with the dude in a red suit.

From the front seats we could hear the following;
"Santa, how are you...?
...I check my list ok???
...I already have a guitar!
...Thomas - yes.
...Bill&Ben.
...Dad! Santa wants to speak to you!"

And so on and so on.

We were in fact heading to the (amazing) Mothers group BBQ where Santa him very self was due to pop by from the North Pole (via Highett) at precisely 5pm. Hence dad did a little checking when handed the 'phone'...

"Hello Santa" said dad, speaking into his fingers as he negotiated the partly tipsy drivers of Hawthorn East on the last Sat'dy before Xmas, wondering what is there would be a traffic infringement for chatting on an imaginary phone...
"Hmmm.... yes, he's been good.
...yes, Sarah too!
...Oh, Bill and Ben? Yes, he'd like that.
{Big grin observed from the back seat}
...Ohhh. Really. Today? We'll see you in half an hour then?
Would you like to speak to Michael?"

And so on and so on.

The end result of all this was an incredibly familiarity between Saint Nic and Master M, and hence when Santa really did turn up at the BBQ half an hour later, Master M was ready.

Front and centre, standing slap bang in the middle and within beard whipping distance of the big man the whole time; the entire kiddie cast of the Mothers group otherwise sitting politely behind him on their rugs.

"Sit down in front!" was the call from the photographer mums. (And fair enough too; Master M would have been in every shot of every child on Santa's knee.)

When eventually Santa pulled a pressie from the big sack for Master M, the lad lept onto Santa's lap faster than you can say "It's better to give than receive!".

We don't know what they chatted about, but we suspect it may have included the words "good", "trains" and "Bill&Ben".

Sarah just slept through it all of course.
Even when Santa called her name.

"Santa..." she dreamed "Phhooey... I could pin that old fat guy to the floor any day."

Merry Xmas to all our friends and family 2009



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Oh yeah, Wiggle Time

Hi!
We're The Wiggles!
I'm Greg(/Sam)!
I'm Murray!
I'm Anthony!
I'm Jeff!

If you're wondering what in the wide wide world of sports the above is on about, you clearly haven't been a parent of a toddler in the past (two) decade(s).

If you do know these lines syllable by syllable, you've prolly just felt a little thump of dread in your heart, if only for the overuse of the exclamation mark. And because now you have a little one plonking themselves in front of a video for the ten millionth time unable to be crowbar-ed from position.

Sunday the 6th of December 2009 was clearly only ever going to be Wiggle(TM) Day in the Baghdad-end of Hampton. And for the rest of toddler Melbourne too it seemed. As this was the day the Wiggles(TM) came to town.
Live.
In the flesh.
If you think Elvis (pre triple peanut butter and bacon burger days) and MJ (pre baby dangling and detachable nose era) playing a double act, fresh from a tour of purgatory, would be big gig, well to a 2-4 year old, this is WAYYYYY bigger.

Ok, lets be honest.

Master M knew something about The Wiggles(TM) was about to happen, but in reality we think he imagined we were going back to Dreamworld/Wiggleworld, and hence he'd tootle about in the big red car for hours all mouth agape like last time, and maybe get a little freaked out by the occasional Gold Coast teenager dressed up in a dodgy Henry the Octopus suit.

Instead...
Well we arrived at Rod Laver Arena and Master M was instead a bit freaked out by all the kids and mums and prams outside.

It was a kid/mum/pram frenzy. (Dads optional.)

He composed himself and demanded he walk up all the outside steps on his own, which took us sometime into the next millennium.

Once inside and seated (about half way along, directly opposite the main circular stage, and about 10 rows up from the floor - very good possie we must say; thank you online booking and Google calender reminders of the very second the ticket box opened), he discovered the giant screen on the wall and hence sat, mouth agape, watching 15 foot high Wiggly adventures.
Plus the odd advert for Volkswagon (clearly, like McDonalds, they have a "get em while they're young" marketing philiosphy).
Master M was like a pig in poo.

However, when The Wiggles(TM) did arrive on stage...
He kept watching the screen.
"They're down there boy!" reminded dad.
He turned and looked at the stage.
Then back to the screen.
"No.. down THERE. That's the real Wiggles(TM)!!!"
He looked back.
Then it seemed to dawn on him slowly.
The real, live, yellow/blue/red/purple Wiggles(TM).

You could almost see a haze of daze come over his face.

After that he sat on his chair, then later on dad then mum's lap, with mouth agape (again).
Not clapping.
Not singing.
Not dancing.
Just jawdropped. (And just as he was at Wiggleworld).

At the very end of the whole show - literally when The Wiggle(TM) started saying their goodbyes - he waved back to them and clapped approval.

We suspect (just like at Wiggleworld where he froze like a statue but later claimed "I high-fived Henry!"), that over time he will be telling all and sundry that he was down there on stage wearing his own customised Wiggle(TM) green skivvy.

This was all in some contrast to little Miss S.

Much as mum and dad were somewhat fearful of the poor Miss being blasted with sound and made hearing impaired for life, wailing uncontrollably until she was marched out by security, she in fact loved it.
Absolutely loved it.
And was arguably more animated than her older brother.
She watched.
She listened.
She was ohhed and ahhed.
She decided it was interval and requested a drink, so mum gave her a feed, commendably there infront of the 5000 others, not that anyone would complain. Well, maybe one lot of people,... if they knew.

"Babe..." whispered mum to dad "I think I sprayed the people in front..."

When it all was over and the Wiggles(TM) were safely tucked away in Rod Laver's bowels gearing up for their next show in only an hours time, and after a quick chip frenzy ("NO DAD! They're MINE!") both boy and his amazingly animated Sis collapsed, necessitating a long carry of a partly comatose and hence dam heavy lump of a child back to the car where both kiddies slept like cherubs on the way home.
And then woke up.
Too early.
Both of them.

Hence the afternoon was, mmmm..., challenging.
Lets just say the naughty corner/mum-dads patience levels took a pounding.

Curse you Wiggles(TM).
If only for having us all singing "Monkey Man" (dad does a mean Kylie Minogue cameo) for the rest of the day/week, and putting on such a great show we'd happily go through it all again.

Still, if you cant beat them (even with a feathersword) you may as well join 'em.

Hi!
We're the Ws!
I'm Dad!
I'm Mum!
I'm little Miss S!
I'm Master M!

Postscript:
1) We bought Master M some merchandise.
He took said merchandise to child care the next day as he appeared to epoxy welded to it.
He fought with another boy over it.
It broke.
He announced "No problem" Santa would fix it (sheesh... we're rooted!).
2) Given the amount of sweat Murray (a.k.a Red) Wiggle(TM) was pouring out of his body - notably dripping on the floor below when sitting on a trapeze playing his guitar - after running up and down through the crowd, we were somewhat glad to hear he survived the day sans heart failure. Best lay off the dim sims and get back on the fruit salad (yummy yummy), Murray.
(But you're still dads favourite.)

.

Cock a doodle doo

Thank Ford for daylight saving.

Ok, yeah, it may well confuse the cows, make nights too hot, get kids late for bed and fade the curtains.

But on the flip side, and far more important than its energy saving and hence greenhouse gas reduction capabilities, it means that we're writing this blog at 6am on a Sunday.

This may sound seriously delusional, but think of it this way; the boy insists on waking with the first of the farting sparrows, which at this time of year is at 0553 EDST. But in sun time, thats 4:53.
FOUR BLOODY FIFTY THREE AM!
Being awake at 4:53 on a Sunday is for people in nightclubs and nursing homes.

Hence, thank Ford for daylight saving. A whole hour closer to reasonableness.
A case of beer for you George Hudson.

Not that all this sparrow farting is having any great impact upon the boy. Even if we're as blunt as yesterdays porridge at such an ungodly hour, he's firing with great insights.

Case in point.

For some reason, the breakfast topic shifted, as you do, to "Which came first, the chicken or the egg"?

Master M, without missing a beat, replied:

"The Rooster."

MMMmmmm...
In an animal husbandry sense, well, we guess he did.

Meanwhile, little Miss S has not only leapt past the 100 day mark, but is making her presence known too, only in a slightly more voluminous sense.

It seems we've reached that time when not only has she realised who mum and dad are, but that getting hugs from them is a damn good thing and should be insisted upon at all times.

Hence: lots of crying.

We know its just a stage.
We hope our backs hold out to 200 days.

Physically she's ticking all the boxes, but its still damn unnerving to watch her heart beating through her head.

(Don't freak out.)

All entirely normal; a baby's anterior fontanelle is where the bones of the skull haven't joined yet in order for the head to make itself a little more conical if need be - something mum's probably quite grateful for when the bub is trying to get out through the birth canal. The plates of the skull don't join for up to two years, and hence there's a little soft spot where, if she's still, you can watch the skin on her skull bounce up and down like some sort of inverted drum.

It's also a lot more visible because of her thin hair.

Speaking of which...

Many babies, like their mums, go through a period of hair loss as the hormone levels change after birth.

Nothing out of the ordinary here.

But for little Miss S, she's been losing hair everywhere except right at the very top of her neck/bottom of back of her cute little head.
As a result, our sweet little girl now has a severe case of bogan-itis.

Yes, she's sporting a genuine, Frankston passport, rat tail.

We'll forgive her.

For now.

Finally, we end on yet another one from the "don't repeat this at my 21st file".
Again starring the boy.

"Mum... my testicles hurt".
(Yes, he does know the word testicles, we're not cleaning this up for the faint hearted...)
"MMUUUMMM!! My testicles hurt!"
"Alright..." said mum. "Gimme a look."
Off with the nappy.
And there it was.
His sloop pointing north.
(i.e., His first conscious erection.)

Wont be the last time that thing causes you pain boyo.
Just ask the Rooster.

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Family quarterly result

Three months old today.
Three months old today.
Everybody clap their hands,
We're three months old today.

(Well, actually yesterday, but we don't like to ruin a good story/swim-class song with the facts.)

Yes, little Miss S is a full season old already.

And right on cue, (well a day prior actually; 16/11/2009), Little Miss S did her first ever roll over.
Back to tummy.
Genius.

The end of the fourth trimester also means that we no longer have a bub who eats/sleeps/poos, but rather one who eats/plays/sleeps. Then /poos.

It's a definite and clear demarcated transition in life; the first eyes wide open stage, where the outside world starts to come into the brain and things like dads and brothers and (sadly, this is true) television start to get noticed (her favourite appears to be the Simpsons); anything with colour and light which moves and shakes and stimulates the grey matter into making new pathways.

Cos lets face it, you can only have eyes for mum's boobs for so long.

Its all very exciting for a parent (not so for others, granted), because it means she's starting to think.

Now if only she'd start thinking about chugging down a bottle of mum's mammaries finest homebrew we'd be laughing. Granted she does now make a tiny effort, and dad did manage to get a whole 2o ml into her in one go. (Woohoo!) Which he learnt is about a fifth of what she should drink in a session. (Boooo...)

Speaking of television and battles and learning about things other than breasts; did we mention The Boy?

Master M has covered all of the above in having accomplished what many a 50's baby-boomer (as opposed to a Naughty's baby boomer, as we're sure this lot will be known) has failed to achieve in their lifetime; he appears totally capable of working a television and video recorder. (For those reading this in five years time, a video cassette recorder, a.k.a VCR, is a big box into which you plugged a slightly smaller box which contained magnetic tape onto which was recorded moving pictures. I'm sure there'll be one in a museum somewhere. Alongside the garden sprinklers.)

Hence he can now fire up said box, eject tapes he doesn't like (i.e., dads windsurfing stuff) and put on things he does like (e.g., The Wiggles), and change the channels on the telly until it comes up with "a seven!" which to him now means 'video will play soon'.
(Dam us for teaching him numbers so early...)

On the "one step ahead" front, he hasn't yet discovered that the power switch on the wall renders all the above obsolete.
And if he works that one out, we'll change the VCR to channel eight.

But all this, frankly, is chicken giblets compared to the real offspring story of the week.

(I warn you, its not pretty. Weak hearts leave the room please.)

There was dad, doing his best as little Miss S had scratched her face, sitting on the deck with her lovingly laid in his arms under the rays of a setting Sunday sun, trying to clip her fingernails...

"Clip".
One gone.
"Clip"
Gettin' there.
"Clip"
"ARRGHH!!"
Not only did he clip the nail but also managed to take a sliver of fingertip off with it into the bargain. (He could tell how much - it was still there in the clippers.)

The girl yelled.
Dad freaked a bit.
(Ok, a fair bit.)
Blood flowed.
Pressure applied, and after a few quick sucks to clean it up, the bleeding stopped.

As, remarkably, did the crying.

Still, just to be sure to be sure, mum bunged Miss S into the car seat (in which Miss S soon fell fast asleep...) and had her all checked out at Monash medical centre, where remarkably there was no queue and lots of apparently semi-bored paediatricians, and even a plastic surgeon (who quite enjoyed looking through a microscope at the sliver which mum had brought in a small box), eager and willing to offer opinions.

And they all agreed.
It wasn't that bad; there'd be a little scar and maybe a slightly shorter finger nail, but that putting in a stitch would only result in an equally non-obvious scar anyway, so...

Officially Miss S' first accident, band aid (not even a Wiggles one either) and Mercurochrome (ouch).

Good one dad, you muppet.

Still, there's nothing like a good old disfigurement of your offspring to convince yourself you love them more than life itself.

"Sorry."
Love,
Dad.


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