Pandy and Andy create a baby...

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Roll over

We've had a roll over.

No, not some disastrous test of the survivability of the car's baby capsule, but rather the mysterious first ever self-propelled flip by the lad from face down to face up. And we have no idea how he did it (though maybe it has something to do with a rather large head-to-body weight ratio, as babies are want to have),.. or for that matter why. One moment he was down, and the next he was up. Bravo!

The boy is also discovering more and more about toys every day.

The scariest of all is surely the (brazillian) butterfly... attached to the side of the cot, it flaps, it spins, it glows and it plays some sort of bizarre rythmicy tunes probably last heard in some cult that worships shiny shoes. The boy was transfixed. In fact we've never seen him so mesmerised by anything in his all too short life. He didn't move, didn't burp, didn't fart - just stared. Immobile.

For about 3 minutes.

Then he screamed his head off. And we can't blame him. There was something about the eyes on the thing staring intently at you while all around it things flapped and spun and glowed. A 3-month olds version of a scene from Blue Velvet. It was evil on AAA batteries. (Not to mention that it's designed to be attached to the side of a cot - something "they" all tell you shouldn't be done. Cots are for 'sleeping only' "they" say... and we tend to agree.)

We'll have to try it again next time he's having a tanty.

The other toys of choice are the personalised "Michael" rubber ducky (it goes squeak squeak when you press its bum - as a good rubber ducky should) which of course is not recommended for kiddies under the age of 72 (due to small parts), his big set of linky-chewy rings (more about them later) and the current fascination - the rattle.

The rattle is basically a bit of sawn-off broom-handle with some bell thingys banged all over one end, and has indeed come into its own since the boy discovered clutching. As in clutching hold of dad's shirt when he tries to change him (and hence a veiled "I couldn't do it, I'm only 3 (months)" attempt to dunk dads head in poo), clutching hold of the milk-soiled bib (and attempting to eat it) then whining cos its smelly, and clutching on mums hair, glasses and boozys when she attempts to feed him. Clutching. Its fun.

And especially so when you have a stick with metal stuff on it that jangles. Or at least it seems like fun right up until the motor skills have a whoopsy, it gets that little bit out of control, and you whack a parent and/or yourself in the face with the jangly bit. Still, it keeps 3 month olds off the streets, if not the hard rubbish collection.

The aforementioned rubber rings have also the claim to fame of being one of his first learnt behaviours not involving poo, wee or milk. Mum/dad dangles the rubber ring in front of him, and with Adam Gilchrist-like glee he reaches up and plucks it out of the air. And plonks it in his mouth. At which time parent yelps with glee and boy smiles in acknowledgment of such praise. And then he does it again.

This can last all of 10+ minutes. Then he gets sick of the grabbing and is happy to just play with the ring, eat the ring, wear the ring as a bracelet or dispatch it to the floor for dad to pick up. Then a scream cos he knew he was having fun but now can't remember why. (Damn goldfish brain.)

Finally, nappies... Once again we've reached that magically wonderful time called transition. i.e., the wee comes squeezing out the "infant" sized ones and wee comes gushing out the {next size up} ones, necessitating up to four changes of baby clobber a day. The damn kid's nether region circumference is slap bang in the hey-diddle-diddle of Mr Huggies two sizes. (And yes, we are pulling out the frilly bits on the side.)
"Mop to aisle four please, we got a leaker!"
But boy he's got a killer smile.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Oot and Aboot

We're now three months old. The end of the fourth trimester, and he is certainly showing it -moreso every day. There really is a little guy here now, and not just some amorphous screaming lump of animated carbon.

Nice to meet you Mike!

He's now also managed over a week of sleeping through the entire night - no, not a week in total, but a week of days in a row. There is a god. (Or at least an atheistic version of one...)

The week involved three big trips out, not to mention the standard mothers club cafe' strolls.

The first was to meet nana and great-aunt (GA) - if thats what nana's sister is called - as well as his second cousin (Emma), who is all of two weeks younger than the lil man.

All and sundry gathered at GAs place out in the 'burbs, and everthing was going swimmingly... till Mike decided to drop a big one. And then again. And again.

Ok, so this is what babies do - poo. Nothing wrong with that. Off to change him on the washing machine, with GA looking on adoringly.

"Oh isn't he wonderful" she said....
"Arent you a beautiful little... ohhhh...errr..."

Dad had removed the nappy and looked away momentarily, and in that split second...
WWWEEEEEEEEEEE...
All over Mike, dad, the washing machine, the floor and any assorted shoe or article of clothing within a radius of two feet.

"I'd forgotten how little boys can spray it about..." was GA's consoling words of wisdom as dad got down on the floor and started the mop up operation.

Down on your hands and knees soaking up wee. Now that is parenting.

(Mike just grinned.)

Subsequent trips out were far less eventful. Firstly to his first BBQ at Miss J's place, where he was clearly the star of the show (being the only baby there kinda helped), and hence mum and dad were able to sit back and let him be passed around for half the night while they enjoyed the marinated Greek lamb...
Mmmm,... marinated Greek lambbbbb {drool drool}...

The final trip was to visit great-great-aunt (that makes even less sense: Mike's great-grandmothers sister anyway...) whos lives down near Portarlington, about a one and a half hour drive from home.

This was first and foremost a chance for her to meet the lad, but it was also a test to see how he'd travel on a longer car voyage prior to his first trip to the snow next month.

The meeting went well with GGA suitably inpressed (and impressive) with the boy. Its amazing what 90+ years - or over 360 times the total length of Mikes life-to-date - of knowledge gives you.

A trip to the sea's edge and a wonderful cuppa looking out at the diving winter Australian gannets - heaven. Mike even managed to avoid the temptation of urinating on GGAs floor, even though he was tossed onto the ground (well, a set of very sensitive a scales with a rather large pressure plate) for a weigh in: 6.5kg, including clothes - thanks for asking.

The trip home was a little more arduous, with a tired and hungry boy needing a feed stop and a scream stop, and thus racking up a 3 hour total travel time for the return trip. Still... lessons were learned and the whole excercise declared a resounding success all round.

And he's grown even more hair.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Quarter time


I'm three months old today!

The end of the mystical fourth trimester...

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

The Michael Henry Experience

Twelve weeks. And the boy is talking.

Well, not so much talking as looking at us and going

"AHhhhhhhhhhh GAhhhhhhhhhhh AAhhhhhhhhh"

then looking us in the eye and expecting some form of reply in return. (We usually say:
"Really? And what do you think of Fermats last theorem?")

"AHhhhhhhhhhh GAhhhhhhhhhhh AAhhhhhhhhh"

Bwilliant.

The other thing that is bwilliant is his new routine. Plus the simple fact that he now has a routine. It goes something like:
  • Wake mum up at 7:30am
  • Get fed (with sponge bath in the boob-swapping period)
  • Play with stuff (e.g., mirror with oddly familiar baby in it)/go to baby ryhme-time at the library/watch mums exercise class/sleep till 11am
  • Wake up
  • Get fed
  • Play with stuff (e.g., own hands)
  • little sleep till 2
  • Wake up
  • Get fed
  • Go for walk in pram or baby bjorn/visit friends/mothers group/play with stuff (e.g., buzzy bee)/sleep till beer'o'clock
  • Wake up
  • Get fed (not beer, yet)
  • Play with dad when he gets home from work (NB: after dad kisses mum)
  • Watch mum&dad eat tea/play with stuff (e.g., horseys)/little nap
  • Wake up
  • Get fed
  • Get wrapped up, jigged and put in cot 9:30-10pm
  • wake up at 7am (yes... sleeps through many nights)
  • kiss from Dad in the dark before he leaves for work
  • wake up mum at 7:30am
Ok, theres many perturbations in there - a few tears, screams, random ploppys and leaking nappies - but on the plus side, if there is a required nighttime feed (usually 4am) he sleeps in till nearly 9am. Which he did on the weekend just gone, and hence mum&dad got a long lie in too. (Another "Bwilliant!") And so extravagant and ultimately decadent.

And we're assured this routine will change.

We've also discovered a gradually changing musical taste. His favourite at the moment appears to be dads mouth-music/guitar-only version of Jimi Hendrix "Manic Depression" (probably best he doesn't know the lyrics) while being bounced on dads knee in time to the ever increasing speed of that million dollar riff. (Maybe you have to be there...).

Oh, and he's also taken a liking to the Sesame Street "Mahna-mahna" song being performed via raspberries on his chest. (If you listen to the link, you'll be humming it all day; you have been warned.)

Somewhat scary how ingrained it is in 38y.o parents...

Talking, routines, and a near-miss ejectile poo at dad (we've pulled that description for the faint hearted). Week 12.

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

Winston

Every baby looks like Winston Churchill.

At least for the first few weeks, and then they gradually take on their own defining characteristics which make them less Churchillian and more, well, themselves. In the boys case, he's definitely starting to grow hair.

And equally unlike Churchill, he's starting to sleep.

Now without meaning to put the moccas on ourselves, he's been racking up the hours of nighttime slumber, including his second, third and fourth all-nighters. If you count a 6am wakeup an all nighter (and we will).

But on the weekend the lad outdid himself - if not his mums mammarian storage abilities - by sleeping for 11 hours straight. Yes.... e.l.e.v.e.n.

This, as alluded too, was too much of a stretch (scuse pun) for mums norgs, which became rock like and even "huger". If thats possible.

"Cop a feel of this!?!" said Mistress P.

Now in a past life this may well have been considered something of a come-on/golden opportunity for some "Sunday schooling", but in the post-preggas world everything is an exercise in the new and the bold. Cos they were indeed rock like: less like silicon, more like silica.

Nothing a quick mini-express didn't soften mind you.

Of course all this good sleeping had to, inevitably, come to an end. And as good ole Murphy (of "law" fame) would have it, the wide-awake late-into-the-evening grizzles and feeds demanded every 4 hours started again the very night prior to Mistress P's first day back at work.

While all were very glad to see her and thankful she was back for at least one day a week, it appeared the news hadn't traveled so fast to the personnel department. Seems the forms (in triplicate and signed by a deity) had dutifully wound its way into red tape purgatory, and hence they thought she'd been at work all week. Whooops... (lucky she actually had been doing lotsa work at home all along...)

And all the while, Dad was taking a day off and minding the tacker... their first full day together home alone.
"No wukkas", dad thought.
...right up until it came time to give the boy a feed. As warned could happen by others, Master M had forgotten (over the past 3 weeks) that bottle = boob, promptly downed tools and refused to drink a drop. Not to mention voiced his displeasure with the situation in no uncertain terms.

An hour-plus of jigging, walking and feeding (at the same time - at last a use for the windsurfin' muscles), along with lotsa yelling (mostly by the lad), soon had some 110ml transferred bottle-to-boy. Which he subsequently burped up a fair proportion of - but at least the connection had been restored. For now.

Sleep, work, rock boobs, new hair and that bit less Winston-like.
Week 11.