Raspberries to you

After the excitement of recent weeks it was back to normality.

The boy has managed to learn two new things this week just gone. Firstly... how to blow raspberries. And not just the occasional one, but long drawn out (and somewhat pointless) ones that only serve to spray even more slobber over his chin, face, jumper and anything within a 20cm radius.

Some say, or course, that this raspberry blowing caper is actually a prerequisite to learning to talk (as they are learning how to control thier tongue, lips and mouth), and is pretty common round the 5-6 month stage. Hence this would mean that a) he is marginally advanced at this stuff, and b) we maybe have another several months of this drizzling before a word comes out.

It also means that as we drive along in the car we get serenaded by a somewhat comical blerty-blerty sound from the back seat.
Its actually quite... well, soothing.

The other thing he's learnt is how to tell the time. Yeah - true dinks. Not only does he know, almost literally within minutes, that its 11am, 2pm, 5pm, 8pm (i.e., feed times), but he's also grasped the vagaries of the Gregorian calender. Cos almost without fail he picks the night before mum has to go in to work to wake up, refuse to settle and generally do his utmost to turn mum into sleep zombie woman for her day at the salt mine.

Speaking of his mum... way back in the pregnancy the hormones kicked in and one of the joyous side effects was a growing head full of thick lustrous hair. Well... as predicted by Courtney-in-the-comments, the growth hormones have now beat a retreat, and... Mistress P is moulting; big time. One minute your locks akin to Farah Fawcett's, and the next your noggins nudging towards Britney Spears (after she went loony). Will the fun ever end?)

Apparently it will all just return to the head of hair it used to be, and the moulting is really just loosing the preggas excess. With the risk the drains will clog in the meantime,

Still for Mike the weekend was also his first experience of a Melbourne warm and sunny weekend (two days of 23degC... in winter!), and hence he got to hang out at a cafe with not only mum and dad, but also Freya... his girlfriend from the horsepiddle/first few days of life. Sure she was a little hard for him to recognise, not being in a blue light humidicrib and all that, but he couldn't help posing for her with his new cool sunnies.

But what was more remarkable for the mums and dads was how similar the two lovebirds were. Both felt the same degree of "floppiness" when you picked them up, both liked to do the back arching thing, both enjoyed a good old suck on their own fists (though Freya had advanced to the odd bit of thumb only action), and both ooh'd and err'd at the same dumb waving and dancing about from their respective adults.

Or any adult.

(Wonder what hormone makes you do that?)

Postscript: As the weather turned wintry once more, Mike made his first trip to visit Uncle B. After sizing each other up, they appeared to think each other was ok. Unc B seemed to have the knack of calming Mike's grizzles and turning them into smiles, so much so that the lady serving in the shop pronounced that Mike's smile took up his whole face!

Lucky 17

Week 17 and it was back to reality for the lad after some unadulterated holiday indulgence in the Tropics and then at the snow. (Oh what a life.)

First of all it was off to the baby health care centre for a quick lube and oil change. (a.k.a., 4 month check up.) All up... doing just fine, nothing to see here. Vital measurements;
Weight: 6.5kg (~50th percentile)
Length: 65cm (~75th percentile)
Tall and thin - still on track for that future Tour de France win (drug free).

Mistress P noted that he was now almost exactly one tenth of her weight. AB noted that if he remained as currently proportioned till he weighed the same as his mum he'd also grow into a 6.5 metre tall super freak. And that would require a bigger bed.

He also had his 4 month immunisation booster... and hence copped 3 more injections into his little legs. (Mum couldn't watch.)

Despite some pitiful wails from the other kiddies, lil Mike just had a bit of a cry with each jab, some reasonably quiet sookiness for 10 minutes after, and that was it. He's a little tough guy. Ok, a bit of a temperature next day (and hence his first dose of baby panadol) but he was fine. (AB's note: don't drink baby panadol. The "cherry" flavour indicated on the bottle is a somewhat generous interpretation of the taste. "Pen ink with a hint of battery acid" may well feature on any wiser sommeliers score card.)

Apart from all this prodding, probing and posturing, theres also been lots more to learn for the lad - like "it hurts if I don't use my arms to try and crawl, and hence I push with my legs from the back and slide along on my nose at the front." We call it the bulldozer manouvre, and in fact it may come in handy when we need a vege patch flattened out. (Though AB still wants to get a "Dingo" mini-dozer, if only so he can lie Mike in it, take a photo, and caption it "A Dingo's got my baby!")

Mike, however, just gets cranky. Still thats what you get when you just haven't grown old enough to grasp the full concept of those arm thingys. Hey, we've only just learned they help to stabilise a bottle of milk... for a moment or two anyway.

Then again, it would appear he's decided to try and skip this nose-hurty crawling caper altogether. While held above the change mat, he's taken to placing one foot in front of the other on said mat and attempting to walk forward, intensely staring at his toes in the process and kinda wondering what these wobbly but partially weight bearing appendages are doing beneath him. Its somewhat, well, comical.

Almost as comical as poo'ing on dad.

Ok, so it wasn't really his fault that the "next size up" nappies didn't quite do the job in-so-far-as keeping in the boggas is concerned. Still, when dad heard the farty farty noise, then a bit of a smell, and then a bit of a warm goeey feeling through the legs of his trousers, there was a lil bit o' good ole cussin' going on. No matter how much the boy smiled at him with glee.

Still, for all the hootin' and a hollerin', Master M managed to help dad blow out his candles for his birthday and took him out to lunch at Ricketts Point, plus let dad lick the bowl clean of cake mix without even asking for the spatula, and all on his very best behavior. (Mike wasn't bad behaved either.)

Ups and downs; covered in crappola one minute and showered in smiles the next. Such is the life of a parent. And boy.

Brass monkeys

How times have changed.

Sitting in the chalet at Hotham after a hard day on the piste reading Bumps. Only this time, no, not some freestyle extreme, Pepsi Max, lumpy mogul madness ski mag but, yes, Bumps as in "How long after your beautiful and loving pregnancy should you wait to shag???" magazine Bumps.

And actually nodding at the articles.

In the cool light of day its cringeful.

But thats how it was on Master M's first trip to the snow. Or in this years case, not so much snow as extreme wind (as in all lifts closed bar one on one morning) and rain (as in "Hey, surely I wasn't the only one who had to wring out their Reg Grundies?" (thank you Simon) wet).

The drive up - all 7 hours of it - was largely uneventful, much to AB and Mistress P's delight and, admittedly, amazement. The lad slept much of the way, and even enjoyed a bit of a pitstop at the Bright Brewery to see his beer brewing friends.

That was until... the door was opened at the mountaintop to unload. And 40 knots of zero degreeC air (i.e., windchill of about -20) blasted through the interior of the ruby-Subarooby, and into the previously 24degC interior - and boy.

"What the goddamn hell was THAT!" he startled, with the most amazing surprise/shit-scared look a man of 3.75 months can muster.

"TAKE ME BACK TO THE TROPICS **NOW**!!!"

Which by that night it seemed he was. True to form, the lodge had its heating turned up to 11 and hence everyone baked medium rare in their beds. Including the other baby (Master A) and his parents sharing our room. Hence the first night was divided into sleep segments punctuated by crying/grizzling sessions from (and this is indeed the actual real life sequence)...

Master M
Master A
Master M
Master A
Master M (given a feed)
Master M
Master A
Master M

Not to mention the in-between times when parents tossed and turned in the heat and/or ripped off several of those "Its not my fault, it's the low pressure at altitude" room-gassing fartlets, interspersed with a few clunky, bashing, "better not wake the others" (but you do) blind-man wall bouncing trips to the toot.

It was hence a stagger of snow-zombies who emerged the next morning.

Master A also managed a beauty of a conjunctivitis outbreak on day 2, though luckily it didn't spread to the rest of the room.
"I had a nightmare we'd find him in the morning with his eyes glued permanently shut." said Dr D (a.k.a his dad).
(Don't worry - we think he's ok now.)

When the temperature was restored to normal Master M managed to sleep through the night, as did all the mums and dads. (Well, apart from the loo stops.) Of course someone re-cranked the lodge to 11 for the final night just for a laugh, so the living dead re-emerged just in time for the drive home...

During the daylight hours however, and being a bit young for genuine snow play or even a backpack about the cross country trails, lil' Mike got to be carried about in the baby-bjorn; to the village for a hot-choc, to the bus for a trip to the dog sled races (but bus was too full so...), to Bertrand's new unit for a view of the valley and a bit of Frenching up (pity the valley was in cloud/rain - still, we'll take Bertrands word for the great vista) etc etc.

The only ignomy for Master M of all this tootling about in the great outdoors was being forced to wear socks in lieu of gloves.

"I mean... come on. Socks as gloves? I'm trying to impress the laaaydees with my hot snowboard pants and I gotta wear socks as gloves?"

Sorry dude.

The lodge itself was crammed choc-full of kiddies and babies - easily the most we had seen in the 11 or 12 years we'd been visiting. In fact we were forced into a bit of a porta-cot shopping frenzy the day before leaving as there was a non-trivial risk of all the lodge cots being taken.

Mike appeared to like the cot at first... until he overheated one night, attempted to migrate to the cooler south and away from the blankets, only to find himself rammed into the cot-corner, all tangled in its hold-you-in mesh like some by-catch in a gill net. Which subsequently woke him, and possibly all those on the mountain, up. Again.

The crummy weather meant not that much piste time for mum and dad, but the boy didn't mind this one bit. With full parental focus, as well as lots of love and attention from others in the lodge, its now been decided that he's been officially spoiled rotten over the past couple of weeks.

But then, don't we all deserve a little lovin' now and then? Especially when its cold...

Planes Trains and Automobiles (and Gondolas)

Well that was some kinda week.

A trip to the tropics (Cairns) meant the boy had firsts galore.

First plane ride(s), first bus trip, first gondola traverse, first evening restaurant meal (twice), first river swim (yes, we checked – no crocs... though last time AB heard that was at some waterfall in Litchfield National Park (NT), which about a year afterwards was quietly closed for swimming due to... crocs) and first full week wearing shorts and no shoes; a summer habit we hope will stay with him a while.

During the daylight hours Mistress P was attending a big-wig conference, so Mike and dad went all Leyland Bros, racking up some 580km of tootling in the Hyundai Tucson "City" rent-a-car (AB's verdict– engine couldn’t pull the skin off a custard and you risked rollover if you accidentally sneezed sideways: avoid).

Hence despite the risk of automotive demise, Mike got to visit beaches, cane fields, mountains, rivers and even an aboriginal community (Yarrabah), which we must say did a pretty fine imitation of paradise; palm trees, secluded bay, laid back people and little tinnies all lined up for fishin’ trips...

Yarrabah would also apear the prime candidate for Australia's current baby boom (and we thought it was all from postcode 3188). There were little kiddies running about gleefully everywhere, though thankfully not too many on the road - that was the domain for the equally numerous (but far more car ignorant) dog pups.

The other highlight was the family trip to “The Boulders”, just-down-the-road-a-bit from Babinda, a.k.a “the umbrella town”, owing to the fact it vies for the wettest town in Australia with Tully, and sits just near Mt Bellenden Kerr, which does receive more (measured) rainfall than anywhere in Oz (but is not a town).

The Boulders is a swimming hole on the Babinda Creek, slap bang in the middle of some speccy wet tropical rainforest. The whole area, including the nearby Devils Hole, is simply, purely, spectacular. It was at the Boulders that the boy had his first river swim - actually his first swim of any sort. We couldn't work out if the look of angst was from the cool or the crocs, but we assured him that both were (theoretically) absent. Or maybe it was just cos he realised that virtually every swim he has for the rest of his life wont be in such a beautiful spot.

The other big but touristy day trip was the Skyrail gondola up and onto the tablelands, a subsequent wander through the rainforest at Kuranda, and the scenic railway back down to Cairns. Master M loved the Skyrail. He slept through the walk in the rainforest (Mum and dad kept watched for the natures-own razor wire vine; “it’ll rip yer eyes out” - thanks for the tip aboriginal guide-guy). But he took a bit of a dislike to the train ride down the mountain.

Well, maybe not so much the train ride, just the woman making the commentary over the loudspeaker, who appeared to have something of a nasal passage problem... which wasnt helped by said voice being overly amplified so you could hear it above the squeal of the train.

“We’re approaching tunnel number 15. There are 15 tunnels on the way down to...”

“BWAAAAAWAAAWAAAAAA” startled Mike.

Woman stopped talking, Mike calmed. Till 5 minutes later.

“This section of track had to be realigned as it was so steep it collapsed several times while the men were...

"BWAAAAWAAAAWAAAAAA”

This went on for several iterations till mum decided a feed was in order and then, as with many a good man, a boob shoved in his mouth shut him up for the duration.

Of course all these fun times were interspersed with 2-3 hourly dashes to the conference venue's family room for Mistress P to give him a feed between sessions. And it wasn’t just Mike's mum doing it... there in the family room were P&P, and their little baby Soraya.

Mistress P had known P&P for some time, and Soraya had come on the scene only a week or so after Master M. Hence there were the inevitable comparisons (one fed quicker, one screamed a little less, one had bigger hands, one slept more at night,...) but a clear sense of family room camaraderie. Mums were there to work and dads were there to... well... help them work. A nice little form reversal, with benefits on all sides; Dads did some great progeny bonding, and mums recharged the boffin batteries and hence will surely revolutionsise science as we know it.

Once the conference was over and everyone had arrived safely home, the first hometown nappy change revealed that the lad was taking up far more changetable realestate than previously, with his legs forced to dangle off the end. Hence it would appear he's put on a bit of a growth spurt, which may also explain why he's so hungry and no longer sleeping right through the night (oh well, 9pm to 7am was good while it lasted... we were warned).

AB's theory is two fold: all the sunshine, warmth, humidity and generally lush nature of the tropics had fertilised the boy to grow, while the low pressures in the aeroplane had also contributed by sucking him outwards.

All in all... by the end of the trip we reckon he's bigger, smilier, and (ok, we're biased) even cuter.

So many new things, many new people, many new sights and many new sounds. And that was just for mum and dad. But then, isn't that just the everyday life of a 3.5 month old?

Gone Troppo

Well Master Mike thought that a 35km ride to nanas place was a big trip, and then a 70km tootle to the airport, then a 100km run to great-great aunty Win, but now he's left all them girly-short distances for dead in-so-far-as tootling is concerned.

He (and we) are in Cairns.

As in Cairns, "3000km away as the crow flies" Cairns.

All in the name of attending a huge international work conference for mum (Saturday to Friday inclusive, 8am to 6pm, 9 (as in n.i.n.e) parallel sessions).

The trip up, of course, entailed the boys first plane flight, which he did manfully. Even if he did have to bump another baby from the bassinet seat (cos Master M was younger). The flight went great - right up until the last 10 minutes when he screamed like, well, a baby. Damn cloggy ears. Even breastfeeding at a rapid rate didnt help until we were safely on the ground and there was a bit less noise and excitement. (Though we may have started him a litttttle early.) Then he acted cool, suave and nonchalant, and had half the plane ooohhhing and aaaahhhing as they disembarked past us.

"Arent you a beautiful boy then!"

...said the lady sitting behind us who had to listen to him scream 5 minutes before (and who dad eavesdropped on her story of how in her youth she acted in a film with Chips Rafferty near Alice Springs, and how he picked her up from the airport and made her sit on the bench seat of his ute and "spread em girly" round the gearstick, revealing her blue-bowed suspender belt... ohhhh errr....)

Still the family arrived safe and sound and will be here til this coming Sunday. The boy is loving all the attention (from half the conference attendees as well it would seem), hating the uncomfy baby-seat in the hire car, racking up tropical beach and jungle experiences, successfully avoiding bitey things (including crocs - well trained by lotsa singing of the "never smile at a crocodile" song), and sleeping better through the warm and very humid nights than dad, and amazingly, mum. Who would have ever guessed!

He's had lots of firsts, quite apart from the plane flight... but they, and the pics, will have to wait till another day. We've all gone troppo.