Stuck on you

Week 22.

We really are a big boy now.

The foray into solid foods has gone remarkably well. The foray into solid poo's arguably less so - for mum and dad's senses anyway.

The lad is now sitting down at the dinner table with the rest of the family, and enjoying it immensely. In fact, despite at least one of his parents having to stuff down their nosh pronto so they can hold him and feed him (maybe a high chair is in order here??), the plus side is that dinner is now somewhat quieter. For about 15 minutes anyway.

All this new foodie stuff hasnt been without incident of course. For example, and a TFYP (Trap for Young Players); not all mushy rice stuff comes pre-cooked.

There was Mistress P with her amazing packet of dried wholemeal rice mush from the hippie part of Mr Safeways, adding water just as you do to the white-rice based Farax baby powder and feeding it to the boy.
He ate it.
With a little grimace.

Then P looked at the packet: "Cook before feeding".

Oh dear.

We'd just fed him a cupla ice cubes worth of wallpaper paste/Clag.

He lived.
And as a bonus his poo can now be used for papier mache.

We've now taken to mushing up pumpkin and feeding that to him as well - remarkably, he loves it. Pity about the orange stains that are now spreading across mum and dads wardrobe, not to mention across all his wipe-up nappies, bibs and clothes up to and including Sunday best. Still, it can now truly be said he's joined the in-crowd and wearing genuine designer (i.e., himself) pumpkin patch.

On the physical side the lads also become more active, and now constantly being discovered in the opposite Z-axis from where last left. (i.e, he rolls over a fair bit.)

He's also discovered that he can balance, using hands on the ground to form a tripod, and sit up for a minute or so like a big boy. Ok... he didnt so much "discover" this as was put in that position by a curious dad and soon got the hang of it, but its another newy and he seems pretty stoked by it all.

Speaking of curious positions, the boy has also taken to being carried around in a baby-backpack. Which, while great for hanging out the washing etc cos it leaves mum and dads arms free out front, has lead to the discovery of two drawbacks.

1. Dad sits at a computer too much these days and hence his old bushwalking back is no more, and therefore he staggered about like Quasimodo after an hour of baby backpack-carrying. Which has now led to some fitball back strengthening workouts (thanks Dr Karl), and hence the aforementioned curious positions that the boy now watches dad contort into with great glee.
2. When the boy falls asleep in the backpack there is simply no way of getting him out without waking him. (We know... we've tried.) And you shouldnt really leave him propped up vertically. Thats a no-no. Hence (as pic attests), we've taken to just laying the whole kit and baby-strapped kaboodle on the ground for his nap.

(Jeez... Cant believe we fed him glue.)

Early to bed, early to rise, makes Mum and Dad bloody tired

Apparently we're on daylight savings time.

Ok, so the officially gazetted DST is still the better part of a month off, but according to the boy, enoughs enough - he's joining Tassie and clocking forward early. Hence...
All and sundry are awakening some time between 4:45 and 6am(if we're lucky) every morning.

On the vague plus side of this equation dad easily managed to sail off the beach before 8am down at Rye, some 70km from home, and hence catch the best of a good Northerly wind. On the not-so plus side, both mum and dad are back into staggering zombie mode during the day. The swings and roundabouts of parenthood, eh.

But rest assured this is not the only party trick he's learned. He's also discovered that he can actually get a little mobile. It all looks like crawling, but in actual fact he has managed to move considerable distances (in so far as 2 metres is considerable at this stage) ...backwards. We think of it a moon-crawl, a la Michael Jackson. Mike's just happy to be somewhere else from where he started.

And yet there's more... He's also managed to flip from back to front for the first time, and in doing so he has learnt that all you need to do to flip is to arch the back. The first signs of this mega arching came with his tummy time. He now doesn't so much do tummy time as a full and advanced Yoga session, with the favourite being the cobra (see pics). A far cry from only a few months ago, when just getting his nose off the floor was a significant achievement. Oh how he's grown..

Theres always a side effect though... on the change table he's decided that arching the back is also the way to go if you really want to make it damn hard for someone to whip on/off a Huggie.

The final new trick is a biggie. He's taken to eating a little solids. All the signs were there - watching us eat and being endlessly hungry for starter; apparently even the sparrows fart awakenings are a pointer to it being time too. So, on the 17th of September, 5 months and one day old and some three to four weeks ahead of the WHO schedule, we've gone a little mushy pumpkin and sweet corn. Which he gobbled with relish (no, not real relish, - we mean with gusto). So far only small doses, so we haven't yet had to deal with the infamously smelly first "solids poos"... yet.

Oh, and the boy has also advanced from simple raspberries to full on bubble blowing. (Though he did try to drink the water when attempted in the bath.)

The only big upset of the week came when mum and dad decided a "fun" thing to do would be to take little M dinner table shopping. On a Saturday. At IKEA. Richmond. (Dont worry - we've bought a non-Swedish table thank you very much for asking.)

How to describe the experience... well we thought the Southland-Deathstar was bad enough, but this place made it look like the tranquil hanging gardens of Babylon. By the end of the day the boy was crying, dad was screaming at people in the car park, mum was delirious and all were in need of a Tosca.

It ain't easy being a zombie parent.
Again.

20/20

Twenty weeks in, and the warm wet gooey feeling of a shoulder covered in milk-vomit seems, well, the norm.

The boys been growing in size and intellect and now appears determined to communicate with us in some bizarre alien language that involves a lots of very high pitched squeals and long drawn out moans. Kinda like a dialect from the bushman of the Kalahari, minus the clicky-clicky noises.

He's also become acutely fascinated with mum and dad eating and drinking, and watches intensely as each spoonful/glassful goes into the oldies mouths. Some say this is a sign to start popping some slightly more solid food in his gob too, but the most we've dared give him was 4 sips of orange juice. It went a bit like....

"He wants it, he wants it, should i give 'im some?" said Dad.

Arguably ignoring Mums distant cries of "No!" Dad brought the glass to the boys lips. Mouth wide open, little arms waving a bit excitedly, a little was gently tipped between the boys lips...

" BLOODYHELLBLERKWOTWASTHAT?!?!!" was the expression - lips pursed, eyes squeezed shut - if he knew how to spit he probably would have; all over dad of course.

"Geez... didnt seem to like that.... but,.. err... he wants more.."

And indeed he appeared to. Mouth open again, staring intensely at the glass, arms flapping for takeoff. So dad put the glass to his lips again, tipped a little in again, and, sure enough hairy muff,...

"BLOODYHELLBLERKWOTWASTHAT!!!"

Kinda like the first time a boy has a beer really.

This "I want it, I want it" followed by the "blerky blerky" face was repeated three to four more times till mum dragged dad away from torturing the boy. And its been milk ever since.

Aside from that he's met up again with his Nana after she and grandad had been away having yet another "adventure before dementia" (their words not ours!). Mike was in fine form, showing off as only he can by rolling front to back via his left and then right sides. (Disclosure: this bit included, at least in part, cos Uncle Jim moaned : "Geez - bet that ends up in the blog".)

Who's a tricky boy then?

Every single Saturday is Fathers Day

Fathers Day.

A bit of a novelty in the household as Mistress P's father has lived far afield for many a long year, and AB's dad shuffled off this mortal coil almost spot-on 0.5 x AB's lifetime ago. New experiences all round.

And Mike outdid himself.

As AB was wiping the sleep from his eyes on yet another worrying dry and sunny Melbourne morning, he was presented with gifts aplenty (not counting the GPS unit he had bought himself to mark the occasion cos he didnt think he'd be getting gifts aplenty). Strangely they were all of equal pleasure to the boy.

1. A thermos. Great for those cold windsurf days and a cup of hot toddy (is this a sign of getting old?) - or for carting around warm baby formula for those days away from home. (err... this surely is.)
   
2. The Dangerous Book for Boys. Is it wise to teach boys how to make bombs (albeit "water") in this day and age?? Surely one for the national security hotline (where's that fridge magnet when you need it?)
   
3. Chocolate bullets (a favourite of AB's dad also). Mike liked chewing the crinkly packet so much it delayed dad gorging himself sick on them by about half an hour. Which is probably a good thing.

The highlight of the day itself was an impromptu family picnic in nearby Wishart park, towards the end of which came the sudden realisation that everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket if the lad wasn't found a toy - pronto. AB dutifully skolled the last of his chocky milk (Mmmmm.... c.h.o.c.k.y... m.i.l.k...), dripped out the remnants - or so he thought - and handed the boy the carton.

Ode to joy.

Seemed it was not only the perfect shape for a 4.5 month boy to grasp by the corners, but also... the spouty section was topshelf chewy chewy material. Of course latter inspection revealed chocky milk still spilling from the spout and... into his mouth. Which may also explain why he chewed on it silently and with a glint of guilty eye, in the park, for the entire walk home (including meet and greet with neighbours 3 doors down) and while sitting on the deck waiting for mum to prepare herself to give him some real milk upon arriving home.

Not to mention the incredible problem solving it induced, which included the most dexterous hand and foot co-ordination seen to date, all to recover the carton when it was dropped to the end of the pram. Most impressive. (If only mum and dad could contort themselves like that, getting pregnant would surely have happened a helluva lot sooner.)

"Mmmm... chocky milk..." (Just like dad.)

Of course this is now added to the list of all the other non-mum-milk products thus far injested by the boy. In our defence, most were but trace amounts. Promise.

• Baby Formula - less than half a dozen feeds to date
• Dead horse - well, at least a little licked off dads finger as dad tried to juggle baby and a four n' twenty - as you do
• Saline solution - dribbled down from clearing out his snuffleuffagus nose
• Kiddies panadol - dad tasted it; can only be politely described as "Blerk"
  
• Chocolate cake icing - a smidgeon he licked off his own hand after wacking fist into dad's b'day cake
• Some nappy rash stuff he insisted on jamming his hands into (and yes, we know its says do not ingest - he was just too fast your honour)
  
• Err... probably some things he scraped out of his own nappy.

(Dont tell the council nurse.)