Pandy and Andy create a baby...

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Eat or be eaten

Its been far too long between posts and for that we can only say... its not our fault.
Its the fuggin gummint.

(Or at least their section that deals with the child care rebate, which refunded us the princely sum of $102 for our years child care instead of a few thousand, then told Mistress P it was cos Mike hadn't had his shots.
Which he had.
And they'd lost the correspondence saying so.)

We'll just look at it as a Xmas bonus for not dropping him on his head.
Too often.

The past few weeks have been hectic in the least, with mum and dad frantically finishing exams, giving press conferences, writing milestone reports and...

Taking leave.

Yes, finally the family headed off into the wilds of east Gippsland on a long earned weeks break. A cabin was booked at the sleepy Cape Conran National Park and the household decamped to the coast for a few days R&R.

And being 2 weeks before chrissie (a time when people have to win a ballot to find a place to stay at this place) there was barely a soul to be seen. In fact, if you did see someone you almost felt like saying:

"Fair go mate... find you own beach. There's 90 miles of it."

The lack of human also meant a plethora of animals, and hence lots of animal/Master M interaction. He saw swamp wallabies, a huge red bellied black snake, a Turquoise parrot (very rare, in fact unseen, in those parts) and humpback whales.

The only problem is the lad's still too naive to know the difference between an animal that's cute and cuddly and in love with human interaction, and one that'll rip yer bloody arm orf.

Case in point.

A particularly daring young kookaburra would come to our cabin in search of food. So we broke all the rules and took M onto the deck and tossed a piece of sausage to kooky.
(I know I know - we shouldn't. So kill us.)
The Kookaburra loved this.
Mike loved it.
Kookaburra came closer.
Mike got more excited.
Kookaburra got that "Mmmm... those toddler fingers look like the perfect plump juicy worms/mini sausages combo" look in his eye.
Just as Mike went in for a pat/hug.

No fingers were lost in the making of this blog, but lets just say we're glad he wasn't having some nappy free time and flopping about in his glory.

The other critters that took a liking to Master M were the mozzies. There were gazillions of the bastards. And for some reason Mike never grizzled once when they were sucking the life juice out of him, and only occasionally swatted or even motioned to the little blighters as they swarmed in on his little bod.

Which mum and dad made even worse one time when they accidentally trapped about five of the suckers in under his pram cover. Those mozzies must have thought all their Xmases had come at once.

Hence by the end of the week, and despite copious amounts of aerogard (avagoodweegend), the poor lad was less angelic pure china skin, and had more puncture marks than the test dummy at acupuncture school.
But he never whinged once.
Which is more than we can say for dad.

What he did do was eat. In fact, he be the eatin' machine. We swear he grew half an inch in the week.

But what he didn't do was sleep. In fact it was probably his most interrupted sleep for a year, with refusals to go to bed, long crying in the cot, early wake ups ("Oh... a beautiful 5:20am sunrise... thanks Mike") and 1am "Mummy/Daddy" (i.e., is it playtime yet?) calls in the dark.

The worst was on the return voyage and a sleepover at a friends house in Paynesville on the Gippsland Lakes, complete with 3 kiddies and, all the more importantly, their toys. And hence it was here that Mike discovered Thomas. As in the Tank Engine.

Or more to the point, the engines and carriages and click-together track that make up a whole Thomas world.

Mike quickly discovered that the carriages and locos link (via their little Thomas magnets) together to form great long snaking, well, trains. Which he could push about the floor, roll under chairs/thomas bridges/dad, and best of all, unlink to make two trains! (We shudder to think what'll happen whern he learns he can do the same with a living creature like a worm.)

So it was all trains trains trains.
Or "twains twains twains" as he started to say.

We've never seen the tike so enamoured with an inanimate object in all his 20 months. He literally sat and played and chugged and joined and split and crashed and "oh-oh"ed for hours.

Including when it came to bedtime.
"Twains! Twains"
And when it came to 1:45 in the blessed AM.
"Twains! Twains!"
("No Micheal, its sleep time; you can play trains tomorrow")
"Twains! Twains!"
Till 3am.

He was indeed the fat controller - (well, actually, quite well proportioned we think) .

The trip to the Lakes also saw his first canoe ride, which would have been all fine and dandy 'cept he suddenly became determined that unlike mum he was a bonefide landlubber, and kept trying to climb out.

Luckily mum had a) put a lifejacket on him, and b) was quick on the grab.

Finally, and totally unrelated to both canoodling and twains; we have a mate who swears that he has perfected the art of the after-windsurf shower by drinking a beer as he suds up.
Well Mike has further revolutionised post-activity showering as we know it by insisting on taking a particularly coveted BBQ Shape under the showerhead with dad, clutching it throughout the sudsising, then eating the sodden-edged but still amazingly crisp inner BBQ Shape as he was dried off.

Genius.

All up, he traveled like a champion (mostly playing with three model cars), ate like a horse - "kikifuit" (a.k.a kiwifuit) being a new favourite - was eaten by insects thgouh luckily not avians (just), and slept like a tuna (Dad: "Dogs sleep just fine - tunas dont sleep").

And its been the fastest 20 months of mum's, dad's and, frankly, his life.

Merry Xmas.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

A bogan by any other name

Its all about the words.

The past cupla weeks have seen the language quotient race forwards in leaps and bounds with seemingly a new word or three every day.

And ontop of that is the level of understanding - both ways.

Case in point. And case of "we're not quite getting all our words right just yet".

There we were having tea - an ever traditional Aussie meat and three (ok, five) veg.

"Jew!" said the boy, meaning juice...
So we gave him his water (even though he knows the word water, but who's to argue).
"Saw" said the boy, meaning sauce...
So against our better judgment we gave him some sauce; a drop on his meat sufficing.
"Towss!" said the boy, which ordinarily means toast.
Which was a problem.

"Errr... we have no toast Michael."

"TOWSSS!!"

"No... there's no toast here Michael. Perchance a carrot?"

"TOWWSSS!!!!!!!" he screamed, as he clenched his little fists of rage and started to quiver and spit phlegm like some manic third world dictator losing a valid UN-observed election, while gesticulating wildly in the direction of mums plate.

Mum offered him some steak. It was batted away.

"TTTOWWWS!!" (and more frustrated pointing).
Mum offered him some bread. He screwed up his face. Ectoplasm started to form...

"TTTTOOWWWWS!!!!!"
We were surely entering the popping a foofer-valve territory of frustration.

Mum looked past her plate and saw the only thing left on the table. Some butter.

"Butter?"

Acceptance.
Silence.
Joy.

"Errr... I think you meant butt (butter) Mike" suggested mum.
"Well i guess toast does have butter on it..." offered dad.
Mike just licked the Western Star off his bread.
And looked at his parents like they were idiots.

Having stated that his language is occasionally mixed in meaning, sometimes we're equally worried we've bred a pedant.

Once again, there we were having dinner, when the lad started making the "I'm full" motions.
(i.e., slapping his food instead of eating it and begging for a blueberry.)

Fair enough, dinner done.

"Put your plate on the table Michael" said dad.

Upon which Mike grabbed his plate, tipped it on end pouring the remaining foodstuffs all over his high chair tray with some overshoots onto the floor, and carefully placed the now-uncluttered-by-food plate on the table.
Then looked at dad with a job-well-done face.

"Well you did only say put the plate on the table" noted Mistress P.
Right you are.

This could become somewhat tiresome.

Almost as much as the current craze for the repeated use of the word "car".
Said when he sees one parked on the street.
In the newspaper (don't let him near the Drive section).
On the nappy box.
Printed on his shirt.
In the Green Eggs and Ham book - now that it a sign of intelligence; looks more like a mangled shoe with donuts for wheels.

Car; car; car; car.
(Which often means he's seen 4 cars - plurals are yet to be attempted.)

And if you dare let him inside one... well, he's like a pig in poo.
Lights on. Lights off.
Hazards on. Hazards off.
Mirrors swiveled.
Indicator stalk clicked.
Centre console emptied.
4WD engaged.
And door demanded to be shut...
"DDOOOOORRR!!!"

If you have followed previous posts, you'll now realise we have a chick-chasin, beer-swillin', pie+sauce munchin', hard-rock lovin', petrol-headed son.
Oh. My. Gawd.
We've bred a bogan.

Ok... finally, the Mike vocab, which we decided we'd better write down fast cos he's learning too many new ones to keep track of. Here goes...

mummy daddy nana papa home 'sgo! (lets go) dog cat pool bath kick towss (toast) jew ( juice) grace (grapes) saw (sauce) froo (fruit) goo (yoghurt) nana (banana) butt (butter) cheese sore zip cream suit telly bottle car-car-car door light light-on! butt (button) polly (the dog) book hi seeya bye bird lala (koala) no horsey kiss ear nose hair toe chin eye hug duck ball bear Jill Ray Paul Blair Mel Grace Archie Lily Jackie Goggle(Michael) shoe water peg mine sock park willy wee poo pen pa(plug) oww!(ouch) bin teeth beep-beep pea down uh-oh! towel ham hat oh-dear! bus bubby(baby) sha(sharp) too-wat!(too hot) two-three spoon fork all-gone!
= 90 words!

Did we also mention we're equally (well, almost) proud of his first wee in the loo??

Ok, just a few drips while sitting on the kiddie seat, but it counts. It hit the water. Its flowed off to Werribee and probably has a banded stilt wallowing in it as we speak.

His first toilet wee.

Wow.

Sunday, November 09, 2008

Mygll

What in the wide wide world of sports is a "gogggle"???

(Well, apart from something Biggles would wear?)

At least thats what we've been wondering for the past few months as the wee lad keeps announcing "gogggle" this and "gogggle" that, everywhere a gogggle gogggle.

Till Mistress P hit on it this week.

Its him.
Master M.
The Lord of the manor.
Yes; Michael.

See this is the problem with Strine. "Mm-eye-ck-alll" it may well be in theory, but machine-gunned out of an Aussie mouth it does indeed come out a bit more like:
"My-gll"
...which sure enough has "g's" and "l's" and all sorts of sounds that in a young and phonetically-adventurous mind can easily convert into "gogggle".

So Gogggle it is.

Even if dad would prefer Google. Shares.

(Is self realisation the final step in becoming a fully fledge person??)

Of course after the weekend just gone his name could indeed be Casanova.

As is usual for the young man he's been charming the laydees, only this time one more his own age.

A family trip to Sandy Point for the (in)famous and traditional Melbourne Cup windsurfing long weekend had us staying in the house in which A&P were married, and in which there was a little girl some 2.5 years old, but who didn't have much hair.

"Bubbie!" announced Master M.
"No Mygll, she's not a baby, shes older than you..."
"Bubbie!"proclaimed Mike.

Oh well... Bubbie it was. And they got on like a house on fire, chasing each other about, showing each other the horseys in the paddock behind, and then eventually... their first hug.

It was cuter than a cupful of kittens.

Only surmounted by their evening escapades.

Some whacker put on music and said to the two young 'uns "What about a dance?", clearly hoping for a bit of a floorshow.

On cue, Bubbie and Mygll joined hands and boogied the night away, not unlike John Travolta/Olivia Newton-John at the end of Grease.
Minus the heels.
And weird girl-afro/vaseline bodgie-do.

While this is all pretty funny stuff and truly warranted a video-camera, in reality it's pretty damn amazing, as we haven't actually seen real one-on-one play from the lad as yet.

Yeah, theres been the odd combined book reading, or tussle over a Thomas the tank engine, and even a few chases around the couch followed by a fair whack in the head one way or the other, but this was real live interaction between humans that didn't end in tears.

Its almost more than you get from dad.

But self naming and gen-ew-ine social interaction are not the only firsts of the past cupla weeks.

We've also had the first "sentence".

After scratching his foot on the ground the lad sat down, bent his leg round like some Indian swami to look at his feet, and announced:

"Toe sore."

Yup.. thats it.
Its not exactly Shakespeare, but as a first sentence it had a noun and an adjective and sure enough beat the hell out of him just bawling like a baby over a stubbed toe.

Which by all rights he should have done (but didn't, or at least only briefly at worst) when he got the other sort of tow pain.

Towball pain.

Right on the head.

Now for anyone whose ever barked a shin on a towball, you'll know how much that can hurt. (Second only to a papercut and surely now in common or garden variety usage at Guantanamo.) Imagine doing it to your head.
Doesn't bare thinking about really...

Much like his other first.

His first poo in the bath.

Was just like the pool scene out of Caddyshack.
(Sorry, we didnt quite have time to get the camera for thatta one.)




Friday, October 24, 2008

The letter W

We’ve said it before and no doubt we’ll say it again.

The boy never fails to amaze.

See the lad has discovered that being under 3 feet tall has certain disadvantages.
Namely, you’re a short ass.
But he’s also discovered that there are these things called chairs. Which add a foot and bit to your height as well as generally being light enough that you can push them from one end of the house to another.

So that's what he does.

As parents we thought we were so very smart getting a new buffet/hutch thingy and putting the phones and interweb/modemy stuff up on top, well out of reach.

Well that's lasted about 6 months cos boy and aforementioned chair now mean that the world is his oyster – or at least anything below 4’6” is. When all is quiet all through the house and nothing is stirring, not even a (laptop) mouse, the silence is inevitably broken by...

“...crrrr crrr...”
(The scratching/sliding of a chair being pushed down the corridor.)
“...errr errr...”
(A boy climbing onto chair and buffet/hutch thingy”
“...beep beep...”
Of Brazil being phoned.

And if you’re really lucky...
“...eeelllloooo?”

You have to give him brownie points though – its not like he's seen mum and dad move chairs round and stand on them.
This is totally self-thought logic.

But then again, he is clearly smarter than his dad.

Hustled away to the local council corporal punishment centre to have his gummint prescribed shots (18 months old = chicken pox) he, of course, had to wait in a queue.

This involved taking a number and being shoo’d off to play on the fancy plastic gym equipment. One particular slidey thing had a bizarre “box” behind it that made no sense to dad so he just lifted Mike up and over, and let him down the slide.

Mike looked at dad like he was an idiot.
Walked round the back.
And opened the little door to get in.

Mike’s brain: 1.
Dads brain: 0.

The shots, by the way, were remarkable.

Mike was carried to the nurse by dad, mum pre-wincing and looking away.
Nurse told dad to “Hold on tight – here we go”.
Dad steeled himself for screams and “Why Dad Why?” pleads.
The nurse plunged the needle seemingly 6 inches into the lads tricep, squeezed, yanked it out and...

Mike turned. Looked at his arm. Brushed it like he was fly swatting. Then glanced over to dad as if to say...
“Now where are those sultana’s I saw you put in your pocket you sneaky devil?”

Frankly, you get more whinging from a mozzie bite.
On dad.

Eighteen months also means a trip to the council nurse.
Unfortunately this one must have read the blog.

“He’s thin - you feeding him enough?”
“Errr... yes” says mum.
“Cows milk as well?”
“Errr... yes” says mum.
“Whats that bruise from?”
“Errr... I dunno...” says mum
“He in child care?”
Errr... yes” says mum
“Whats his Visa Card number...”
(“I didnt expect the 'effing Spanish Inquisition...” says mum)

So, the vitals:
Length: 82.8 cm (slightly above 50th percentile)
Weight: 11.3kg (slightly below 50th percentile)
Teeth: 8/8
Nads: dropped (“Ohhh... I hardly needed to look to see that did I?!” said council nurse – you little hussy..)

Finally; new words.
Currently in favour are:
Carr (Car - which he now wants to sit in and drive himself)
Bawwl (bottle - ie drink)
Burr (bird)
Moo (moon!)
Keee (Kiss; usually requested right before being put to bed - possible delaying tactic!)
Toesss (Toast; though on a recent trip to the beach he seemed to think a light coloured starfish was also "Toesss" - and tried to eat it.)
And today's blog has been brought to you by the letter “W”:
Or more particular, the word - “Willy”

(The boy plays with it almost as much as he says it.)

We're also somewhat concerned with his love of bad 80's techno rap. (See video.)

As we say.
Never ceases to amaze.


Friday, October 10, 2008

A horse is a horse - or... a dog.

This may get a little dull but, hey, it does amaze us.

Yet again we're constantly being astounded by what Master M is learning every day.
And what he has yet to learn but is determined to do so the hard way.

A family trip down the coast and the house where mum and dad were married revealed a paddock of horses behind the block.

Which, apparently, are dogs.

Or "DGGGS!" as the boy proudly exclaimed.

Well, it makes sense. They have four legs and a long tail and tendency to eat out of your palm if you let them. (Which the boy almost did.)
On the other hand they also spray wee like a skunk and sleep standing up. But they're finer details to be noticed later.

For now they're "DGGGS!"
Big ones.

As usual the boy also took a shine to the water, and not having had a swim lesson for a few weeks (being school hols and all that) was somewhat desperate to leap into the somewhat chilly extremes extremes of Bass Strait.

Now much as mum and dad tried to keep him out, and much that the lads the perfect snack size for Jaws, it was decided to slap on the mini wetty and let him have a go.
The face upon first cold wave was a sight to behold.
But that wasnt going to stop him, with the final result being... his first surf.

Yup, chucked onto dads board and released on a shin high (for him) wave to slide across the shallows.
Which he wanted to do again. And again.
Till one time the fins touched bottom, he slewed to the right, mum grabbed him, ...and dad wailed as he realised that the slewing was also removing a fin and its plugs and depositing them in the sand never to be seen again.

Oh well, nothing a $100 worth of board repair couldn't fix. ("Geez - pinching my gear and wrecking it already - I was kinda hoping we'd make it to the teens before that started".)

But all these learning experiences and leaps forward in communication (surely it has to be the worlds most heart-melting moment when you're carrying your son to bed and he looks up into your eyes and says "kiss?" - leans up and plants one on you???), theres also the semi-learnt experiences.

Such as "how long are my legs"?

See the boy has very wisely learned that to get down from a step, you should go down backwards. This works equally well for chairs and couches. But herein lies the rub... it doesn't work so well when the height you're lowering yourself from is taller than you are.

Then you just plummet like a stone.

The boy though, hasn't quite worked this out, and hence we've found him backing off precipitous heights and even dropping off stuff (e.g., decks on the back of the holiday house) like some demented reverse-gear shuffling lemming.

(Maybe a future in abseiling?)

Still all this learning and language appears to have also taught him some habits we can see can only end in tears.
Namely ours.

Case in point.

Mum slaves over a hot stove preparing a nice little din-dins - tortellini; an old Mike fave - as the lad appeared to be starvin' Marvin. She pops him in his high chair, presents Master his meal and...
He tosses it on the floor.

Luvverly.

Mum pops him out of the high chair.
He marches across to the pantry, goes the raid, and produces a jar of Heinz finest baby food.
Marches back to mum, mouth open.
Hands her the jar, mouth open and leaning forward and almost eating said jar, glass and all.
She hands the open jar and a spoon back, and he proceeds to feed himself till he cant get the last bits and hands it back insisting she scrape out the last morsel.

Oh dear.
This could get messy.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Lyre, Lyre, pants on fyre.

The lyrebird.

Its not all big tails, fox and/or cat food and adornement of 10 cent pieces. It's also one of the worlds great mimics. We've heard them do kookaburras, whipbirds, currawongs, and others swear they've listened to them pitch a perfect chainsaw or a person banging in a tent peg.

Its all pretty impressive stuff.

Much like the boy. See, we appear now to be at hardcore mimic stage. Ok, he cant do a grey thrush or a bloke with a band saw just yet, but he is amazing us daily with new words that at first appear to be just a copies of what mum and dad say (this morning it was "biscuit", soon shortend to "bikkie" - relating to his newfound ability to open the biscuit tin and nibble a corner off half the contents before mum found him), but then a day later it's used again in perfect context.

Case in point.

Master M's Nana and Grandpa had just arrived home from a 6-week journey to parts unknown, and hence Mike was into hardcore showing off mode.

"Who am I? said mum.
"Mummy!" replied the lad.
"Who is that?" she said, pointing at dad.
"Dada!"
"And thats Nana..."
"Nana!"
"And Papa..."
"Papa!"

All were very impressed. But the word 'Papa' had never even been used before, so it was pure lyrebird mimicry.

But...
A few days later at home, dad points to a picture of grandpa and says "Hey Mike, who'se that?"

"PAPA!"

Crikey...

The current fave, though, is his new found expression for goodbye...

"SEEYA!"

(He's such an dinkum Aussie.)

He's also got most body parts sussed out too.
"Where's your toes Mike?
Touches his toes.
"Where's your tummy Mike?"
Touches his tummy.
"Where's your ears Mike?"
Touches his ears.
Where's daddys nose Mike?"
Rams finger up daddys nose, drags down septum, draws blood, dad goes bolting off to the bathroom wildly flapping arms.
(As Yosemite Sam would say, "That'll learn ya.")

The other thing he's learned is "lolly".

Yes, for a mum that was brought up on gruel, its come as a bit of a shock that the rest of the free world seems to think that young kiddies and sweet things go hand in hand.

Case in point II. (And another first.)

Mike's decided that this walking about at home caper is all a bit of a drag. So he likes to head off down the street.
Only heading down the street, in the past, meant about 2 houses and then it was time to go home.

Now, however, he's discovered that "Jenny from the block" and her 3 y.o, or more importantly, 3 y.o's toys, lives 5 houses down the street. So he wants to go even further.

But then he discovered that if you hold mum and dads hands the world is indeed your oyster. You can now (and for the first time last weekend) walk all the way to the corner shop.

"Fair enough... but how does this relate to gruel?" we hear you cry.

Well once he arrived at the shop the two wonderful owners were so glad a potential new customer had made the long journey from the wilds of the other end of the street that - like a dealer giving out a free hit - gave him (no matter how much mum protested - and she did indeed protest) two, gratis, jelly snakes!

And try prying those babies out of his hands on the walk (well, carry on dads shoulders) home.

As the Mythbusters would say (and we really should send this in to their show...)
"Easy as getting candy from a baby - BUSTED."

Finally - and we leave the cutest till last - his first phone call.

No, not just playing with the phone, or looking into the earpiece as if to say "how did such a big daddy get into such a small plastic thing"... but a genuine phone call; well, a little mum-assisted.

See, the lad was a bit bored and fractious, so mum rang dad and put him on. Its a distraction thing.

Only this time Master M didn't push it away and stare at the handset, rather he listened.
And babbled a little.
Then Mistress P suggested he give dad a kiss.
So he pashed the earpiece.
Said "BYEEEE!"
Gave it back to mum and ran off to play.

A regular Alexander Graham Bell.
(Sans funny beard.)



Friday, September 12, 2008

Looxury

Yup. There's been a change.

And hence clearly we'll have to watch our Ps n' Qs.

See now you tell him to turn on the telly after he turns it off.
And he does.
You tell him it's time for a bath.
And he waddles off to the tub.
You say "gimme a kiss".
And he either slaps you for your brazenness (fair enough) or pashes you like Merv Hughes.

Its a truly amazing thing this communication caper.
Even if its largely one way.
Truly gobsmackingly amazing.

The other discovery of the week is that the lad is certifiable snow bunny.

Fathers day, and the family busted outta town and headed to Warburton, where they had a nice little lunch prior to heading up Mt Donna Buang No Snow. (At least that's what dad calls it, cos whenever he looks at the snow report that's all he ever sees printed.) Only this time it was Mt Donna Buang Small Patch At The End Of The Officially Closed Tobaggan Run.

And hence they jumped the gate and chucked Mike down the slope on his very own tobaggan. (A fathers day pressie - for himself.)

Which he loved.

So he went higher.

Which he loved.

So a bit higher.

Till he was at the top and hurtling down at warp speed and styling it like a pro.
And all on his own private slope in the forest.

Well, till another family turned up so he graciously offered them a go. Even clapped their runs. Till he decided he'd had enough of this spectator caper and wanted another go.

So he lay down.
And pushed.
And started heading down the slope on his belly, sans sled, flapping away with his arms to gain speed like some demented snow-turtle.
(We were just waiting for him to poop an egg in a hole.)

Oh well, at least it was better than his earlier attempt at amusing himself.

See Mike wasn't the only 30 inch tall bloke on the slope.
There was also Mr Snowman, complete with neck scarf, sticks for arms, leaves for a mouth, stones for eyes and a carrot for a nose.

Or at least had a carrot for a nose.

Right up until Mike decided he needed a snack.
"Geez Mike..." moaned dad "don't we feed you enough?"

With all this tobogganing, body surfing and snowman devouring, a bloke not only gets hungry, but also a little weary. But you don't let that stop you if you're hardcore like Mike.
You go till you drop.
Literally.
(Thirty seconds at most after Mistress P finally picked him up to head for home he was out like a light.)

Which became a bit of a habit when he tootled to the snow again a few days later, this time to Lake Mountain with mum and friends for a spot of mid week cross country skiing.

Which he largely spent asleep in his backpack, thereby completely missing the Woolybutt (some say named after his father, and hence genetics may suggest, later on himself) Trail.

That is, up until he decided he wanted to be part of the action and called a mutiny, stole mum's skis and attempted to ride them home. Tru dinks.

The ski over it was time for a spot of lunch before heading to the toboggan slope.
Only Mike seemed to have other ideas. (Hell, who needs a sandwich when you can just snack on a snowman any old time?)

"Can you guys look after M while I visit the toot? asked Mistress P.
"No worries" said the other two blokes on the trip, "leave him to us."

Which she did.
Only to return to find one less boy than she expected.

"Errr.... anyone seen Mike?"

A quick search found him behind the ski shelter.
Toboganning.
Without a tobogan.
And without much snow.

More a belly slide come turtle paddle through melting snow, then icy mud and eventually, and quite literally, frozen gravel.

We can almost hear him lecturing his own kiddies already...

"Skis. Skis!?!
Looxury.
When eye was wee lad for snow holiday they made me slide down on belly cross slope of cold gravel."

Now that, my friends, is hardcore.





Thursday, September 04, 2008

Tools, fruit. slides and bags

Communication.

Its an amazing thing.

We now have "dawg" (dog), "djeooo" (juice), "bowel" (we kid you not; bottle) and even a crystal clear "daddy" (err... which mum swears daddy completely ignored and kept reading the paper, hence may never be heard again).

And then theres the comprehension.

"Time for a walk in the pram Mike" chirped mum.
Mike disappeared.
Mistress P goes searching.
Not here.
Not there.
"Ahhhha!"
Found.
Perched in his stroller with a "Well, where was ya?" face.

As well as being an amazing thing (communication that is), in combination with opposable thumbs it's what separates us from 99.9999999999% of things on the planet, and hence enables the use of tools.

Which Mike now appears to have mastered as well.

Case in point.
He is interested in the phone. Which is on a buffet (or is it hutch - who in their right mind can ever remember nor care-about the difference) and hence well up and out of a little lads reach.

Or so we thought.

Until we saw the boy walk up to a dining chair, grab its legs, and drag it down the hall and up to the buffet/hutch thingy, climb up onto said chair and... grab the phone and dial Brazil.

Not that he needed all that much help. Seems a growth spurt of late has suddenly put a whole myriad of new shelves and benches within reach, necessitating a rethink of all anti-theft measures: remotes are now in cabinets or behind the couch; keys are in the back of the drawer instead of front; and any errant pear that strays even vaguely near the edge of the kitchen bench is not long for this world.

He's also taken a penchant for a blue freezer bag, which for reason known to neither man nor beast, he likes to drag about with him whenever he decides that he's gunna do a runner down the street. (If you ever see a small boy pounding the pavement alone dragging a blue "Aussie Farmers" freezer bag, please return to the Baghdad-end-of-Hampton for refund.)

Finally, the battle for the perfect diet continues.
It now appears that Master M has decided that from now on he is officially a...
Fruitopian.

Steak.
Pasta (his old favourite).
Veges.
Chicken.
Its all just floor fodder for young Mike.

The only thing thats now allowed past his lips (apart from milk of course, which by the way, has now switched from goat to cow variety) is... Fruit.

Blueberries.
Mandarines.
Pears.
Bananas.
Strawberries.
Rock melon.
Cantelope.
Avocado.

His new hero isn't mum or dad.

It's Con the Fruiterer.





Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Cold Balls

Well the musics over.
Or at least the mid-year holiday/conference season.

And hence we're all back in the Baghdad-end of Hampton and muzzying our way though the final days of winter and, ipsofacto,... the last of the Melbourne 2008 black death.

i.e., Mikes sick again.
Dads sick again.
Mums battling on like the trooper she is.

Still, at least Mike has discovered balls.

Hey, it's no fish gazing in the tropics or tobagganing a hill of primo Hotham pow (dude), but when you discover that you can not only throw but also catch, it's a big step! And hence you do it again and again and (in between nose wipes for spewing ectoplasm) again.

And we're talking serious catching here... arms outstretched and grabbing like a Mark Schwarzer penalty save. (Ok, that may be overdoing it a little... but dads impressed.)

Whats even more impressive though is that this is all being done on the total fuel source of approximately one (1) sultana.

Once again, the boys off his food. Sure, it may have a fair bit to do with being sick, but there's clearly periods we've noticed when food is rabidly consumed and periods when it's simply an annoyance to him.
Apparently this isn't all that uncommon with kiddies.

Still, how he manages to race about like a man possessed with the fuel source of a gnat is a mystery to modern science.

Then theres the box.

It may be the cliche of cliches, but you get him all the toys in the world and he'd rather play with/in a box. Right now he thinks he's changed his surname to Schumacher and has taken to sitting in said box and expecting a wild ride across the polished boards (see video). Oh well... if you cant beat 'em, join 'em; we drew on some racing stripes.

Brmmm... Brmmm...

Postscript: He's started to eat again... but it appears dinner time is now brought to us by the letter "P".
For dad's birthday (Chinese takeaway... we're all class here...), he gobbled his way through Prawn crackers, Peas, Pork balls (sweet and sour) and Paringa Estate (from the Mornington Peninsula) Pinot Noir. He left the chicken, cashews and baby corn. (Clearly his diet is not PC. Boom boom.)

...ok, ok... maybe not the Pinot.




Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Mr Snow It All

The lad must be wondering what sort of crazy mixed up topsy turvy greenhouse mad world he's living in. Cos no sooner does he get used to the heat of the tropics, wearing shorts and getting dunked in the Coral Sea with fish, than he's freezing his goolies off.

Yup. His second trip to Mt Hotham, a.k.a The Snow.

Unlike last year's trip to elevation when the lad was all into lying about and drinking milk and thats about it (as you do at 4 months old), this year it was all about exploring the lodge, playing with the other kiddies, chasing little brunette girls (his favourites), seeing how many nibblies you can steal off the adults snack tables and raiding unsuspecting lodge guests eskies.

(Is it better to throw out the half pack of illicitly gained dried apricots he's strewn over the floor, or just put them back into the unknown persons cooler and hope said apricots haven't stuck to an errant floor pube?)

And then there was the stairs.

See, Mikes been well trained by mum and grandpa to "go down backwards" when it comes to stairs. Which was a good thing, as the lodge has them aplenty. Which he went down. And up. And along the corridor to the other set. Which he went down, then up. Then along the corridor again. To the original stairs. Where he went... oh, you get the picture.

Which at least was a little better than the fact that he has also learned to climb chairs. And hence was suddenly found to be sitting up very nicely thank you very much at another family's dinner table. And being served dessert! (No, we didn't know them, but they seemed happy enough to accept a random banana and strawberry eating child.)

But it wasn't all lodge play and food theft.

Mike was initiated into the snow itself.

First there was a toboggan run. Or rather, drag. All rugged up like the Michelin man (thanks Dave and Jules!) he was popped onto the lodge toboggan and taken for a slide up to The General to get the morning paper and sour cream (lite).

All seemed well.
Till he fell asleep.
And stayed asleep.
And hence as evolution has yet to supply parents of sleeping ones with 3 arms, he was dragged back in the toboggan in a somewhat comatose state, generating "theres a man pulling a rather small corpse in a sled" looks from passing skiers.

"He's asleep..."

But it wasn't all corpse pulling. There were actual live solo runs down the slope at the end of the lodge, which Mike styled like a pro, even putting a hand down to steer and balance.

Rad dude!

He loved it so much that when we got him home he stood in his toboggan (horrifically for all concerned, in a snowboarder -like stance), and wanted more.

Not only were his first toboggan rides in order, but he also got a go on skis.

Or at least bunged in a backpack and taken on downhill's by dad, and cross country's by mum. Ok, it was only for a few hundred metres both times, and on slopes that weren't exactly double black certain death, but, hey, he was attached to terra firma via skis.

Well done.

There was also his first day of a genuine baby-madness child care centre (while mum and dad skied together - they felt so naughty...), which he left in somewhat of a daze and promptly fell asleep for the night ungodly early. We think they put them on drugs.

The following day it was back to the Big D to see Harry the Dragon. No, we don't know what a fire breathing (i.e., snow melting) beast has anything to do with skiing, but hell, it keeps the kiddies amused.

And occasionally wearing blue lizard wings and a tail.

All up a bloody great week. And it must be said that the boy traveled the 6 hours each way bolted in his car seat like a champion.

Well,.. almost.

See, having survived a rather hairy lotsa-snow and chains required descent of a very cold and icy mountain - car-sick-less - the cruise of the highway was surely a vomiting doddle. Till suddenly...

(mum) "Oh Oh... he's puked!"
(dad) "What? No..."

Sure enough he had. Right down his shirt, pants, car seat and into shoes.

But it wasn't so much the puke itself, but rather how he'd puked.

See, he'd been playing with a rattle/maraca all Carmen Miranda-like (sans fruit hat), making lots of noise as you do, but suddenly decided that simply wasn't enough.
So he tried to eat the maraca.
From the handle end.

Oh well, guess you gotta learn about the gag reflex somehow...