Pandy and Andy create a baby...

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Ya canna change tha laws o' physics

Back when mum and dad were physics and maths nerds, they learnt all about the second law of thermodynamics.

The second law of thermodynamics is the law of increasing entropy (or the reduction in capacity of something to do work). In nerdy jargon, it states that the entropy of an isolated system which is not in equilibrium will tend to increase over time, approaching a maximum value at equilibrium.

So a melting ice cube is a good example - its not in equilibrium so its entropy is ever increasing as it breaks down/melts.

In laymens terms it means that its easier to break stuff than make stuff. Things will continually disintergrate (lose energy) until they can break no more. Think of entropy as reaching a perfect score if you get total chaos.

So what in the wide world of sports does this have to do with Mike? (Though you may well have already sensed a link...)

Well we dont know what something that facilitates a change in entropy is called, so we hereby suggest to the world of science that from hereon in, it be called a "Michael".

We know it makes sense.

Cos if a full wine glass is sitting on a table within reach, he pulls it off (and then stinks of wine). If a newspaper/phone book/nappy/gas bill is sitting idlely by in a formed state, he'll chew it up into an apparently infinate number of newspaper/phone book/nappy/gas bill bits. If a plastic truck full of blocks is sitting neatly in the corner he'll crash it and spread the blocks as far and wide as physically possible, including under the fridge - then move on.

I think you're getting the picture.

Of course it then requires considerably more work from mum and dad to fix the chaos.
Why cant it be the other way round?
Bloody physics.
Bloody entropy.

Unfortunately one of the ways of destruction he's discovered is via his 6 neat little chompers. Which is kinda ok, until he wants food or just meets another human he hasn't met. Then its all
chomp chomp chomp...
on human tissue.

Thats one thing we'll have the thrash out of him sooner rather than later.

The other learnt activity that is indeed a candidate for a sound thrashing is his rampant mobile phone use. Yes. Seriously.

An old disused mobile phone was tossed into his basket of play things, as it seemed solid and shiny and generally worthless and inedible. He didn't care for it all that much until....
Mistress P looks around and there he is sitting on his play mat, with the phone against his ear, "talking" away into it like he'd been doing it all his life. (Which if he starts now, in percentage terms, will very soon be effectively that.)

We always liked the idea of some comedian (Seinfeld?), about giving mobiles to the homeless so that they didn't seem as odd when they were walking along the street talking to themselves. So maybe that will now be the case with babies to make their mumblings at least appear to have a purpose. Hell, their babbles into a broken handset have gotta make at as much difference to the fate of mankind as 99.9999% of mobile calls...

Oh sod it, lets just implant them from birth and get it over and done with.
"Oh, yours is a Telstra?? My son is a Virgin..."

Ya canna change the laws o' physics.
Or, it seems, youthful desire for telecommunications.



Postscript: Dad says all is forgiven for the mobile use, and indeed will pay all bills (this week) as young Mike, taken to the beach to play in the sand/chase seagulls/watch dad windsurf, clambered up onto dads sail of his own free will, grabbed hold of the boom, and got himself into a pretty darn good laydown-gybe position. Dad was so proud, instead of screaming "he's gunna break my f$*%^in sail!!!", grabbed the camera.
"Lean into the turn a little more son... there ya go!"
:-)

Thursday, January 17, 2008

The whole world in his mouth

Another first. And some fascination with balls.

Not to mention the fact that as of today, the lad has officially spent more time in the outside world than the inner (and slightly more gelatinous) one.
Yes, 9 months old.
Where in the wide wide world of sports did that time go?

Ok, his new first. Its goes a bit like this.

Phone rings; Dad answers.
Dad: "Hello, Dad speaking..."
Bloke-on-the-other-end: "G'day - can i speak to Michael please?"
{Dad stops, thinks, ponders...}
Dad: "Errrrrr... yes,.. but I dont think he'll be able to tell you much - he's 9 months old. Think you go the wrong number mate..."
{Dad goes to hang up phone but as he descends receiver hears a muffled...}
BOTOE: "No... hang on... yes, thats right... I'm from..." {yadda yadda yadda}

Yes, Mikes first phone call. Seems mum forgot to pop her name (or Mikes age) on some form. Told you he was now officially "in the system".

As for balls - well he has three favourites at the moment.

Firstly theres the mini soccerball which, for at least 15 minutes, he chased all round the house bashing along in front of himself as he went. We were most proud. Almost as proud as his grandparents would have been if they had seen him at the beach, chasing, just like the ball, the seagulls. Only this was a very bizarre slow-mo chase, with the seagulls constantly keeping a 6 to 10 foot distance between themselves and this strange little crawling human. He was remarkably persistent. And happy.

But back to the balls. All this rolling and chasing may well have learnt from other balls. These in the form of blueberries. Yup, the boy appears to be a blueberry addict. We're a bit unsure why, as the blueberries on offer are the most tasteless, bland and boring blueberries known to man or beast, but hell, he likes 'em.

(Then again, he does appear to enjoy eating lemons, leaves, grass, snot and stones, so he's hardly a food connoisseur.)

However it would appear that at least part of what he loves about blueberries is that they roll. And that he can catch them. It all started with dad rolling one across the table and the boy giggling. Then grabbing. Then eating. So we rolled him another.
Slowly but surely the grabbing got faster. From "let it hit me in the chest, stop, stare at it, then place my hand on it" grab to the full "thrust and lunge" grab.

We're not quite up to the Gilchrist-like dive, but theres certainly an improvement in hand-eye co-ordination going on. The only question thats remains is, do we train him as left or right handed?

The final ball is his globe stress ball. For an adult its all nerfball like - soft and crunchable and somewhat calming in the hand. For a boy though, it is, apparently, edible.

We first discovered this when bits of partially identifiable (possibly the horn of Africa) blue and green sponge appeared in his poo. And indeed investigation revealed 3 almost continental-sized chunks missing from the stress ball.

He's got the whole world in his mouth.
Or at least its main tectonic plates.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

Roll over Mikehoven


We have a roller.

Alright, we've known this for quite some time, but now, frankly, its no longer cute, funny or to be encouraged.

It seemed only yesterday that Mike was happy(/incapable of anything else other than) to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling and/or bat the horsey mobile above his head for hours.

And then he finally rolled - one side only: port tack we recall.

As parents we were stoked. "A rolling baby!" Wow... we were so pleased. And he was so pleased that we were pleased. It was a very circular pleasing.

But now that rolling is de rigeur (both tacks) its started its new life use as a weapon.

"Think ya gunna change my nappy eh dad?? Think again!!!"
{roll roll roll}
"Ha ha ha!"

Its been pointed out that on the ground this can easily be tempered by the "legover" technique, involving sitting at right angles to the boy and placing a leg over his upper chest that he can also cling to with his arms, enabling unrolled access to the nappy down below. Fair enough...

But on the change table even Nadia Comaneci would struggle with such technique due to the added thrill factor of being 4 ft above the ground. Hence the incessant rolling is not just a fun way to pee off the parent but also a surefire way to the local horse-piddle with broken appendages if mum and dad aren't quick enough to push him back down.

The only upside of the 4 hourly change table battle is surely going to be his first word. I'd bet a Tosca it'll be....
"NO!!"
(And we were so hoping it'd be "duuude"...)

Of course the week also brought one other undesirable new found skill.

Whereas previously the lad was content to sit in his IKEA special high chair (as used in most Melbourne cafes...), he now appears to have worked out how to struggle up, over and, well, out. Though we're not exactly sure how...

Cos the first anyone knew about his new found Cirue du Soleil skill was when he was spotted dangling precariously from the high chair by his finger tips and about to piledrive himself into the floorboards.
"NOOOOOOO!!!!"
Lets just say Mr Medicare will be relieved that he's such a strong little bugger.

(Once again - normal "don't tell the council nurse" caveat applies.)

Sunday, January 06, 2008

Fully Sick - Mike goes Italian

The plague has official struck the Baghdad-end-of-Hampton.

Or at least number 41 anyway.

While the rest of the free world was celebrating xmas and taking the traditional January holiday to the beach, Mike was sick. Fully sick.

First a cold, then a virus (arguably picked up from dad, or at least the same xmas party that dad infused it from) and then to rub salt into the gums, teething. Roll that into one big snotty ball and you have - misery.

Slow wailing, moaning crawls from one end of the house to the other, in search of mums (rarely dads) legs to cling to until she lifted him onto her shoulder for a cuddle.

And did we mention the heat? Just when you thought it couldn't get any better, along comes global warming and, in a "we dont have extremes of temperature in a La Nina summer" summer, and in the space of four days, we get three days of 40degC+. Only the little evaporative cooler in Mike's room stopped the house attaining core-of-the-sun status.

There is no god.

All that said, an upside is that Mike has discovered the beach. Ok, at first he did try to eat sand an awful lot, but he appears over that phase now and has discovered how to make great long snaking snail trails by crawling/dragging himself along the sand. Funny how they always end up back at mum, boob end of towel.

He's also discovered the sea. He appears fascinated by the waves - all 2cm high in the shallows - and will hang in mum or dads arms and watch the breakers lap at his toes for hours. Ok, minutes. But theres a genuine fascination there and hence we do believe we have a future Mick Fanning in the making.

Not to mention going in for a "swim".

Like any self respecting lover of warmth he did the little "ohhhhhhahhhhhh" and wriggle as the cold water touched his tummy for the first time, but was soon loving it. Or at least loving watching dad play peekaboo by ducking under the water and resurfacing every few seconds. This appeared to be game of the day, and, along with slapping the surface of the water, was demanded at regular intervals - much to the pleading of dads lungs.

At home, and when the boy has actually been eating (which hasn't been a lot - curse you virus) we've decided that the lad must be, in part at least, Italian. Either that or mum's preggas visits to her old stomping ground in Lygon St (being next to the Royal Wimmens and all that) infused through the belly. Cos Mikes current favourite food appears to be lasagna. Oh, and noodles. And spag bog; basically anything pasta based, to the point where if there are other veges involved he's been known to sort the veges from the pasta inside his mouth and spit the veges out. Lil (smart) bugger.

Oh, the one caveat is Vegemite. Tip to young players - "eating" Vegemite appears only half the fun. The other half is wiping it all over your face, body, chair, table, floor, mum... oh, that and absorbing as much as you can off the bread onto said body parts and mouth, then spitting out a grey-brown looking mush of chewed dough onto the floor for a parent to retrieve before an honoured guest steps in it. Brilliant!

The above is also an indicator that the lad is now pretty much eating whatever mum and dad eat. This, mum and dad reckon, is not only a bit of a time saver but also a great weight loss measure into the bargain, cos they still cook the same amount but now hand a fair portion off to the boy.

Sure beats stomach stapling.

Postscript: Boy feeling better, cool change arrived, common or garden variety chaos resumed. Ahhhh...

Slow sick crawl...



Looking for butterflies...