Copy cat from Baghdad-end-of-Hampton

He walks.

He talks (well, kinda; the doctor and mothers group ladies are impressed with his "MUUMM!s" anyway).

He copies.

First it was the computer, typing away like mum and dad. But he's been doing that for ages and possibly cos he keeps thinking he'll find the "never smile at a crocodile" song again on Utube.

Then it was the shoes (and hats); trying to put them on after he'd yanked them off, just as mum and dad do.

And this was soon followed by finding the power cable for the laptop and, quite deliberately, wandering up to the 'puter on dads lap and trying to plug the cable into the back of it. (Ok, a power plug doesnt quite fit in a USB slot, but its full marks for trying.)

Thanks Mike. You're a scholar and a gentleman.

And finally it's the cooking.
Having watched mum and dad clink and clank away with pots and pans making him his mush ever since he switched to solids, he's decided that if he too clinks and clanks he'll obviously be able to make whatever he likes.

So out comes the pots and pans from his favourite pots and pans drawer.
Out comes his wooden spoon and metal ladle from the spoons and ladles drawer (easy to find: always the first draw down in any house in the free world).
And if he's feeling adventurous, a few spices and herbs from the spices and herbs drawer. (Mum swears he's this close to being able to open jars; we've stashed the chili powder...)

Then it's down to it. Clinking and clanking and mixing and separating. Its kinda like watching the Muppets Swedish chef.

(Ultimately, we're hoping he's more Jamie Oliver than Gordon Ramsey.)

The other remarkable and slowly dawning thing of the past fortnight is his comprehension.

As the lad grabbed the remote control and bolted for parts unknown, Dad was heard to cry...
"Michael, bring that back to Dad."
And... he did.
Crikey.
As the lad whipped the jars out of the spices and herbs drawer and onto the floor yet again someone pleaded...
"Ohhh Michael, put it back pleeeease."
And... he did.
Wow.
And at breakfast time on a school day Mum asked the lad:
"Where's Dad?"
And he looked straight past the donor of his XY chromosome, trotted to the back door and gazed out at the bike shed.

Oh well, near enough.

Mike's also been off his food and generally a bit of a sickly of late. Not to mention having molars breaking through and milk teeth threatening. Hence;
"Another wafer thin mint Mr Creosote?"
"NNoooooo..." said Mike.
(Tru dinks.)

Get yer motor runnin', get out on the highway

Dont tell the council nurse (part VI)...

There we were all recovered and alive and kicking and raring to go again and mum goes and checks behind his ears.

Ohmilordy...

Red, gunky, slimey and a general wasteland of parental neglect.
Off to the doc.
Tests...

"You've got both kinds; steph and staph."

Which basically equated to the following formula:

teething + long fingernails + snotty cold =
scratching behind the ears + grotty fingers =
bloody nasty infection.
QED

Strangely such a diagnosis made Master M a happy lad.

See, whereas dad dreaded fighting the boy 3 times a day with antibiotics that tasted like rhino poo mixed with odoureaters, times have changed since pussy was a cat.

Baby medicine now contains aspartame (i.e., the stuff in diet coke) and is musk-stick pink, hence it was more a problem of stopping him getting the whole bottle and slamming it down hard than force feeding him through a tube.

Ok, so the lad (and every diet coke drinker) will probably die of some ungodly disease in 30 years time when they discover fake sugar is the new asbestos, but hey... its makes parenting easier. Its gotta be worth it.

Slightly more worrying than the lads newfound love of all things from the Bayer factory though - he's discovered egg cartons.
Or rather the inside of egg cartons.
And how the inside of an egg carton feels remarkably like a tittie inside his mouth.

Given that he has been weened a cupla months ago, seems the inside of an egg carton is the closest he'll be getting to any norgs - well, till his teenage years anyway. And hence he's sucked the tips off several of the cardboard boobies like theres no tomorrow.

Seriously, you wouldn't do it in front of the Queen.

Its so embarrassing.

Though it does demonstrate a bizarrely innate intelligence.

Especially with cardboard.

Second case in point.
If you've attacked the hole in the tissue box and thrown tissues all over the house and mum/dad have dutifully collected them all up and stuffed them firmly back in the box, then getting the tissues out again (which of course, you must do...) is damn hard.

So he stopped.
And looked.
And measured.
And proceeded to rip open the side of the box. Which gave him newfound access to the tissues, and hence said snot rags were promptly tossed out and onto the floor in their hundreds.
Well done.

Finally - his first organised bike ride.

Along with some 50,000 others, Mike trailered if for 30km of the yet-to-opened Eastlink freeway, towed by mum. Despite the fact the organisers thought 10,00o might turn up on a cold winters Sunday morning and it was gatecrashed by 40,000 others and some said it was a total disaster, Mike+Mum loved it. Not to mention they were part of Australia's biggest ever bike ride.

Now thats impressive.

Triple shot of vaccination juice

We're back.

What with dad flying to parts unknown (or at least 60degN), and mum off at a highfalutin' business manager course, its been a whirlwind of activity in the household which has meant things such as blogs have had to wait their turn.

So, where were we?

Well come 12 months old and the lad is due for not just a big chocky cake with 1 candle and more pressies than you can point a Huggies Toddler 10-15kg nappy at, but also shots.

Big shots.
Like Measles/Mumps/Rubella (MMR) triple shot.
It hurts just thinking about it.

But alas and alack, the lad was sick. So we waited. Then the council vaccination times were during our holiday. So we waited more. Then the boy was snotty. So we held off. And... errr... somewhere in there we mighta forgot for a bit. Then...

We got a dirty letter from the gummint saying "If you don't give your son his MMR shots pronto we'll cut off any welfare payments/your various appendages/send the boys around to rough you up and you really dont want that do you? Oh, and dont dare come the conscientious objector line with us cos that stuff is BS and we'd all be dying of polio/smallpox/black death if the likes of you had their ways you society collapsing science-less scum."

Or words to that effect.
(And right you/they are. Seriously.)

So off the lad was taken to the local doc for his jabs. Which are all normally done by a nurse so the doc seemed all at sea and was, frankly, pooping himself he'd nail the poor lad like some infant jesus.

First jab... "WhatthefuggwasthatWHAAAA!" said the boy.
Second jab... "WHAHAHAHAAAA".
Third jab... "Is that all ya got? {i.e., no whaaaasss}"
He was a little champ.

"They often get a bittova temperature in 8-10 days" said the nurse as Mike strode out.

Skip forward 8 days. Mum at highfalutin business course, dad off battling the vikings, and nana and grandpa left holding the baby(/toddler) during the daylight hours.

Clock hits 4:45am, exactly 8 days post shot.

"WHAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...."

... and he wouldn't be consoled until it was about 6am when he decided to start his day proper. Great for mum... who had been up till 1:30am thinking about work and course stuff. And had more highfalutin to do the next day.

The following night they all struggled to get him off to sleep, but he finally settled around 12:30am thanks specially to grandad. Next day more grizzling (or "keening" as nana liked to call it, though that does seem a little morbidly over the top), till it was off to the docs and a measured temp of 40.8.
As in Degrees C.
Poor tike.

To add insult to injury... teeth.
Huge swollen lumps of gum sticking up where the molars are about to erupt... hence more panadol, sed-a-gel, some homeopathic teething stuff, bottle teat to chew on.

By the weekend all and sundry were exhausted, but Mike was slowly returning to his old terrorising self. Hence a rest day at Nana and Grandpas (with infinite thanks) on Saturday.
And by Sunday everyone was home again in the Baghdad-end-of-Hampton.
Including dad, from parts unknown, who promptly announced;

"Gee... he seems a little grizzly...."

Dad - you shoulda been here yesterday.

Postscript: All is well, apart from a return to snottiness for Master M (and dad), thanks to the bloke sitting / wheezing/ dying next to dad on a 10 hour flight from London to Bangkok. (Thanks dying bloke.) Nana and Grandpa appear to have survived relatively unscathed and will forever be on our xmas card list (when we make one), and rumours of mum chastising very (and more) senior staff from her workplace during her course while suffering her sleep deprived/mothers-worry delirium... appear to be grounded in truth. (Oh well, the oft hinted "Never to be promoted" file cant really exist, can it???)