Pandy and Andy create a baby...

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.