Xmas 2009; Doin' it for the kids

We made it out alive.

From Xmas day that is.

The girl's first ever and the boy's first where he actually understood the concepts of Santa, presents, being good and eating till plum pud pours out your pores.

Unfortunately Master M didn't seem to quite grasp the associated concepts of:

a) Giving people what they want ("What do you want to get Dad Mike?" questioned mum. "Salty!!" {Salty being a Thomas the tank engine character...})

b) Keeping presents secret ("Dad, Dad,... I got you Salty!!")

c) The exact date of Xmas ("Dad, Dad,.. open your Salty present NOW!!!" ...demanded on Xmas eve.)

d) Sharing ("Dad, Dad,... you share your toys; I want Salty!" declared the boy.
"Ok... I'll give you Salty if you give me Bill {one half of 'Bill&Ben' of Thomas engine fame; not the doper weeds}" replied Dad.
"NOOOO!!!!" cried the lad. "I have both! Gimme Salty.")

Such a day was, we imagine, fairly typical of a million kiddies houses in Melbourne alone.

The girl, of course, had little concept of what in the wide wide world of sports was going on, other than this coloured paper stuff was great to chew on and sparkly ribbon things got caught in your toes.
Hence her antics were decidedly everyday.

Eat.

Poo.

Sleep.

Cry.
All the good stuff.

Ok, she rolled about a bit and indeed displayed many feats of strength as discussed previously.

And she did seem rather chuffed with a couple of her pressies; the soft-yet-crinkly book (which she chewed) and most of all the teething ring from Nana that she gummed on for much of the day.

For the boy, however, it was anything but ordinary.

The fun started at the ford-foresaken hour of 6:15am.

There was the sound of little footsteps and a muffled "ooohhhh..." followed by the unmistakable rustling of wrapping paper being interrogated by little fingers.

"Hey Mike,... whadchya doing?" mum called.

"Errr.... n.o.t.h.i.n.g...." came the all too innocent reply.

"Has Santa been?" dad queried.

"YESSS!!!"

There was clearly going to be no stopping of this irresistible force, hence out of bed it was for all and sundry to the wonderful sound of sparrows farting.

Granted the boy was a little confused about the actual status of Santa's visit. The problem being that the little bit of milk left in the glass and mostly eaten Christmas cake and crumbs left on the side table by the tree actually said to him that Santa hadn't been. Or rather, as there were left overs, he was at least due back.

At this juncture we offer some worldly advice.

One trap for young players that we learnt from last year; don't have all the chocky for breakfast - the sugar rush is too much for a present tearing toddler to bear and it all ends in tears about an hour later. Instead we had tea/hot milk and toast while perched in front of the brand spanker new "Hero of the Rails" Thomas full length feature movie.

All before 7am.

It was almost sane.

Presents done, it was off to the paternal family do.

More food, more kiddies, more chaos, and a wonderful walk to the beach afterwards to burn up the pore pouring pud.

This, of course, being our second Christmas feast of the week.

Two days earlier it had been the maternal nosh up, complimented by a good old Aussie stinker of a hot afternoon (39degC /102.2F) to go with the roast chicken, amazingly yummy nutloaf for the vegetarians (which always gets dad singing "nutloaf city limits"; he cracks himself up), lashings of gravy and the funny hats/terrible jokes.

Finally, and in the spirit of dad's Welsh ancestors sending all the pre-pubescent boys 'down pit', we give you a Christmas tale of father and son.

Dad had received a remote control plane for Christmas.

It is small and very light and hence quite twitchy in a bayside seabreeze.

Add that to the fact that dad is at best an amateur aviator/moron and you get a plane performing a perfect stuka divebomb into the backyard hedge and ending up on the ground wedged deep behind the undergrowth against the fence.

"Awww crumbs {or words to that effect}" said dad, as he tried to think of ways to retrieve the damn thing from the impenetrable wilds of suburban Melbourne.

"Mmmm... small hole under bush; dad too big (especially after pud) for hole; must find something small and monkey-like... HEY BOY!?!?"

Hence;
One boy sent down pit.
One plane rescued.
One dad happy/possibly in breach of UN child labour laws,
One Xmas saved.

But of course it's all about the kids.

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Festivus and the rest of us

Ah, Xmas.

The silly season.

In the little house at the Baghdad-end of Hampton we appear to have a split in the ranks when it comes to the festive season.

First there's the girl.

For those with a working knowledge of Seinfeld, little Miss S appears to have adopted the Costanza family tradition of Festivus (for the rest-of-us), including a fascination with alumimium poles (high strength to weight ratio so the dangling toys can be yanked upon with force - though traditionally our household has actually had a stick; seriously), airings of grievencences (i.e., lots of crying when in need of cuddles/nappy/feeding) and finally, most importantly, displays of feats of strength.

In the Seinfeld version this final aspect from Festivus involved wrestling the head of the family to the floor until they were pinned.
It could take hours.
However little Miss S has chosen to demonstrate her feats in ways peculiar to herself.
Namely: 1) a vice like grip on any finger to stray within reach, including the subcutaneous fingernail insertion (dads still too scared to cut them after last time), 2) atomic powered tummy time, completely with head raised in a super up-dog yoga pose, and 3) the most impressive feat of strength of all, her incredible tummy crunches/sit ups.

No, we've never heard of a 4 month old doing sit ups either, and yes, we're serious.

She lies on her back and lifts and holds her upper body in the air for ages, cooh'ing and ahh'ing as she goes.

The girls going to have better abba-dabba's than Sports Illustrated-era Elle. (Lock up your men folk. No, seriously. Lock em up.)

The boy on the other hand appears to be a bit of a Yuletide traditionalist; he's a Santa man.

Hence; "I phone Santa!" announces the lad at seemingly random intervals.

Case in point - family at the evening dinner table.
Boy dials north pole on imaginary phone (here's hoping he has one of those cheap phone cards).
"Brrrring Brrrring, Brrrring Brrring..."
{Dad, hiding behind little Miss' S head on the opposite side of the dinner table...}
"Hello. You've reached Santa's workshop. Your call may be recorded for evaluation purposes. To assist us to provide the best possible service, please press (1) if you've been naughty or (2) for nice."
{Boy, somewhat confused, takes a little while to make a decision:}
"1 and 2!" he announces proudly. (Score one for honesty...)

Similarly, on the way home from one birthday/Xmas BBQ and onto another, the lad decided that a follow-up call to the big man was in order, as he'd spied a "Bill&Ben" Thomas trainset that morning that he had (note, not just "wanted") to have.

Therein began a half hour conversation with the dude in a red suit.

From the front seats we could hear the following;
"Santa, how are you...?
...I check my list ok???
...I already have a guitar!
...Thomas - yes.
...Bill&Ben.
...Dad! Santa wants to speak to you!"

And so on and so on.

We were in fact heading to the (amazing) Mothers group BBQ where Santa him very self was due to pop by from the North Pole (via Highett) at precisely 5pm. Hence dad did a little checking when handed the 'phone'...

"Hello Santa" said dad, speaking into his fingers as he negotiated the partly tipsy drivers of Hawthorn East on the last Sat'dy before Xmas, wondering what is there would be a traffic infringement for chatting on an imaginary phone...
"Hmmm.... yes, he's been good.
...yes, Sarah too!
...Oh, Bill and Ben? Yes, he'd like that.
{Big grin observed from the back seat}
...Ohhh. Really. Today? We'll see you in half an hour then?
Would you like to speak to Michael?"

And so on and so on.

The end result of all this was an incredibly familiarity between Saint Nic and Master M, and hence when Santa really did turn up at the BBQ half an hour later, Master M was ready.

Front and centre, standing slap bang in the middle and within beard whipping distance of the big man the whole time; the entire kiddie cast of the Mothers group otherwise sitting politely behind him on their rugs.

"Sit down in front!" was the call from the photographer mums. (And fair enough too; Master M would have been in every shot of every child on Santa's knee.)

When eventually Santa pulled a pressie from the big sack for Master M, the lad lept onto Santa's lap faster than you can say "It's better to give than receive!".

We don't know what they chatted about, but we suspect it may have included the words "good", "trains" and "Bill&Ben".

Sarah just slept through it all of course.
Even when Santa called her name.

"Santa..." she dreamed "Phhooey... I could pin that old fat guy to the floor any day."

Merry Xmas to all our friends and family 2009



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Oh yeah, Wiggle Time

Hi!
We're The Wiggles!
I'm Greg(/Sam)!
I'm Murray!
I'm Anthony!
I'm Jeff!

If you're wondering what in the wide wide world of sports the above is on about, you clearly haven't been a parent of a toddler in the past (two) decade(s).

If you do know these lines syllable by syllable, you've prolly just felt a little thump of dread in your heart, if only for the overuse of the exclamation mark. And because now you have a little one plonking themselves in front of a video for the ten millionth time unable to be crowbar-ed from position.

Sunday the 6th of December 2009 was clearly only ever going to be Wiggle(TM) Day in the Baghdad-end of Hampton. And for the rest of toddler Melbourne too it seemed. As this was the day the Wiggles(TM) came to town.
Live.
In the flesh.
If you think Elvis (pre triple peanut butter and bacon burger days) and MJ (pre baby dangling and detachable nose era) playing a double act, fresh from a tour of purgatory, would be big gig, well to a 2-4 year old, this is WAYYYYY bigger.

Ok, lets be honest.

Master M knew something about The Wiggles(TM) was about to happen, but in reality we think he imagined we were going back to Dreamworld/Wiggleworld, and hence he'd tootle about in the big red car for hours all mouth agape like last time, and maybe get a little freaked out by the occasional Gold Coast teenager dressed up in a dodgy Henry the Octopus suit.

Instead...
Well we arrived at Rod Laver Arena and Master M was instead a bit freaked out by all the kids and mums and prams outside.

It was a kid/mum/pram frenzy. (Dads optional.)

He composed himself and demanded he walk up all the outside steps on his own, which took us sometime into the next millennium.

Once inside and seated (about half way along, directly opposite the main circular stage, and about 10 rows up from the floor - very good possie we must say; thank you online booking and Google calender reminders of the very second the ticket box opened), he discovered the giant screen on the wall and hence sat, mouth agape, watching 15 foot high Wiggly adventures.
Plus the odd advert for Volkswagon (clearly, like McDonalds, they have a "get em while they're young" marketing philiosphy).
Master M was like a pig in poo.

However, when The Wiggles(TM) did arrive on stage...
He kept watching the screen.
"They're down there boy!" reminded dad.
He turned and looked at the stage.
Then back to the screen.
"No.. down THERE. That's the real Wiggles(TM)!!!"
He looked back.
Then it seemed to dawn on him slowly.
The real, live, yellow/blue/red/purple Wiggles(TM).

You could almost see a haze of daze come over his face.

After that he sat on his chair, then later on dad then mum's lap, with mouth agape (again).
Not clapping.
Not singing.
Not dancing.
Just jawdropped. (And just as he was at Wiggleworld).

At the very end of the whole show - literally when The Wiggle(TM) started saying their goodbyes - he waved back to them and clapped approval.

We suspect (just like at Wiggleworld where he froze like a statue but later claimed "I high-fived Henry!"), that over time he will be telling all and sundry that he was down there on stage wearing his own customised Wiggle(TM) green skivvy.

This was all in some contrast to little Miss S.

Much as mum and dad were somewhat fearful of the poor Miss being blasted with sound and made hearing impaired for life, wailing uncontrollably until she was marched out by security, she in fact loved it.
Absolutely loved it.
And was arguably more animated than her older brother.
She watched.
She listened.
She was ohhed and ahhed.
She decided it was interval and requested a drink, so mum gave her a feed, commendably there infront of the 5000 others, not that anyone would complain. Well, maybe one lot of people,... if they knew.

"Babe..." whispered mum to dad "I think I sprayed the people in front..."

When it all was over and the Wiggles(TM) were safely tucked away in Rod Laver's bowels gearing up for their next show in only an hours time, and after a quick chip frenzy ("NO DAD! They're MINE!") both boy and his amazingly animated Sis collapsed, necessitating a long carry of a partly comatose and hence dam heavy lump of a child back to the car where both kiddies slept like cherubs on the way home.
And then woke up.
Too early.
Both of them.

Hence the afternoon was, mmmm..., challenging.
Lets just say the naughty corner/mum-dads patience levels took a pounding.

Curse you Wiggles(TM).
If only for having us all singing "Monkey Man" (dad does a mean Kylie Minogue cameo) for the rest of the day/week, and putting on such a great show we'd happily go through it all again.

Still, if you cant beat them (even with a feathersword) you may as well join 'em.

Hi!
We're the Ws!
I'm Dad!
I'm Mum!
I'm little Miss S!
I'm Master M!

Postscript:
1) We bought Master M some merchandise.
He took said merchandise to child care the next day as he appeared to epoxy welded to it.
He fought with another boy over it.
It broke.
He announced "No problem" Santa would fix it (sheesh... we're rooted!).
2) Given the amount of sweat Murray (a.k.a Red) Wiggle(TM) was pouring out of his body - notably dripping on the floor below when sitting on a trapeze playing his guitar - after running up and down through the crowd, we were somewhat glad to hear he survived the day sans heart failure. Best lay off the dim sims and get back on the fruit salad (yummy yummy), Murray.
(But you're still dads favourite.)

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Cock a doodle doo

Thank Ford for daylight saving.

Ok, yeah, it may well confuse the cows, make nights too hot, get kids late for bed and fade the curtains.

But on the flip side, and far more important than its energy saving and hence greenhouse gas reduction capabilities, it means that we're writing this blog at 6am on a Sunday.

This may sound seriously delusional, but think of it this way; the boy insists on waking with the first of the farting sparrows, which at this time of year is at 0553 EDST. But in sun time, thats 4:53.
FOUR BLOODY FIFTY THREE AM!
Being awake at 4:53 on a Sunday is for people in nightclubs and nursing homes.

Hence, thank Ford for daylight saving. A whole hour closer to reasonableness.
A case of beer for you George Hudson.

Not that all this sparrow farting is having any great impact upon the boy. Even if we're as blunt as yesterdays porridge at such an ungodly hour, he's firing with great insights.

Case in point.

For some reason, the breakfast topic shifted, as you do, to "Which came first, the chicken or the egg"?

Master M, without missing a beat, replied:

"The Rooster."

MMMmmmm...
In an animal husbandry sense, well, we guess he did.

Meanwhile, little Miss S has not only leapt past the 100 day mark, but is making her presence known too, only in a slightly more voluminous sense.

It seems we've reached that time when not only has she realised who mum and dad are, but that getting hugs from them is a damn good thing and should be insisted upon at all times.

Hence: lots of crying.

We know its just a stage.
We hope our backs hold out to 200 days.

Physically she's ticking all the boxes, but its still damn unnerving to watch her heart beating through her head.

(Don't freak out.)

All entirely normal; a baby's anterior fontanelle is where the bones of the skull haven't joined yet in order for the head to make itself a little more conical if need be - something mum's probably quite grateful for when the bub is trying to get out through the birth canal. The plates of the skull don't join for up to two years, and hence there's a little soft spot where, if she's still, you can watch the skin on her skull bounce up and down like some sort of inverted drum.

It's also a lot more visible because of her thin hair.

Speaking of which...

Many babies, like their mums, go through a period of hair loss as the hormone levels change after birth.

Nothing out of the ordinary here.

But for little Miss S, she's been losing hair everywhere except right at the very top of her neck/bottom of back of her cute little head.
As a result, our sweet little girl now has a severe case of bogan-itis.

Yes, she's sporting a genuine, Frankston passport, rat tail.

We'll forgive her.

For now.

Finally, we end on yet another one from the "don't repeat this at my 21st file".
Again starring the boy.

"Mum... my testicles hurt".
(Yes, he does know the word testicles, we're not cleaning this up for the faint hearted...)
"MMUUUMMM!! My testicles hurt!"
"Alright..." said mum. "Gimme a look."
Off with the nappy.
And there it was.
His sloop pointing north.
(i.e., His first conscious erection.)

Wont be the last time that thing causes you pain boyo.
Just ask the Rooster.

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Family quarterly result

Three months old today.
Three months old today.
Everybody clap their hands,
We're three months old today.

(Well, actually yesterday, but we don't like to ruin a good story/swim-class song with the facts.)

Yes, little Miss S is a full season old already.

And right on cue, (well a day prior actually; 16/11/2009), Little Miss S did her first ever roll over.
Back to tummy.
Genius.

The end of the fourth trimester also means that we no longer have a bub who eats/sleeps/poos, but rather one who eats/plays/sleeps. Then /poos.

It's a definite and clear demarcated transition in life; the first eyes wide open stage, where the outside world starts to come into the brain and things like dads and brothers and (sadly, this is true) television start to get noticed (her favourite appears to be the Simpsons); anything with colour and light which moves and shakes and stimulates the grey matter into making new pathways.

Cos lets face it, you can only have eyes for mum's boobs for so long.

Its all very exciting for a parent (not so for others, granted), because it means she's starting to think.

Now if only she'd start thinking about chugging down a bottle of mum's mammaries finest homebrew we'd be laughing. Granted she does now make a tiny effort, and dad did manage to get a whole 2o ml into her in one go. (Woohoo!) Which he learnt is about a fifth of what she should drink in a session. (Boooo...)

Speaking of television and battles and learning about things other than breasts; did we mention The Boy?

Master M has covered all of the above in having accomplished what many a 50's baby-boomer (as opposed to a Naughty's baby boomer, as we're sure this lot will be known) has failed to achieve in their lifetime; he appears totally capable of working a television and video recorder. (For those reading this in five years time, a video cassette recorder, a.k.a VCR, is a big box into which you plugged a slightly smaller box which contained magnetic tape onto which was recorded moving pictures. I'm sure there'll be one in a museum somewhere. Alongside the garden sprinklers.)

Hence he can now fire up said box, eject tapes he doesn't like (i.e., dads windsurfing stuff) and put on things he does like (e.g., The Wiggles), and change the channels on the telly until it comes up with "a seven!" which to him now means 'video will play soon'.
(Dam us for teaching him numbers so early...)

On the "one step ahead" front, he hasn't yet discovered that the power switch on the wall renders all the above obsolete.
And if he works that one out, we'll change the VCR to channel eight.

But all this, frankly, is chicken giblets compared to the real offspring story of the week.

(I warn you, its not pretty. Weak hearts leave the room please.)

There was dad, doing his best as little Miss S had scratched her face, sitting on the deck with her lovingly laid in his arms under the rays of a setting Sunday sun, trying to clip her fingernails...

"Clip".
One gone.
"Clip"
Gettin' there.
"Clip"
"ARRGHH!!"
Not only did he clip the nail but also managed to take a sliver of fingertip off with it into the bargain. (He could tell how much - it was still there in the clippers.)

The girl yelled.
Dad freaked a bit.
(Ok, a fair bit.)
Blood flowed.
Pressure applied, and after a few quick sucks to clean it up, the bleeding stopped.

As, remarkably, did the crying.

Still, just to be sure to be sure, mum bunged Miss S into the car seat (in which Miss S soon fell fast asleep...) and had her all checked out at Monash medical centre, where remarkably there was no queue and lots of apparently semi-bored paediatricians, and even a plastic surgeon (who quite enjoyed looking through a microscope at the sliver which mum had brought in a small box), eager and willing to offer opinions.

And they all agreed.
It wasn't that bad; there'd be a little scar and maybe a slightly shorter finger nail, but that putting in a stitch would only result in an equally non-obvious scar anyway, so...

Officially Miss S' first accident, band aid (not even a Wiggles one either) and Mercurochrome (ouch).

Good one dad, you muppet.

Still, there's nothing like a good old disfigurement of your offspring to convince yourself you love them more than life itself.

"Sorry."
Love,
Dad.


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Baby boob bottle battle

We're having a battle with the bottle.

No, not the Boris Yeltsin "too many sherbets" common or garden variety bottle battle.

Nor even a Dr Suess beetle battle in a bottle with their paddles with the bottle on a poodle and the poodle eating noodles. ... a muddle puddle tweetle poodle beetle noodle bottle paddle type battle.

We're talking the drinking bub bottle battle.

It seems that the irresistible force (that be workplace admin: "Mistress P, your planned maternity leave up") is meeting the immovable object (that be little Miss S: "I wont drink from no stinkin' bottle, gimme a boob you bastards").
And hence we have a battle.

We've tried warm milk, cold milk, slow flow teets, fast flow teets, mum feeding, dad feeding, holding her close, holding her away, holding her facing down, holding her facing up, tickling the lips, itching her cheek, doing when she's calm, doing when she's happy, doing when she's hungry...
Nuthin.
Zip.

Well almost.

The light at the end of the force-feeding tube is that now she'll at least not howl with derision when she is just shown the the bottle.

The only remaining thing to do appears to be the old hold out.
Who can crack first.
She who's hungry, dads sanity, or mums exploding norgs.
(If you never hear from this blog again you'll know who won.)

Not that life has been all baby bottle battles.

By our reckoning, as of 9 November, it will be 11 weeks since we had a night of continuous sleep.

Ahhh...
Sleep.
Alright, the girl is doing a lot better than she was, usually making it to 3 or 4am each night and mostly just one wake-up. And given daylight saving we really cant blame the boy for waking up AT 5:50AM ON A BLOODY SUNDAY, so we shouldn't be complaining. Still, all this sleep deprivation has lead dad to ponder the question of how to get a suitable quota of shuteye, and hence reach the considered decision that (and we quote) "I'd give my left testicle for 8 hours continuous sleep."

Seems a fair trade.

The other conundrum this raises is that of (child)free time.

In days of old, free time was measured in days and hours.
Now it seems to be minutes and seconds.
Hence come 9:00pm each night the question must be asked; kids are finally fedded and bedded, do we a) hit the sack and give ourselves at least a chance of near 8-hours accumulated sleep, or b) have some couch collapsing telly time just by ourselves like normal developed country humans. In the end it's a compromise; a quicky mug of Cadbury hot chocolate, ANZAC bikkie and a typically futile flick through the channels cos there's nothing to watch. (Dam you reality TV.)

Still, it hasn't been all bottle battles and scene setting for castration in the A+P+M+S household.

The last two weekends we've been out of town, making it three in a row. (Hence the lawns look more like a jungle.)

Following on from Cry Baby weekend (see last blog post), the tribe packed the Griswold family truckster twice more, the first time heading to the beauty of Wilsons Prom where all and sundry gathered to celebrate Uncle Ray's 70th.

Not having accommodation in the Park itself, the tribe was ensconced in a cabin at a caravan park in Yanakie, about 30km away from the action, necessitating a somewhat "exciting" post-party midnight drive back to the shack dodging the scenery. Lets just say it was only through the grace of the mechanical geniuses at Fuji Heavy Industries (a.k.a Subaru) that we managed to arrive back at our humble adobe minus the coat of arms moulded into our bonnet.
And not by lack of trying either.

The following day was rather magical. While mum and dad contemplated a sprint for home during midday kiddie sleeping routines, the boy had other ideas.
"Nanna Pappa's caravan!" he cried, indicating a desire to head back to the Park and see his grandparents caravan, and presumably, grandparents too.

(We later learned it was the 'different from his' Thomas train collection in the van that he really wanted. Kids eh...)

A quick call to N&P and the family was back in the truckster, only not to nanna and pappa's van, but to the northern end of the park and "Five Mile Road", where rumour was that there were some amazing wildflowers after the big fires of earlier that year.

And indeed there were.

As Master M noted, there were Jeff ones (i.e., purple), Murray ones (i.e., red) "Yellow wiggle" ones (guess that colour...), but no Anthony (i.e., blue) ones. Hence an Anthony hunt was on, with Pappa and Nanna and mum and dad and little Miss S marching over hill and dale, until... there it was.
The one Anthony flower in the entire Park.
Which Mike tried to pick and bung in his pocket.
Oh dear.
(We luckily made it out of the park gate unmolested by enraged Rangers.)

The following weekend it was back to Sandy Point for the annual "SHQ Melbourne Cup" weekend windsurfing event and hooten-anny. Only this time there was not much windsurfing (one brief session for dad) and not even much hooten-anny'ing. Most of the time was spent with Master M getting reacquainted with Miss C, his girlfriend from the previous year's windsurfing weekend (only last year she didn't have much hair, and hence he called her baby, even though she is actually older and arguably wiser - lucky he didn't try to put her in a corner), and her brother Master D.

All the fun and excitement of weekend ultimately culminated in a "too little food, too little sleep, too late at night" tantrum of John McEnroe-esque proportions from Master M.
Oh the shame.
We're not sure if the first-time parents-to-be (in 4 weeks) sharing the house have recovered.

But it wasn't all tantrums.
There was lots of walking too, mainly a bit before 7am in the morning when Master M would bound into life and hence a stroll was in order with dad to prevent waking everyone in the house, and particularly the poor childless chap sleeping off the previous nights partying on the lounge.

During one morning stroll, a sad and sorry wombat that was somewhat passed his use-by date, courtesy of a mistaken believe it could out-headbutt a car, was spotted on the side of the road. He/she/it was still remarkably wombat-looking, though lying on its back with paws stuck up in the air.
"Wombat!" the lad exclaimed.
"SSShhh.." said dad. "He's sleeping".

On arrival back at the house the lad was very keen to tell others that they'd seen a wombat but had let it continue its rest. Though he apparently failed to recognise it was still there the next day. And the next. Only it had been tipped back upright by a kind soul and didnt seem to mind the flies on its nose.

This was not the only wombat story of the fortnight.

There we were, reading "Diary of a Wombat", when it occurred to dad that a) this was an Australian book (unless theres been a mass wombat immigration program going on we haven't been privvy to) and b) there was the odd Americanism in the book. This lead to the following dad/boy exchange;

Dad {reading book aloud}: "Wombat bashed the garbage bin."
Dad {pondering aloud} "Mmmm... wonder why they didn't say 'rubbish' bin?"
Boy {seriously}: "Maybe wombats like rubbish bins?"

The lad is a lateral thinking genius.

(If only he could work out how to win the baby booby bottle battle...)

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Cry Baby Weekend #1

We all thought it would end in tears.

The inaugural "Cry Baby" weekend, starring four babies under the age of 6 months plus Master M and his trusty sidekick Master A, was held in the very same house at Sandy Point that dad and Mistress P were married in. Its all rather circular really.

The babies in question were all related, though not in the common or garden variety way, but rather through employer; all being produced via at least one parent who worked in the climate section of the Bureau of Meteorology. The last time such a baby boom occurred in the same workplace was the disastrous El Nino of 2002/03, hence it was with some trepidation round the water cooler when a baby onslaught was on the cards again. Trepidation proven correct; we've been bubbling at the edge of an El Nino all year, with dust storms blanketing Sydney, Melbourne's driest first six months on record, and record breaking heat in winter. And now it appears Cry Baby weekend may well be the straw that breaks the thirsty camels back - the Southern Oscillation Index has fallen 8.3 points since Cry Baby weekend alone (and still falling as we write).

In days of old a trip to Sandy was all beer and BBQs and stories of bravado, where too much windsurfing was barely enough and nights were for regaling the boogie boarding adventures of the day.

How things have changed.

The hardest-core activity of Cry Baby was changing the morning stink-bomb nappy, while days were spent either strolling the streets and beaches with a pram, eating, lounging on the couch while your bub had a nap, eating, feeding a carrot to the horses, eating, and catching 40 winks infront of the coonarra. Oh and eating.

Given the eating, and in particular the number of desserts everyone brought for the weekend, "Cry Baby" may have been otherwise termed "Cake Biting" weekend. We think we ate approximately our body weight in Pav alone. Each.

As for the kiddies, well they were on their best behaviour all weekend. And much as we all thought they'd be triggering each other off in Dresden-like crying firestorms, it was quite the opposite. If anything they appeared to calm each other, allowing photoshoots on the floor and lots of "ohh-ing" and "ahh-ing" from the mums and dads. (Or maybe the serenity from the bubs was simply a by-product of them always having a view/smell of at least one lactating mum at all times.)
In fact much of the weekend seemed to be spent just staring at bubs.
And conversely for the bubs, boobs.

Apart from the older two kiddies that is. They decided that playing with trains would be high on the weekends schedule. Only problem being it had to be the train that the other one had. Hence they were either a) clutching an armful of trains as though their life depended upon it, or b) crying and/or chasing the other to get whichever train they needed (note: not wanted; needed).

For all this battle of train wits, when it came time to go home there was Master A yelling out "BYYYYE!!" as he jogged up the driveway, while Master M leaned out the doorway waving a hearty "SeeYaaaaaa!!", just like the couple of old mates that they now are.

In fact master M loved the weekend so much that when he arrived home he decided that he actually did not care much for the humdrum life in the Baghdad end of Hampton, rather he wanted to be back at "someone-else's house" - that being the name he adopted for the place we stayed in after mum and dad explained to him that we weren't going to be spending the weekend at home, rather at "someone else's" house.

He wanted to be back there so much that when he returned from childcare the following Monday, he refused to be coerced into entering the slum he previously called home, but announced that he was off to Sandy Point/"someone-else's house" and bolted out the driveway. Followed by mum, who didn't manage to catch the sprinting little devil till he was a dozen houses down the road, as running while clutching a pillow you use for breast feeding a bub + a flapping flat nappy can slow you down a bit.

This enthusiasm for a home away from home wasn't even dampened by the long drive back, during which the lad almost managed to down a full bottle of luke-warm milk + read his newspaper (a Thomas the tank engine flyer on safety at train stations; the only thing we can heap praise onto Connex for) + admire the rushing scenery on a windy road near Korumburra. We say "almost", as he regurgitated the previous and now somewhat-curdled contents of the bottle all over his clothes/seat/newspaper leading to an impromptu roadside stop and strip.

After which, he announced that sitting in his seat was a bit "tough".
And indeed it would have been.
It bloody stank.
(Arguably second worse stink of the holiday after the trips-end nappy overtopping bin at the house. "Smell that'll outlast religion" as Kenny would say.)

In a vaguely similar manner, about half an hour later little Ms S also started demanding milk of the mum's-boobs variety, and hence another impromptu stop was called for. This time in the sleepy Westernport hamlet of Lang Lang, long known in family circles as the place where a) dads-dad used to ride his bike an impressively long way - from East Brighton - to work on a farm cos he loved the cows, and b) where dad did his Non-Commissioned Officer training when his school demanded a second year of army cadets from him, and dad reckoned he'd rather be a 'yeller' than a 'yellee' if he had to keep doing it. About all Lang Lang taught him (apart from how to yell) was that huntsman spiders don't particularly like having Aerogard blown on them from a can. While its being ignited into a flame thrower.

Hence... Lang Lang playground it was for a Ms S top-up and nappy change. Which lead mum and dad to muse that having kiddies will actually get them to see a whole lot more of rural Australia than they ever did being footloose and fancy free and tearing through every country town at 10% over the legal limit.

That said, they'll mostly be seeing playgrounds.

When finally home there was no peace for the wicked, with Ms S having to go see the council nurse for her first ever jabs. Poor little tike; an oral dose of vaccine-goo plus a needle in both legs.
She yelled.
Dad cringed.
Mum stayed safely outside in the playground with Master M.

And then Ms S, just as her big bro did 2.25 years earlier, slept right through the night - if you call 9pm to 5am all through the night - for the very first time, just like a (slightly perforated) angel.

Cry Baby weekend #1.
We all thought it would end in tears.
But actually it ended in very big smiles.
(And a rather smelly bin.)