Rip van Michael

Waiting Waiting.

We're counting down the days till Sissy make her way onto centre stage.

Which, as we write, is a smidge over two weeks.

TWO WEEKS!!

WHAT HAVE WE DONE!!

Come the end of the week Mistress P will once again be on her maternity leave, and that effectively signifies that, in a biological sense, Sissy may well be cooked and ready; dues dates being +/-2 weeks and all that.

And then we start all over again.

The docs say Sissy's all in the right position - head down, bum up - not actually engaged but heading that way. What we do know is that some part of the young ladies anatomy must be pointing up, cos poor ole mum-to-be is getting a bit breathless.

And not just when dad wanders down the hall in his Reg Grundies either.

The only problem we appear to have at the moment is a name.

Yes, just as with Master M, a list of no-nos has been drawn up.
1) No ex-girlfriend names.
2) No names starting in T or S (cos she'll get called Swat-kins or Twat-kins)
3) No names that mean something else (including in other languages)
4) No names starting in M (cos thats Master M's letter)
5) Avoid names that are the same as close friends or family.
6) Oh, and dad wants a name with only two syllables ("Anymore and they'll never be able to publish her name in the Herald-Sun")

This leaves Sweet Fanny Adams.
Literally.
(Oh, hang on.. yes; Fanny. Point #3)

As for Mistress P herself - well she's looking and feeling big, and chariot-like, swinging quite low.

On the plus side she hasn't been "leaking" from her mammalian bits like last time, while on the downside she's developed a craving for beer.
Yes.
Beer.
Lets face it, Birrell doesn't really cut the mustard/barley, hence she's succumbed, though only occasionally, to her other craving.

Magnum ice cream.

{MMMmmmmm... almond magnum ice cream...}

Young Michael; well he's tootling along just fine and dandy. Though we're discovering he does like a bit of a kip.

Whereas most kiddies his age are phasing out on the midday nap, this boys just winding up. He's becoming somewhat of a legend at childcare for sleeping for up to three hours with all the commotion going on around him. And its not uncommon for them to wake him up - in one case with the entire class getting decidedly restless as they all waited for the lad to rise so they could all go outside.

He's also becoming increasingly confused about what to call mum and dad, and herein mum and dad are learning why lots of mums and dads refer to each other as, well, just mum and dad.

See mum and dad are soppy young romantics at heart, and hence don't mind a bit of the "darling" this, "honey" that, with a fair old smattering of the "babes". And hence the lad, of late, with his sponge-like ability to absorb the English language, has been known to come out with the odd:
"Babe, I want wipe hands";
"I want milk darling" and even a
"Honey I do poo poo."

I'm not sure thats in the speech pathology handbook - or the young romantic FAQ for that matter.

Ok. Two weeks till we step into the fray once more.

As the Bard himself would say;
Crikey.

Dr Hicks I presume?

Its been a while since the last update of the clan, but thats hardly because there has been little going on.

For some reason (lets, for the sake of the argument, call that reason, "Mike"), life is somewhat more hectic and consumed than it was even only several months ago. But that shouldn't stop us...

Right now, Sissy is certainly doing her thing.

She's squirming and rolling and pushing and shoving, and giving mum all sorts of pains in the pinny even though theres still around 5 weeks to go.
Hang in there Sissy.
You ain't quite cooked yet.

And the Braxton-Hicks (false) contractions have been doing their darnedest to upset the serenity too - something thats quite unique to this preggas.

There was the family all cosy round the back deck for Aunty M's 30th shindig and hootenanny, when a certain Dr John Braxton Hicks rolled up and gatecrashed the event, and hence mum was all up and down jack in the box-like instead of eating cake.
Not fair.
(Actually, to be fair, she did still eat a goodly chunk of cake...)

Still, we'll tell ourselves that having all this practice for the real thing can only mean that when Sissy does indeed feel the desire to arrive, she'll pop out nice and easy. Just not too quickly (don't want to ruin the upholstery).

Speaking of arriving, the due date remains August 7.
Dad's also punting on a time.
4:56am
"And why may that be?" we hear you ask with some foreboding...
Well unless his mathematics/dates are all skew-wiff, that would put Sissy in a once-in-a-millenium category.
Born on 4:56 7/8/9

{rant mode on}
Though of course those pesky Septics claim its already happened on 8 July 2009... I ask you, why in the wide wide world of sports would you put the month first? i.e., since when do we count from middle to shortest to longest?? And while we're at it, buoy is not pronounced boo-ee; you dont say "boo-eee-ant" for buoyant do you?.)
{rant mode off}

So...
Anyway...
A lively, bouncy, go-get-um once in a millenium girl.
Thats our Siss.

As for her bro, Mike.

We'll we've decided that given the Home Alone scenerio (or even the Bridget Jones scenerio; i.e., mum and dad being discovered three weeks later half eaten by wild dogs) we think the boy would survive quite easily if not happily.

Why??

Well not only has he well and truly mastered the ancient art of opening the fridge and screwing the caps off milk containers, he now has been found helping himself to fingerfuls of his favourite fridge food of all; butter (spreadable).

Not on bread, toast or taties, but just great chucks fisted straight out of the tub.

The boy could live on it for days. Or even three weeks.

That said, if he finds a chair high enough to reach the freezer, it'll be followed by ice cream.

"What do you want for lunch Michael?" asked mum, expecting a "banana" or "sandwich" as stock standard reply.

"ICECREAM!!!"

Oh. No.

But for all this teasing of the wee lad for his gastronomic desires, he is wowing all and sundry with his rapidly increasing knowledge and words.

Case in point.

Mikes gone all musical. He loves to bang away on the electric keyboard, blast out on the tin whistle or belt out Smoke on the Water on his silva-tar (silver guitar).

Hence Aunty S arrived in town from parts unknown (in this case India) carrying a present for young Master M in the form of a musical instrument called a melodica. (Its also known by the most unfortunate and somewhat porno name of a "blow organ". We wont go there.)

Mike looked at it, wondered why he'd been handed this strange looking contraption, and handed it back for Aunty S to demonstrate.
She did.
She gave it back.
He had a blow.
He pressed a key.
He had a blow and pressed a key at the same time and voila!
Music.

By this time the adults were talking and giggling and sharing war stories of their travels, but Mike was suddenly in raptures at his new musical toy.

"Thank you Shoni..." he muttered quietly.
And played some more.
"Thank you Shoni..!" he offered again.
A few more notes.
A big grin.
"Thank you Shoni!!"

We're proud to say, we taught him everything he knows.
(Well, cept eating butter out of the tub. That must have come from his other slightly more dysfunctional and apparently morbidly obese family...)