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.)

Chocolate dreaming

Cherry.

Sad to say, but the first taste the girl will have had besides milk will be, as for her bro, cherry.

And no, it wasn't cherry chapstick (not that theres anything wrong with that), rather cherry flavoured 'panadol for kids', the end result of a very unhappy little girl with a sore tummy.

In fact, cherry is now arguably the first taste a modern noughties kiddie gets outside of milk and spew. Which probably tastes like milk.

The reason for the upset tum tum??

Well, it may have been the cake.

The story is something like this..

Having been somewhat indisposed on his birthday (what with a certain little miss coming into the world and all that), dad didn't really get a chance to celebrate the 40th anniversary of his birth. Hence the somewhat amazing chocolate mud cake from some fancy schmancy Mt Eliza bakery was bunged in its box and into the freezer for safe keeping.

Gordon Ramsey would have had kittens.

Hence said cake was kinda forgotten about till the weekend before last.

"Hey, lets do birthday cake...!" chimed dad.

So they did. With a nice organic decaf plunger coffee on the back deck in the glorious spring sun.

The thing was so solid yet sticky you needed a crowbar to lever your own gums apart when eating, but it was divine - at least the quarter the family was able to eat before they all started rolling about like Mr Creosote.

By the end of it all, Master M looked like he'd stuck his head in a bucket of mud. It. Was. Bliss.

But bliss it was not for poor little Miss S, who subsequently was ratty as all get up, most uncomfortable in the aforementioned tum and windy. Indeed, not a happy camper at all.

Could we have evolved the worlds first chocolate-averse daughter???

Being scientists we needed a repeat experiment.
(Plus Master M wanted cake and was singing the song.)
And sure enough, it does appear to give Miss S's tummy the grumbles.

Granted the medical profession probably hates us, but a quick look on the web reveals that it probably wasn't the caffeine getting into mums milk, rather it may well have been the theobromine, a.k.a the stuff that makes your dog puke if the bugger eats your easter egg collection.

And while common or garden variety Cadbury's probably doesn't contain enough to knock many people about, it seems the fancy bakers chocky actually has the highest theobromine of all and is a definite suspect in the tummy trubs.

From now on we get our cakes from Brumbies.

In the mean time master M and dad have been sneaking the odd bit of cake from the fridge without letting mum see.
It's less cruel that way.

In fact to compensate for his sister, Master M has subsequently developed a choccy fixation that appears to be entering his wider psyche.

e.g., He no longer sees "Scrufty" jumping in muddy puddles in his Bob the builder books. He's jumping in chocolate. (And woe betide the parent who tells him otherwise.)

And arguably somewhat un-PC, he arrived home from childcare proudly announcing how he'd played with his little dark skinned friend that day:

"I licked Kulkin! Kulkin made of chocolate!".

Oh dear.
That's so 'Hey Hey its Saturday'.

Its entirely possible all this chocolate thought has fired him up a little too much though, cos the lads learnt to run.

We're not quite sure when it officially happened as we're not Olympic walking judges able to white flag away a gold in one fell swoop (we still feel for you Jane Saville), but its clearly happened.

However... (there's always an 'however') it unfortunately appears that the boys running has the nimbleness of an oil laden supertanker, and hence his dashes are somewhat restricted to a straight lines.

Which would kinda explain his inability to divert around a tree that was in his path when he went all Usain Bolt on us at the zoo.

'WHACK!!!"

Nose first, straight into the sapling.

The sound alone brought tears to our eyes. Let alone his.
He subsequently looked like he's gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson, only the parallel universe Mike Tyson that bites noses instead of ears.

Poor lad.

We bought an icy pole to try and get something cold onto his proboscis, however as soon as he realised it was an icy pole, he stopped his shallow moaning (yes, remarkably there was only momentary crying, and more an understandably sooky moan) and he just wanted to eat it.

(Oh the healing powers of cheap icy confectionery. Surely if they could combined flavoured ice with penicillin humans would live for all eternity)

The upshot of all this - everyone said "Ouch!" when they first saw him, and he proudly would announce "I ran into a tree!" as though it was an act a sane person would do.

Note to parents; teach them to turn.

Finally, a couple from the "from the mouths of babes" file.

Article A:

"Sarah s talking!" said the boy...
"Is she? What's she saying?" asked mum

"I love Michael!"

Awwww.... schucks.

Article B:

Mum was chatting with dad about how things used to be pre-progeny, and started saying "...yes, but, if we cast our minds back to the old days..." when the boy interrupted sharply.

"NO. It's the way it is."

So right you are lad.
So right you are.

Ok, we would end there but we really had to add this one.
The best name we've encountered for a child care worker thus far - master M's new carer...
Ms Smack.
(Tru Dinks.)