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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