Ok.That's it.
We're moving to Queensland/DoubleEwAy/the EnTee if that's what it takes.
Yes, it's that time of the year again.
The switch from daylight saving back to sun time, and hence once again we're doing the baby backstep battle. Because, seeing as the majority of her life has been spent an hour out of whack, getting her re-whacked is proving nigh on impossible.
Prior to the clock switcharoony, little Miss S was sleeping blissfully until 6:30-7am (i.e., 5:30 until 6am, sun time), when along comes the end of daylight saving.
For adults, well its a doozy. In fact you feel, for the first few days at least, like someone has given you an extra hour a day to fritter away as you see fit.
Its great.
You get into work 'early', leave 'early' and generally spring about like there's 25 hours in a day.
Which, if you have a sub-1 year old, is prolly what you need.
Cos in our case... she kept waking at the same (sun) time.
And by almost we mean earlier.
Way earlier.
First morning: 4:40am (Just for clarity: Four. Forty. Ay. Blessed. Em.)
Then: 5:06am
5:16am
5:51am (we saw light at the end of the tunnel!!!)
5:05am (...obviously the loco coming the other way.)
5:05am (at least we're being consistent, though with a short nap in mum and dads bed afterwards)
...and so on and so on.
Its proving to be cruel and unusual punishment, and surely deserves a Geneva convention, if not full blue helmeted U.N intervention.
The boy, granted, adjusted within a few days. Lets count our blessings there.
Still, all this clock changing shenanigans hasn't stopped the girl from advancing on in leaps and bounds.
The latest 'first' has been pulling herself up onto stuff.
Of course this also means that its back to baby-proofing the house again, and hence the hair tie has been strapped around the crockery cupboard drawers and, given her propensity to eat anything paper-ish, all books and magazines lifted at least two foot above the ground.
We also figure that if the girl is mobile, she must be ready to move out of home. And hence... yes, at the tender age of nearly eight months, she's been packed off to childcare.
Ok, its right next door to mum and dads work (perfect for a lunchtime snack on mum's mammaries), and it is only one day a week, but still... she's out there and doing it.
And without much grumbling either we must add.
As for the boy - well, it appears he likes chocolate. And that he's quite aware that mum and dad think there should be some form of rational thought into how much gets eaten in one sitting.
Which is not much (that should be eaten... there should argubly be lots more of the rational thought).
The lad, on the other hand, thinks too much chocolate is barely enough, and hence when he laid his hands on a slab of the Easter bunnies finest that dad decreed exceeded the volumetric boy-intake limit, he (as in the boy) stuffed as much as he could into his gob in one gaggingly large hit.Let us describe it in mathematical terms.
One massive chocco blob + gushing boy-drool (cos its chocolate) = a Syd-harb worth of brown slobber distributed across the floor.
And his shirt and himself.
But he wouldn't spit a molecule out, despite its suffocating qualities.
"Breathe through your nose!" said dad, arguably being helpful.
The boy did.
The boy survived.
The shirt didn't.
The kids know how to party in the Baghdad end of Hampton.
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