Pandy and Andy create a baby...

Saturday, May 22, 2010

CO2: We call it life.

There's a coal-black sheep in every family.


Mum was agonising over where the family should start investing its hard earned when the house finally gets paid off - in the unlikely event that we ever reach such a point of course. 
It was decided that all the family should be consulted.


"Boy" she said, questioning the self-appointed smartest character in the house, "What should we buy? Bricks&mortar? Gold? Shares???"
"Shares" said the boy in his best Alan Kohler voice, barely glancing up from his train kit.
"Which ones???" replied mum, eager to learn the inner workings of this fiscal genius.
He thought about it for a moment, looked at his Thomas engines for inspiration, turned over a tender once or twice for good measure, then sternly replied:
"Coal."

Coal. 
The son of two climate scientists; oh the shame...

(The world is clearly doomed.)

Still, we're hoping that nurture will take over nature - that or we'll beat it out of him - and there'll be hope for the future generations yet, despite the fact that Thomas the Tank Engine is clearly a mining industry shill. (Damn they're clever.)

Indeed the nature v nurture grudge match has taken many forms in this family from the Baghdad end of Hampton. 
And most noticably with the girl (now 9 months old by the way; as long 'out' as 'in').

There we were all thinking we were the models of modern parents and avoiding the boy/girl labels and all that (please ignore pink cardie in opposite pic), only to find the girl tending to her teddy one night, tucking him in and making sure he was all warm and cosy for the wee small hours... awwww.... 
Not to mention being transfixed by unstacking the dishwasher and watching dad cook a Sunday roast. If, by transfixed, you mean doing a rap-dancing worm across the floor at dad's feet, which is really just the polite way of saying she was so excitied she was dry humping the polished boards in a somewhat unlady-like manner.
  
Not that it's always easy to be lady-like in this modern world.

Case in point. And bare with us - it's a long story.

Her darling brother, Master M, has recently perfected the art of weeing into the toot standing up.
Yes. 
Genius.
This has been at least partially come about through his increasing upwards growth, meaning his wedding tackle is now at the right height to flop his willy over the rim of the bowl and hit the target.
And generally, like most blokes, he does.

Skip forward to mum, boy and girl cramming into the Griswald family truckster and motoring off to Westfield Southland - a.k.a., the Deathstar.
They arrived. 
They shopped.
They drank a juice. 
"Mum... I need a wee!"
 
No worries..," thought mum "they have these great family rooms..." (Indeed it may be the star of death, but it sure does come with some gee-wiz family rooms compete with a twin set of toots in case mum needed to go to, and in this case she did.)
In the past the lad would be plonked on the kiddie dunny and hence be somewhat immobile and helpless until retrieved by mum. But now, having achieved stand-up wee status, he wasn't quite so constrained.
Hence... boy standing at loo, shoes off, pants off and Reg Grundies kicked across the room for good measure, while mum abluted in parallel across the room, somewhat trapped with the girl at her feet. (The room had just been cleaned. Trust us.)

Then it happened.

Little Miss S, showing her faultless devotion to her big brother, slipped mums grasp and did a bolt. As in Usain Bolt - fast - across the floor, and before you can say "showers with a somewhat golden tinge", she was pulling herself up on the boys dunny.

He, of course, received a bit of a surprise at seeing a little smiling face emerge next to his bowl, so looked down and smiled. 
Now, as they say in motorcycling circles, 'where you look is where you go'. 
And indeed he did.
Right in/on her dial.

Mum was, well let say, somewhat shocked/stunned/mortified.
For that matter, Little Miss S wasn't all that impressed with matters either.
 
But like the good boy scout all mums are, a change of clothes was extracted from the pram, old clothes bunged into a selection of nappy sacks, and Little Miss S showered, this time with colourless water, under the wide-arcing faucets and dried off with a cloth nappy. 
And the family left with no one ever the wiser. (Well, until now.)
Not that, in the grander scheme of things, wee'ing all over someone, even your sister, is that bad.
Like, its not as though the boy was the Dark Lord of the Sith (a.k.a., Darth Vader), or worse, owned coal...