movin', choppin', cookin', and hasslin' dad

Did the earth move for you?

Well it didn't for us either, but we did change the earth we own. We're in a new house.

All the boxing, shifting and unpacking meant the kiddies have been somewhat ignored of late, but they appear to love the new place. Granted the boy did complain that he considered the previous family's trampoline as a fitting and/or fixture, and hence should not have been removed as per the deed of sale.

We've told him the lawyers are onto it. Case may be settled around birthday or christmas time...

The biggest upheaval in the little girls life was closely followed by her biggest trip to the doc.

In this case to get her "pre-auricular sinus" chopped out. A pre-auricular sinus looks a bit like a small ear piercing, only above and just forward of the ear, and she has one on both sides. On the right its been fine, but on the left its a bugger, with infection after infection and the potential risk of pinching a facial nerve leading to floppy face.

Poor thing.

So the time came to give it the chop.
Or at least we thought so... childcare being the hotbed of sickness that it is, had other ideas and a sickly little Miss S was turned away from the surgeons work bench.

A month later and a chirpy young Miss was rudely woken at 5:30am, tossed in a car in the 'jamas, and shuttled off to the surgery. Being youngest, she was first cab off the rank.

Into surgery with mum (a choice was given - she wanted mum....) and under the gas; the scariest thing mum had ever witnessed.

One second there is your darling daughter all happy and smiling and reactive and, well, alive. The next she's looking at you with deep pool eyes... and her body goes limp.
Floppy.
Lifeless.
As though the soul has just popped out for a tosca.
There were almost tears.

Fifty minutes later mum was called in again.

The girl wasn't all that pleased, but more with being as groggy as a New Years Day wake-up than any gross pain or discomfort.

As one of the risks of the surgery was nicking one of the facial nerves, Mum was stoked to see mouths and cheeks and eyes all symmetrical and acting in parallel.
Five minutes of bellowing later, dad was summoned  and the girl leapt into his arms.
Or, drunkenly crawled from mum towards him anyway.
A big hug later, and... ZZZzzzzz... asleep.
Then awake again, grizzly.
But symmetrical grizzly.
Then ZZZzzzzz...
Then awake and hungry/thirsty.

Some water, some yellow jelly...
Then ZZZzzz...
Then awake.
Then happy.
Then confused.
Then spewing.
All over dad's lap.

The sleep/food/spew cycle continued for a few hours, but eventually, and thankfully, subsided after dad fed girl half a punnet of her favourite strawberries. (Dad  wisely changed out of his white shirt, just in case.)
The only downside of the strawberry-fest was a dribble - ok, deluge - of pink strawberry drool down the front of the girls top.

Normally, this means diddley, but on this occasion, as mum returned from the park with the boy, the warning yell "Its NOT blood!" was a necessary precaution lest mum keel over/call 000/blackeye dad.

The boy, on the other hand, has decided that he is a masterchef.
"I don't want chicken curry mum" he announced one fine evening,"I want chicken chips."
"Ohhhkaaayyy" replied mum.
"Yeah. Cut up some chicken,and put it inside the chips."
"We don't have any chicken darling. Or chips..." replied mum.
"Ohhhhkaaaayyy" replied the boy, "I'll make it." And proceeded to raid the pantry.
Spaghetti, spiral pasta.
"Cook this mum!"
Into the fridge.
Strawberries, cheese,...
"Add this in too..."
Fruit bowl.
Apples, mandarines...
"And these" {mum pointed out mandarines were probably not the 3-hat Michelin choice}
Some cheese for topping.
"Ok. Now cook it."
Hence it was all bunged in the fancy new fan forced oven and cooked.
Mum looked at the concoction, which the boy termed "chips".
It looked more like chuck.
She served it up to the boy.
"Yum" he said, and ate a bowl and half of it.
(Which for a boy known in the past to exist via photosynthesis, is a pretty mean feat.)
Masterful.

Finally, dad.
There was the family driving along when a Subaru Outback boxer diesel pulled up in front at the lights.

"BooHooHoo..." faux-cried dad, "there goes my 21st (x2) present..." as he weepishly lamented the clash of the newly-huge mortgage and his upcoming 42nd.

"Talk to the driver - he might want a swap..." opined a smiling mum, 'helpfully'.
"My daddy... oh my daddy..." sympathetically cried the girl, in a voice (and with a look of concern) that would melt wood.
"Daddy..." said the boy.
"Yes?" said dad...
"Don't be such a whinger."

Such is (our new) life.

Four

Can you  believe it?

Hampton Beach

We certainly cant; the boy is Four.

Yes, as of 16 April 2011 we have eclipsed the fourth anniversary of the original expulsion of the watermelon. Strangely, it seems like only yesterday.
That has to  be the fastest four years of our lives.
Then again, it also feels like our entire existence.

Of course he had to have a birthday party, which involved inviting a dozen of his best mates in the world plus grandparents.

The day was all sunshine and light and not a raspberry-cordial fuelled biffo to be had.

Just lots of chips, cake (a train made of lamingtons, with chocolate sultanas for coal and musk-sticks for carriage couplings - heaven), and pinata with strings you pulled (as opposed to the common or garden variety whacking ones, which inevitably end in whack-ee tears) full of gold coins. Which the kiddies kinda went "what the..???" till one of the older ones, who'd obviously done this before, realised there was chocolate in them there gold.
(It went a bit feral after that...)

The party also marked the end of Round 1 of the great family upheaval of 2011.

Moving house. Or at least selling the one we have.
For the past several weeks the humble adobe in the Baghdad end of Hampton has been up for sale.
And this meant war.
A war on clutter.

Now if you know anything about kids and clutter, and can remember your year 11 maths, think of a Venn diagram.

On one side you have kids.
On the other side you have house in 'ready-for-inspection' mode.
The intersection is about a poofteenth of a bees whatsit.



Hence its been off to the grandparents for the kiddies while mum and dad and Yia-Yia scrubbed and tidied and made the house totally and utterly unliveable (e.g., no phone or dunny brush) but totally home beautiful (e.g., feijoas stacked artfully in a vase...)
(Tip #10267 for young players: If you have kiddies under the age of five and are even vaguely thinking about selling your house, don't. Dropping a brick on your big toe - about 10 times - is arguably less painful. )

Speaking of pain.
Two words; Girls. Fashion.

After flummoxing the extended family with a decidedly girly dress sense and hence wardrobe collection since age 0, we get the following...

This morning, while getting dressed on the change table, little Miss S declared; "No Pink".
"Oh dear" said dad, as he rummaged around the drawers looking for something that didn't have a splash of pink at least somewhere on it.
"What about this one?" he said, holding up a mostly purple (but a little pink) top...
"NO. PINK."

Climbing The Horn, Mt Buffalo

Where in the wide wide world of sports has this come from??

Maybe from her desire to rule the roost.

We've heard from childcare that not only is she learning at a rapid rate of knots, but that she is also king of the  toddler room.
Low and behold any newcomer who doesn't realise the pecking order...

Not that she's much of a toddler these days, having walked since she was barely 10 months old and hence can almost run with more co-ordination than her big brother, and has been saying words for several months now, with the occasional two or even three word sentence popping out. Though most scary of all is her apparent ability with the phonetic alphabet.

Home with Yia-Yia and Das (a.k.a grandma and partner) one evening while mum and dad were out on the tiles, Y&D pondered if they should feed the young lass some dessert of the baked variety.
"What do you reckon..." pondered Das, "should we give her a slice of Charlie Alfa Kilo Echo?"
"CAKE!!!" exclaimed little Miss S.

But for all the bluff and bluster of the roost ruler, she has a special soft spot for her brother.

Case in point...
Easter.
More child-labour chocolate than you can point a calicivirus rabbit at.
"Do you want an Easter egg Miss S?"
Nod. Nod.
"Here you go..." says mum.
"Michael?" pleads little Miss S.
So she is given another egg.

Cycling on the Bright to Porepunkah rail trail

Now 99.99% of the worlds known toddlers would then run off to a corner and gorge themselves stupid on two eggs, vomit brown ectoplasm and tell mum "No, I didn't eat them all...".
But not little Miss S.
Off she trots, scouring far and wide for Master M so he can be given his egg, refusing to even consider opening hers until he can be found.

And she does this for everything (well, food at least) that she thinks he will like.
Which is kinda cool really, as the boy does appear to exist via photosynthesis at times, but will eat what's supplied to him by his little sister without fail.
If only we could convince her to feed him brussel sprouts.



Likewise, what Master M does so must Miss S, and that's prolly why she is learning everything about an eon earlier than he ever did. For his birthday, M received a superman suit, complete with big S on the front, flowing cape, and undies stitched on the outside of his pants(??).
Mike wore it for about as much time as it took to realise that he couldn't actually fly (though thankfully not via the method employed by his dad's dad... who, cape attached, jumped off a garage roof...) and ran off to play with his other new love - Lego.

Hence little Miss decided she too must wear the suit.

Despite it being too long in the arms, too long in the legs (and hence she kept sliding on the polished boards) and the cape being more of a floor sweeper than an agent of aerodynamic lift.

Still she ran round the house like supergirl, and come bedtime some hour later, had to be kryptonited, kicking and screaming, out of the cape and alfresco undies.

Finally, we cant let it go unreported that Master M, during a recent visit to Bright, had his first go on a bike without training wheels.

The Horn, peak of Mt Buffalo, March 2011

Sure there were a few stacks, and sure, his gonads took a pounding from the top tube, but he did it. Ok, with dad running alongside and with the aid of a gentle downslope, but we achieved the seemingly impossible. (Unfortunately, due to aforementioned house selling, the practice went out the window and we're back on training wheels, but hey... he still did it.)

Being his fourth birthday and all that, we'll leave the final sign off to Michael.
Michael how would you like to say goodbye to the collective intelligence of the interwebs?

"See you later alligator, don't forget your toilet paper!"

MMMmmm...
Four.

The Bogan Conversion

Once again we wrote a blog post about two months ago and, cos we were procrastinating about putting up pics, never posted it. So.. sod it... we'll just post it without pics. Cast your mind back to the summery (ok, wet and mild) days of...
February 6 2011
----

We have a talker.
Some may say its in the blood.

Yes, the little girl is determined to change the world one word at a time.
And the word of the moment...
"Eye-Keem".

Pop it through your babelfish and you'll discover to your horror that's toddler-speak for...
Ice-Cream.
And if we add the motions, it comes complete with lunging and pointing towards the big box of kiddies ice cream cones stashed on top of the pantry.
Seems the girl has discovered the true food of champions; honey and macademia deluxe ice cream in a cone.
She's an addict, though at least we have managed to wean her down to plain Bulla vanilla.
("If it isnt Bulla is bullsh!t..." according to her mum. No, she doesn't own the company.)

The boy on the other hand, has declared himself (and this is no bulltwang), a
"TeeVeeJunky".
I'll ask him now his favourites... Aparently they are:
DVD: Wall-e
ABCforKids: Dirtgirl.
There you go, straight from the horses north and south.
I have no idea who dirtgirl is... Sod it, I'll ask him...
"She's a high school kiddie."
What does she do?
"She dances."
Anything else?
"nup."
Who are her friends?
"Her friends are called Ken, and ummm... Scrapboy and ummm... Grubby..."
So there you have it.

We are clearly a couple of bogan parents. All we need is the fighting dog and Torana parked in the front garden and the pictires complete.

(and if i only had speech recognition software this blog could now clearly write itself.)

Speaking of dogs...
Young Mike seems to be developing a wonderful imagination, not to mention list of chat up lines.
Case in point.
There we were, dad and son only, at the Deathstar getting a haircut.
Boy sits down in the hot seat.
Attractive lady wraps the Wiggles "cape" round him (his favourite) and starts cutting hair.
Dad 'relaxes' back with his smartphone and starts on some work emails (has the world gone completely mad? No, really, has it??)
Dad's ears start to pick up a fascinating two way chat between said attractive hairsnipper and boy.
Which increasingly sounded like genuine ground-work on the lads behalf.
Dad listened in a little more as Mike went in for the kill...
Attractive snipper: "Do you have any pets?"
Boy: "We had a dog?"
AS: "What happened to it?"
Boy {sad voice}: "It died."
AS {genuine concerned voice}: "Oh thats so sad..."
Boy: "Yeah..."
She almost bent down and gave him a hug.

A dog?
What dog?
He hates dogs!
(That said, the conversation was worth the price of admission alone.)

So there we have it; ice cream diet, TV addict, chatting up chicks at Southland.
My god.
What have we done??

Where's the bucket?

Ok, this bigtum post is somewhat ancient now - as in written pre-Xmas 2010. But hey, it contains stuff, it's a record of life, we wrote it and forgot about it (sorry). A Xmas and beyond post will come soon...

------

In the list of firsts in the last blog there was one that we just missed being able to write about.
And its the cutest one since pussy wore a bow while gentle patting a baby big eyed harp seal who's cuddling a guide dog puppy. (Where's the bucket?)
First real kisses from from Little Miss S.
As in a bit of a pucker, and a bit of a sloppy 'MMmmwumph!" when she makes contact.
Its enough to turn an old man to jelly.

While this shows her soft and tender and loving side, there lurks on her shoulder the evil twin.
The one that likes to hide stuff.
Thus far we've discovered all of dads business cards transplanted from his wallet to the wastepaper bin at Nana's place, shoes deposited in the cabinet under the laundry trough, and clearly the most evil of all - the remote control deposited in the dirty washing basket. Thankfully (only at childcare) we hear that she likes to deposit items into the kiddy toilet. And we're not just talking number twos.

Still, these treasure hunts haven't just been confined to the infinite annoyance of a missing remote. The recent hard rubbish collection perfectly coincided with two things; 1) Mike wanting to ride a bike, and serendipitously, 2) some exact kiddie-growth integer from a previous Christmas or the like, as the second most disposed of thing (after old cathode ray televisions) was... 12 and 16 inch bikes.

Hence...
Xmas came early in the Baghdad end of Hampton for every 3-4 y.o kid wanting a bike.
Including Mike.
Hence he is now the proud owner of a Raliegh 'Gravity', complete with "flames!" decals, foot brake, and training wheels (partly worn). We've since learnt there is an entire field of science/engineering with the training wheels. For instance, riding along the Elwood foreshore track we came to a section that was move like a 'V' than flat, ostensibly so any water would run down the middle and into a drain. Of course what Wally the engineer doesn't realise is that a training wheeled bike ends up with a training wheel either side of the V, and the rear wheel dangling above the ground spinning furiously and pointlessly, with a rather consfused kiddie up top.

"Dad, it wont go. Can we buy a new one?"

Little Miss S, of course, wants to go too. She'll sit up on her trike and hope for the best. Though being 2 foot nuthin' means she cant reach any pedals, even if she knew how to turn them.

We wish we could say all this physical exercise was keeping us healthy.

Yes, there we were, all bubbling along without a care in the world, when mum was met at the gates of the childcare centre but a young lady with genuine fear in her eyes...

"Dont come in" she pleaded... "we'll bring your kids out to you."
"Mmmmm..." thought mum, "this cant be good."

Turns out the plague had hit Sandringham council childcare, and all we can imagine is the insides of the centre were coated in a liberal painting of that days lunch. But Mike seemed fine.

The operative word there being "seemed".

Cos that night dad put him to bed.
"Come and lie down with me dad..." asked the boy.
"Ok..." said dad, and lay on the bed next to the boy.
"So, what did you do at childcare today?"
No answer.
Boy sits up.
Boy looks at dad.
Dad looks at boy.
"You ok?"
Boy looks at dad.
Boy looks surprised.
Dad looks confused.
Boy chunders on dad. And the bed. And the pillow. and... well, you get the picture.

The next few days saw the mop, bucket and pine-o-cleen brought out on several occiasions, and hence the house became truly spotless in-so-far as germs/bacteria are concerned.

Poor lad.

We've also learnt somethign from the experience - the boy wont use the loo for number 3's.

There he was, having yet another technicolour yawn on the floor, when dad scooped him up and ran for the dunny. Only when they arrived the boy announced "NNNNooooooo!!!" and kicked and flung and fought, all while chundering at the same time. We think 10% may have made it in.
Lesson to mum and dad.
Stick with the bucket.

The poor tike was so sick that when Dad arrived home from work one day to find the boy comatose on the living room floor - fast asleep. But surrounded by trains. Even Thomas wasnt able to get him out of this pickle.

But that wasn't the end of it.

Poor Missy Moo (a.k.a Little Miss S) also came down with the lurgy, and hence made her deposits round the house as well. At least they were smaller.



Just when she recovered and various parents breathed sighs of relief...
Dad woke with a grumbling belly and whammo (at least he was able to make it to the toot).
Mum, thankfully, was mostly spared.

Where's the bucket?
A great way to close out 2010.