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. Print this post