Stuck on you

Week 22.

We really are a big boy now.

The foray into solid foods has gone remarkably well. The foray into solid poo's arguably less so - for mum and dad's senses anyway.

The lad is now sitting down at the dinner table with the rest of the family, and enjoying it immensely. In fact, despite at least one of his parents having to stuff down their nosh pronto so they can hold him and feed him (maybe a high chair is in order here??), the plus side is that dinner is now somewhat quieter. For about 15 minutes anyway.

All this new foodie stuff hasnt been without incident of course. For example, and a TFYP (Trap for Young Players); not all mushy rice stuff comes pre-cooked.

There was Mistress P with her amazing packet of dried wholemeal rice mush from the hippie part of Mr Safeways, adding water just as you do to the white-rice based Farax baby powder and feeding it to the boy.
He ate it.
With a little grimace.

Then P looked at the packet: "Cook before feeding".

Oh dear.

We'd just fed him a cupla ice cubes worth of wallpaper paste/Clag.

He lived.
And as a bonus his poo can now be used for papier mache.

We've now taken to mushing up pumpkin and feeding that to him as well - remarkably, he loves it. Pity about the orange stains that are now spreading across mum and dads wardrobe, not to mention across all his wipe-up nappies, bibs and clothes up to and including Sunday best. Still, it can now truly be said he's joined the in-crowd and wearing genuine designer (i.e., himself) pumpkin patch.

On the physical side the lads also become more active, and now constantly being discovered in the opposite Z-axis from where last left. (i.e, he rolls over a fair bit.)

He's also discovered that he can balance, using hands on the ground to form a tripod, and sit up for a minute or so like a big boy. Ok... he didnt so much "discover" this as was put in that position by a curious dad and soon got the hang of it, but its another newy and he seems pretty stoked by it all.

Speaking of curious positions, the boy has also taken to being carried around in a baby-backpack. Which, while great for hanging out the washing etc cos it leaves mum and dads arms free out front, has lead to the discovery of two drawbacks.

1. Dad sits at a computer too much these days and hence his old bushwalking back is no more, and therefore he staggered about like Quasimodo after an hour of baby backpack-carrying. Which has now led to some fitball back strengthening workouts (thanks Dr Karl), and hence the aforementioned curious positions that the boy now watches dad contort into with great glee.
2. When the boy falls asleep in the backpack there is simply no way of getting him out without waking him. (We know... we've tried.) And you shouldnt really leave him propped up vertically. Thats a no-no. Hence (as pic attests), we've taken to just laying the whole kit and baby-strapped kaboodle on the ground for his nap.

(Jeez... Cant believe we fed him glue.)

Early to bed, early to rise, makes Mum and Dad bloody tired

Apparently we're on daylight savings time.

Ok, so the officially gazetted DST is still the better part of a month off, but according to the boy, enoughs enough - he's joining Tassie and clocking forward early. Hence...
All and sundry are awakening some time between 4:45 and 6am(if we're lucky) every morning.

On the vague plus side of this equation dad easily managed to sail off the beach before 8am down at Rye, some 70km from home, and hence catch the best of a good Northerly wind. On the not-so plus side, both mum and dad are back into staggering zombie mode during the day. The swings and roundabouts of parenthood, eh.

But rest assured this is not the only party trick he's learned. He's also discovered that he can actually get a little mobile. It all looks like crawling, but in actual fact he has managed to move considerable distances (in so far as 2 metres is considerable at this stage) ...backwards. We think of it a moon-crawl, a la Michael Jackson. Mike's just happy to be somewhere else from where he started.

And yet there's more... He's also managed to flip from back to front for the first time, and in doing so he has learnt that all you need to do to flip is to arch the back. The first signs of this mega arching came with his tummy time. He now doesn't so much do tummy time as a full and advanced Yoga session, with the favourite being the cobra (see pics). A far cry from only a few months ago, when just getting his nose off the floor was a significant achievement. Oh how he's grown..

Theres always a side effect though... on the change table he's decided that arching the back is also the way to go if you really want to make it damn hard for someone to whip on/off a Huggie.

The final new trick is a biggie. He's taken to eating a little solids. All the signs were there - watching us eat and being endlessly hungry for starter; apparently even the sparrows fart awakenings are a pointer to it being time too. So, on the 17th of September, 5 months and one day old and some three to four weeks ahead of the WHO schedule, we've gone a little mushy pumpkin and sweet corn. Which he gobbled with relish (no, not real relish, - we mean with gusto). So far only small doses, so we haven't yet had to deal with the infamously smelly first "solids poos"... yet.

Oh, and the boy has also advanced from simple raspberries to full on bubble blowing. (Though he did try to drink the water when attempted in the bath.)

The only big upset of the week came when mum and dad decided a "fun" thing to do would be to take little M dinner table shopping. On a Saturday. At IKEA. Richmond. (Dont worry - we've bought a non-Swedish table thank you very much for asking.)

How to describe the experience... well we thought the Southland-Deathstar was bad enough, but this place made it look like the tranquil hanging gardens of Babylon. By the end of the day the boy was crying, dad was screaming at people in the car park, mum was delirious and all were in need of a Tosca.

It ain't easy being a zombie parent.
Again.

20/20

Twenty weeks in, and the warm wet gooey feeling of a shoulder covered in milk-vomit seems, well, the norm.

The boys been growing in size and intellect and now appears determined to communicate with us in some bizarre alien language that involves a lots of very high pitched squeals and long drawn out moans. Kinda like a dialect from the bushman of the Kalahari, minus the clicky-clicky noises.

He's also become acutely fascinated with mum and dad eating and drinking, and watches intensely as each spoonful/glassful goes into the oldies mouths. Some say this is a sign to start popping some slightly more solid food in his gob too, but the most we've dared give him was 4 sips of orange juice. It went a bit like....

"He wants it, he wants it, should i give 'im some?" said Dad.

Arguably ignoring Mums distant cries of "No!" Dad brought the glass to the boys lips. Mouth wide open, little arms waving a bit excitedly, a little was gently tipped between the boys lips...

" BLOODYHELLBLERKWOTWASTHAT?!?!!" was the expression - lips pursed, eyes squeezed shut - if he knew how to spit he probably would have; all over dad of course.

"Geez... didnt seem to like that.... but,.. err... he wants more.."

And indeed he appeared to. Mouth open again, staring intensely at the glass, arms flapping for takeoff. So dad put the glass to his lips again, tipped a little in again, and, sure enough hairy muff,...

"BLOODYHELLBLERKWOTWASTHAT!!!"

Kinda like the first time a boy has a beer really.

This "I want it, I want it" followed by the "blerky blerky" face was repeated three to four more times till mum dragged dad away from torturing the boy. And its been milk ever since.

Aside from that he's met up again with his Nana after she and grandad had been away having yet another "adventure before dementia" (their words not ours!). Mike was in fine form, showing off as only he can by rolling front to back via his left and then right sides. (Disclosure: this bit included, at least in part, cos Uncle Jim moaned : "Geez - bet that ends up in the blog".)

Who's a tricky boy then?

Every single Saturday is Fathers Day

Fathers Day.

A bit of a novelty in the household as Mistress P's father has lived far afield for many a long year, and AB's dad shuffled off this mortal coil almost spot-on 0.5 x AB's lifetime ago. New experiences all round.

And Mike outdid himself.

As AB was wiping the sleep from his eyes on yet another worrying dry and sunny Melbourne morning, he was presented with gifts aplenty (not counting the GPS unit he had bought himself to mark the occasion cos he didnt think he'd be getting gifts aplenty). Strangely they were all of equal pleasure to the boy.

1. A thermos. Great for those cold windsurf days and a cup of hot toddy (is this a sign of getting old?) - or for carting around warm baby formula for those days away from home. (err... this surely is.)
   
2. The Dangerous Book for Boys. Is it wise to teach boys how to make bombs (albeit "water") in this day and age?? Surely one for the national security hotline (where's that fridge magnet when you need it?)
   
3. Chocolate bullets (a favourite of AB's dad also). Mike liked chewing the crinkly packet so much it delayed dad gorging himself sick on them by about half an hour. Which is probably a good thing.

The highlight of the day itself was an impromptu family picnic in nearby Wishart park, towards the end of which came the sudden realisation that everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket if the lad wasn't found a toy - pronto. AB dutifully skolled the last of his chocky milk (Mmmmm.... c.h.o.c.k.y... m.i.l.k...), dripped out the remnants - or so he thought - and handed the boy the carton.

Ode to joy.

Seemed it was not only the perfect shape for a 4.5 month boy to grasp by the corners, but also... the spouty section was topshelf chewy chewy material. Of course latter inspection revealed chocky milk still spilling from the spout and... into his mouth. Which may also explain why he chewed on it silently and with a glint of guilty eye, in the park, for the entire walk home (including meet and greet with neighbours 3 doors down) and while sitting on the deck waiting for mum to prepare herself to give him some real milk upon arriving home.

Not to mention the incredible problem solving it induced, which included the most dexterous hand and foot co-ordination seen to date, all to recover the carton when it was dropped to the end of the pram. Most impressive. (If only mum and dad could contort themselves like that, getting pregnant would surely have happened a helluva lot sooner.)

"Mmmm... chocky milk..." (Just like dad.)

Of course this is now added to the list of all the other non-mum-milk products thus far injested by the boy. In our defence, most were but trace amounts. Promise.

• Baby Formula - less than half a dozen feeds to date
• Dead horse - well, at least a little licked off dads finger as dad tried to juggle baby and a four n' twenty - as you do
• Saline solution - dribbled down from clearing out his snuffleuffagus nose
• Kiddies panadol - dad tasted it; can only be politely described as "Blerk"
  
• Chocolate cake icing - a smidgeon he licked off his own hand after wacking fist into dad's b'day cake
• Some nappy rash stuff he insisted on jamming his hands into (and yes, we know its says do not ingest - he was just too fast your honour)
  
• Err... probably some things he scraped out of his own nappy.

(Dont tell the council nurse.)

Raspberries to you

After the excitement of recent weeks it was back to normality.

The boy has managed to learn two new things this week just gone. Firstly... how to blow raspberries. And not just the occasional one, but long drawn out (and somewhat pointless) ones that only serve to spray even more slobber over his chin, face, jumper and anything within a 20cm radius.

Some say, or course, that this raspberry blowing caper is actually a prerequisite to learning to talk (as they are learning how to control thier tongue, lips and mouth), and is pretty common round the 5-6 month stage. Hence this would mean that a) he is marginally advanced at this stuff, and b) we maybe have another several months of this drizzling before a word comes out.

It also means that as we drive along in the car we get serenaded by a somewhat comical blerty-blerty sound from the back seat.
Its actually quite... well, soothing.

The other thing he's learnt is how to tell the time. Yeah - true dinks. Not only does he know, almost literally within minutes, that its 11am, 2pm, 5pm, 8pm (i.e., feed times), but he's also grasped the vagaries of the Gregorian calender. Cos almost without fail he picks the night before mum has to go in to work to wake up, refuse to settle and generally do his utmost to turn mum into sleep zombie woman for her day at the salt mine.

Speaking of his mum... way back in the pregnancy the hormones kicked in and one of the joyous side effects was a growing head full of thick lustrous hair. Well... as predicted by Courtney-in-the-comments, the growth hormones have now beat a retreat, and... Mistress P is moulting; big time. One minute your locks akin to Farah Fawcett's, and the next your noggins nudging towards Britney Spears (after she went loony). Will the fun ever end?)

Apparently it will all just return to the head of hair it used to be, and the moulting is really just loosing the preggas excess. With the risk the drains will clog in the meantime,

Still for Mike the weekend was also his first experience of a Melbourne warm and sunny weekend (two days of 23degC... in winter!), and hence he got to hang out at a cafe with not only mum and dad, but also Freya... his girlfriend from the horsepiddle/first few days of life. Sure she was a little hard for him to recognise, not being in a blue light humidicrib and all that, but he couldn't help posing for her with his new cool sunnies.

But what was more remarkable for the mums and dads was how similar the two lovebirds were. Both felt the same degree of "floppiness" when you picked them up, both liked to do the back arching thing, both enjoyed a good old suck on their own fists (though Freya had advanced to the odd bit of thumb only action), and both ooh'd and err'd at the same dumb waving and dancing about from their respective adults.

Or any adult.

(Wonder what hormone makes you do that?)

Postscript: As the weather turned wintry once more, Mike made his first trip to visit Uncle B. After sizing each other up, they appeared to think each other was ok. Unc B seemed to have the knack of calming Mike's grizzles and turning them into smiles, so much so that the lady serving in the shop pronounced that Mike's smile took up his whole face!

Lucky 17

Week 17 and it was back to reality for the lad after some unadulterated holiday indulgence in the Tropics and then at the snow. (Oh what a life.)

First of all it was off to the baby health care centre for a quick lube and oil change. (a.k.a., 4 month check up.) All up... doing just fine, nothing to see here. Vital measurements;
Weight: 6.5kg (~50th percentile)
Length: 65cm (~75th percentile)
Tall and thin - still on track for that future Tour de France win (drug free).

Mistress P noted that he was now almost exactly one tenth of her weight. AB noted that if he remained as currently proportioned till he weighed the same as his mum he'd also grow into a 6.5 metre tall super freak. And that would require a bigger bed.

He also had his 4 month immunisation booster... and hence copped 3 more injections into his little legs. (Mum couldn't watch.)

Despite some pitiful wails from the other kiddies, lil Mike just had a bit of a cry with each jab, some reasonably quiet sookiness for 10 minutes after, and that was it. He's a little tough guy. Ok, a bit of a temperature next day (and hence his first dose of baby panadol) but he was fine. (AB's note: don't drink baby panadol. The "cherry" flavour indicated on the bottle is a somewhat generous interpretation of the taste. "Pen ink with a hint of battery acid" may well feature on any wiser sommeliers score card.)

Apart from all this prodding, probing and posturing, theres also been lots more to learn for the lad - like "it hurts if I don't use my arms to try and crawl, and hence I push with my legs from the back and slide along on my nose at the front." We call it the bulldozer manouvre, and in fact it may come in handy when we need a vege patch flattened out. (Though AB still wants to get a "Dingo" mini-dozer, if only so he can lie Mike in it, take a photo, and caption it "A Dingo's got my baby!")

Mike, however, just gets cranky. Still thats what you get when you just haven't grown old enough to grasp the full concept of those arm thingys. Hey, we've only just learned they help to stabilise a bottle of milk... for a moment or two anyway.

Then again, it would appear he's decided to try and skip this nose-hurty crawling caper altogether. While held above the change mat, he's taken to placing one foot in front of the other on said mat and attempting to walk forward, intensely staring at his toes in the process and kinda wondering what these wobbly but partially weight bearing appendages are doing beneath him. Its somewhat, well, comical.

Almost as comical as poo'ing on dad.

Ok, so it wasn't really his fault that the "next size up" nappies didn't quite do the job in-so-far-as keeping in the boggas is concerned. Still, when dad heard the farty farty noise, then a bit of a smell, and then a bit of a warm goeey feeling through the legs of his trousers, there was a lil bit o' good ole cussin' going on. No matter how much the boy smiled at him with glee.

Still, for all the hootin' and a hollerin', Master M managed to help dad blow out his candles for his birthday and took him out to lunch at Ricketts Point, plus let dad lick the bowl clean of cake mix without even asking for the spatula, and all on his very best behavior. (Mike wasn't bad behaved either.)

Ups and downs; covered in crappola one minute and showered in smiles the next. Such is the life of a parent. And boy.

Brass monkeys

How times have changed.

Sitting in the chalet at Hotham after a hard day on the piste reading Bumps. Only this time, no, not some freestyle extreme, Pepsi Max, lumpy mogul madness ski mag but, yes, Bumps as in "How long after your beautiful and loving pregnancy should you wait to shag???" magazine Bumps.

And actually nodding at the articles.

In the cool light of day its cringeful.

But thats how it was on Master M's first trip to the snow. Or in this years case, not so much snow as extreme wind (as in all lifts closed bar one on one morning) and rain (as in "Hey, surely I wasn't the only one who had to wring out their Reg Grundies?" (thank you Simon) wet).

The drive up - all 7 hours of it - was largely uneventful, much to AB and Mistress P's delight and, admittedly, amazement. The lad slept much of the way, and even enjoyed a bit of a pitstop at the Bright Brewery to see his beer brewing friends.

That was until... the door was opened at the mountaintop to unload. And 40 knots of zero degreeC air (i.e., windchill of about -20) blasted through the interior of the ruby-Subarooby, and into the previously 24degC interior - and boy.

"What the goddamn hell was THAT!" he startled, with the most amazing surprise/shit-scared look a man of 3.75 months can muster.

"TAKE ME BACK TO THE TROPICS **NOW**!!!"

Which by that night it seemed he was. True to form, the lodge had its heating turned up to 11 and hence everyone baked medium rare in their beds. Including the other baby (Master A) and his parents sharing our room. Hence the first night was divided into sleep segments punctuated by crying/grizzling sessions from (and this is indeed the actual real life sequence)...

Master M
Master A
Master M
Master A
Master M (given a feed)
Master M
Master A
Master M

Not to mention the in-between times when parents tossed and turned in the heat and/or ripped off several of those "Its not my fault, it's the low pressure at altitude" room-gassing fartlets, interspersed with a few clunky, bashing, "better not wake the others" (but you do) blind-man wall bouncing trips to the toot.

It was hence a stagger of snow-zombies who emerged the next morning.

Master A also managed a beauty of a conjunctivitis outbreak on day 2, though luckily it didn't spread to the rest of the room.
"I had a nightmare we'd find him in the morning with his eyes glued permanently shut." said Dr D (a.k.a his dad).
(Don't worry - we think he's ok now.)

When the temperature was restored to normal Master M managed to sleep through the night, as did all the mums and dads. (Well, apart from the loo stops.) Of course someone re-cranked the lodge to 11 for the final night just for a laugh, so the living dead re-emerged just in time for the drive home...

During the daylight hours however, and being a bit young for genuine snow play or even a backpack about the cross country trails, lil' Mike got to be carried about in the baby-bjorn; to the village for a hot-choc, to the bus for a trip to the dog sled races (but bus was too full so...), to Bertrand's new unit for a view of the valley and a bit of Frenching up (pity the valley was in cloud/rain - still, we'll take Bertrands word for the great vista) etc etc.

The only ignomy for Master M of all this tootling about in the great outdoors was being forced to wear socks in lieu of gloves.

"I mean... come on. Socks as gloves? I'm trying to impress the laaaydees with my hot snowboard pants and I gotta wear socks as gloves?"

Sorry dude.

The lodge itself was crammed choc-full of kiddies and babies - easily the most we had seen in the 11 or 12 years we'd been visiting. In fact we were forced into a bit of a porta-cot shopping frenzy the day before leaving as there was a non-trivial risk of all the lodge cots being taken.

Mike appeared to like the cot at first... until he overheated one night, attempted to migrate to the cooler south and away from the blankets, only to find himself rammed into the cot-corner, all tangled in its hold-you-in mesh like some by-catch in a gill net. Which subsequently woke him, and possibly all those on the mountain, up. Again.

The crummy weather meant not that much piste time for mum and dad, but the boy didn't mind this one bit. With full parental focus, as well as lots of love and attention from others in the lodge, its now been decided that he's been officially spoiled rotten over the past couple of weeks.

But then, don't we all deserve a little lovin' now and then? Especially when its cold...

Planes Trains and Automobiles (and Gondolas)

Well that was some kinda week.

A trip to the tropics (Cairns) meant the boy had firsts galore.

First plane ride(s), first bus trip, first gondola traverse, first evening restaurant meal (twice), first river swim (yes, we checked – no crocs... though last time AB heard that was at some waterfall in Litchfield National Park (NT), which about a year afterwards was quietly closed for swimming due to... crocs) and first full week wearing shorts and no shoes; a summer habit we hope will stay with him a while.

During the daylight hours Mistress P was attending a big-wig conference, so Mike and dad went all Leyland Bros, racking up some 580km of tootling in the Hyundai Tucson "City" rent-a-car (AB's verdict– engine couldn’t pull the skin off a custard and you risked rollover if you accidentally sneezed sideways: avoid).

Hence despite the risk of automotive demise, Mike got to visit beaches, cane fields, mountains, rivers and even an aboriginal community (Yarrabah), which we must say did a pretty fine imitation of paradise; palm trees, secluded bay, laid back people and little tinnies all lined up for fishin’ trips...

Yarrabah would also apear the prime candidate for Australia's current baby boom (and we thought it was all from postcode 3188). There were little kiddies running about gleefully everywhere, though thankfully not too many on the road - that was the domain for the equally numerous (but far more car ignorant) dog pups.

The other highlight was the family trip to “The Boulders”, just-down-the-road-a-bit from Babinda, a.k.a “the umbrella town”, owing to the fact it vies for the wettest town in Australia with Tully, and sits just near Mt Bellenden Kerr, which does receive more (measured) rainfall than anywhere in Oz (but is not a town).

The Boulders is a swimming hole on the Babinda Creek, slap bang in the middle of some speccy wet tropical rainforest. The whole area, including the nearby Devils Hole, is simply, purely, spectacular. It was at the Boulders that the boy had his first river swim - actually his first swim of any sort. We couldn't work out if the look of angst was from the cool or the crocs, but we assured him that both were (theoretically) absent. Or maybe it was just cos he realised that virtually every swim he has for the rest of his life wont be in such a beautiful spot.

The other big but touristy day trip was the Skyrail gondola up and onto the tablelands, a subsequent wander through the rainforest at Kuranda, and the scenic railway back down to Cairns. Master M loved the Skyrail. He slept through the walk in the rainforest (Mum and dad kept watched for the natures-own razor wire vine; “it’ll rip yer eyes out” - thanks for the tip aboriginal guide-guy). But he took a bit of a dislike to the train ride down the mountain.

Well, maybe not so much the train ride, just the woman making the commentary over the loudspeaker, who appeared to have something of a nasal passage problem... which wasnt helped by said voice being overly amplified so you could hear it above the squeal of the train.

“We’re approaching tunnel number 15. There are 15 tunnels on the way down to...”

“BWAAAAAWAAAWAAAAAA” startled Mike.

Woman stopped talking, Mike calmed. Till 5 minutes later.

“This section of track had to be realigned as it was so steep it collapsed several times while the men were...

"BWAAAAWAAAAWAAAAAA”

This went on for several iterations till mum decided a feed was in order and then, as with many a good man, a boob shoved in his mouth shut him up for the duration.

Of course all these fun times were interspersed with 2-3 hourly dashes to the conference venue's family room for Mistress P to give him a feed between sessions. And it wasn’t just Mike's mum doing it... there in the family room were P&P, and their little baby Soraya.

Mistress P had known P&P for some time, and Soraya had come on the scene only a week or so after Master M. Hence there were the inevitable comparisons (one fed quicker, one screamed a little less, one had bigger hands, one slept more at night,...) but a clear sense of family room camaraderie. Mums were there to work and dads were there to... well... help them work. A nice little form reversal, with benefits on all sides; Dads did some great progeny bonding, and mums recharged the boffin batteries and hence will surely revolutionsise science as we know it.

Once the conference was over and everyone had arrived safely home, the first hometown nappy change revealed that the lad was taking up far more changetable realestate than previously, with his legs forced to dangle off the end. Hence it would appear he's put on a bit of a growth spurt, which may also explain why he's so hungry and no longer sleeping right through the night (oh well, 9pm to 7am was good while it lasted... we were warned).

AB's theory is two fold: all the sunshine, warmth, humidity and generally lush nature of the tropics had fertilised the boy to grow, while the low pressures in the aeroplane had also contributed by sucking him outwards.

All in all... by the end of the trip we reckon he's bigger, smilier, and (ok, we're biased) even cuter.

So many new things, many new people, many new sights and many new sounds. And that was just for mum and dad. But then, isn't that just the everyday life of a 3.5 month old?

Gone Troppo

Well Master Mike thought that a 35km ride to nanas place was a big trip, and then a 70km tootle to the airport, then a 100km run to great-great aunty Win, but now he's left all them girly-short distances for dead in-so-far-as tootling is concerned.

He (and we) are in Cairns.

As in Cairns, "3000km away as the crow flies" Cairns.

All in the name of attending a huge international work conference for mum (Saturday to Friday inclusive, 8am to 6pm, 9 (as in n.i.n.e) parallel sessions).

The trip up, of course, entailed the boys first plane flight, which he did manfully. Even if he did have to bump another baby from the bassinet seat (cos Master M was younger). The flight went great - right up until the last 10 minutes when he screamed like, well, a baby. Damn cloggy ears. Even breastfeeding at a rapid rate didnt help until we were safely on the ground and there was a bit less noise and excitement. (Though we may have started him a litttttle early.) Then he acted cool, suave and nonchalant, and had half the plane ooohhhing and aaaahhhing as they disembarked past us.

"Arent you a beautiful boy then!"

...said the lady sitting behind us who had to listen to him scream 5 minutes before (and who dad eavesdropped on her story of how in her youth she acted in a film with Chips Rafferty near Alice Springs, and how he picked her up from the airport and made her sit on the bench seat of his ute and "spread em girly" round the gearstick, revealing her blue-bowed suspender belt... ohhhh errr....)

Still the family arrived safe and sound and will be here til this coming Sunday. The boy is loving all the attention (from half the conference attendees as well it would seem), hating the uncomfy baby-seat in the hire car, racking up tropical beach and jungle experiences, successfully avoiding bitey things (including crocs - well trained by lotsa singing of the "never smile at a crocodile" song), and sleeping better through the warm and very humid nights than dad, and amazingly, mum. Who would have ever guessed!

He's had lots of firsts, quite apart from the plane flight... but they, and the pics, will have to wait till another day. We've all gone troppo.

Roll over

We've had a roll over.

No, not some disastrous test of the survivability of the car's baby capsule, but rather the mysterious first ever self-propelled flip by the lad from face down to face up. And we have no idea how he did it (though maybe it has something to do with a rather large head-to-body weight ratio, as babies are want to have),.. or for that matter why. One moment he was down, and the next he was up. Bravo!

The boy is also discovering more and more about toys every day.

The scariest of all is surely the (brazillian) butterfly... attached to the side of the cot, it flaps, it spins, it glows and it plays some sort of bizarre rythmicy tunes probably last heard in some cult that worships shiny shoes. The boy was transfixed. In fact we've never seen him so mesmerised by anything in his all too short life. He didn't move, didn't burp, didn't fart - just stared. Immobile.

For about 3 minutes.

Then he screamed his head off. And we can't blame him. There was something about the eyes on the thing staring intently at you while all around it things flapped and spun and glowed. A 3-month olds version of a scene from Blue Velvet. It was evil on AAA batteries. (Not to mention that it's designed to be attached to the side of a cot - something "they" all tell you shouldn't be done. Cots are for 'sleeping only' "they" say... and we tend to agree.)

We'll have to try it again next time he's having a tanty.

The other toys of choice are the personalised "Michael" rubber ducky (it goes squeak squeak when you press its bum - as a good rubber ducky should) which of course is not recommended for kiddies under the age of 72 (due to small parts), his big set of linky-chewy rings (more about them later) and the current fascination - the rattle.

The rattle is basically a bit of sawn-off broom-handle with some bell thingys banged all over one end, and has indeed come into its own since the boy discovered clutching. As in clutching hold of dad's shirt when he tries to change him (and hence a veiled "I couldn't do it, I'm only 3 (months)" attempt to dunk dads head in poo), clutching hold of the milk-soiled bib (and attempting to eat it) then whining cos its smelly, and clutching on mums hair, glasses and boozys when she attempts to feed him. Clutching. Its fun.

And especially so when you have a stick with metal stuff on it that jangles. Or at least it seems like fun right up until the motor skills have a whoopsy, it gets that little bit out of control, and you whack a parent and/or yourself in the face with the jangly bit. Still, it keeps 3 month olds off the streets, if not the hard rubbish collection.

The aforementioned rubber rings have also the claim to fame of being one of his first learnt behaviours not involving poo, wee or milk. Mum/dad dangles the rubber ring in front of him, and with Adam Gilchrist-like glee he reaches up and plucks it out of the air. And plonks it in his mouth. At which time parent yelps with glee and boy smiles in acknowledgment of such praise. And then he does it again.

This can last all of 10+ minutes. Then he gets sick of the grabbing and is happy to just play with the ring, eat the ring, wear the ring as a bracelet or dispatch it to the floor for dad to pick up. Then a scream cos he knew he was having fun but now can't remember why. (Damn goldfish brain.)

Finally, nappies... Once again we've reached that magically wonderful time called transition. i.e., the wee comes squeezing out the "infant" sized ones and wee comes gushing out the {next size up} ones, necessitating up to four changes of baby clobber a day. The damn kid's nether region circumference is slap bang in the hey-diddle-diddle of Mr Huggies two sizes. (And yes, we are pulling out the frilly bits on the side.)

"Mop to aisle four please, we got a leaker!"

But boy he's got a killer smile.

Oot and Aboot

We're now three months old. The end of the fourth trimester, and he is certainly showing it -moreso every day. There really is a little guy here now, and not just some amorphous screaming lump of animated carbon.

Nice to meet you Mike!

He's now also managed over a week of sleeping through the entire night - no, not a week in total, but a week of days in a row. There is a god. (Or at least an atheistic version of one...)

The week involved three big trips out, not to mention the standard mothers club cafe' strolls.

The first was to meet nana and great-aunt (GA) - if thats what nana's sister is called - as well as his second cousin (Emma), who is all of two weeks younger than the lil man.

All and sundry gathered at GAs place out in the 'burbs, and everthing was going swimmingly... till Mike decided to drop a big one. And then again. And again.

Ok, so this is what babies do - poo. Nothing wrong with that. Off to change him on the washing machine, with GA looking on adoringly.

"Oh isn't he wonderful" she said....
"Arent you a beautiful little... ohhhh...errr..."

Dad had removed the nappy and looked away momentarily, and in that split second...

WWWEEEEEEEEEEE...

All over Mike, dad, the washing machine, the floor and any assorted shoe or article of clothing within a radius of two feet.

"I'd forgotten how little boys can spray it about..." was GA's consoling words of wisdom as dad got down on the floor and started the mop up operation.

Down on your hands and knees soaking up wee. Now that is parenting.

(Mike just grinned.)

Subsequent trips out were far less eventful. Firstly to his first BBQ at Miss J's place, where he was clearly the star of the show (being the only baby there kinda helped), and hence mum and dad were able to sit back and let him be passed around for half the night while they enjoyed the marinated Greek lamb...
Mmmm,... marinated Greek lambbbbb {drool drool}...

The final trip was to visit great-great-aunt (that makes even less sense: Mike's great-grandmothers sister anyway...) whos lives down near Portarlington, about a one and a half hour drive from home.

This was first and foremost a chance for her to meet the lad, but it was also a test to see how he'd travel on a longer car voyage prior to his first trip to the snow next month.

The meeting went well with GGA suitably inpressed (and impressive) with the boy. Its amazing what 90+ years - or over 360 times the total length of Mikes life-to-date - of knowledge gives you.

A trip to the sea's edge and a wonderful cuppa looking out at the diving winter Australian gannets - heaven. Mike even managed to avoid the temptation of urinating on GGAs floor, even though he was tossed onto the ground (well, a set of very sensitive a scales with a rather large pressure plate) for a weigh in: 6.5kg, including clothes - thanks for asking.

The trip home was a little more arduous, with a tired and hungry boy needing a feed stop and a scream stop, and thus racking up a 3 hour total travel time for the return trip. Still... lessons were learned and the whole excercise declared a resounding success all round.

And he's grown even more hair.

Quarter time

I'm three months old today!

The end of the mystical fourth trimester...

The Michael Henry Experience

Twelve weeks. And the boy is talking.

Well, not so much talking as looking at us and going

"AHhhhhhhhhhh GAhhhhhhhhhhh AAhhhhhhhhh"

then looking us in the eye and expecting some form of reply in return. (We usually say:
"Really? And what do you think of Fermats last theorem?")

"AHhhhhhhhhhh GAhhhhhhhhhhh AAhhhhhhhhh"

Bwilliant.

The other thing that is bwilliant is his new routine. Plus the simple fact that he now has a routine. It goes something like:

• Wake mum up at 7:30am
• Get fed (with sponge bath in the boob-swapping period)
  
• Play with stuff (e.g., mirror with oddly familiar baby in it)/go to baby ryhme-time at the library/watch mums exercise class/sleep till 11am
  
• Wake up
• Get fed
• Play with stuff (e.g., own hands)
  
• little sleep till 2
  
• Wake up
• Get fed
• Go for walk in pram or baby bjorn/visit friends/mothers group/play with stuff (e.g., buzzy bee)/sleep till beer'o'clock
  
• Wake up
• Get fed (not beer, yet)
• Play with dad when he gets home from work (NB: after dad kisses mum)
• Watch mum&dad eat tea/play with stuff (e.g., horseys)/little nap
  
• Wake up
• Get fed
• Get wrapped up, jigged and put in cot 9:30-10pm
• wake up at 7am (yes... sleeps through many nights)
  
• kiss from Dad in the dark before he leaves for work
• wake up mum at 7:30am

Ok, theres many perturbations in there - a few tears, screams, random ploppys and leaking nappies - but on the plus side, if there is a required nighttime feed (usually 4am) he sleeps in till nearly 9am. Which he did on the weekend just gone, and hence mum&dad got a long lie in too. (Another "Bwilliant!") And so extravagant and ultimately decadent.

And we're assured this routine will change.

We've also discovered a gradually changing musical taste. His favourite at the moment appears to be dads mouth-music/guitar-only version of Jimi Hendrix "Manic Depression" (probably best he doesn't know the lyrics) while being bounced on dads knee in time to the ever increasing speed of that million dollar riff. (Maybe you have to be there...).

Oh, and he's also taken a liking to the Sesame Street "Mahna-mahna" song being performed via raspberries on his chest. (If you listen to the link, you'll be humming it all day; you have been warned.)

Somewhat scary how ingrained it is in 38y.o parents...

Talking, routines, and a near-miss ejectile poo at dad (we've pulled that description for the faint hearted). Week 12.

Winston

Every baby looks like Winston Churchill.

At least for the first few weeks, and then they gradually take on their own defining characteristics which make them less Churchillian and more, well, themselves. In the boys case, he's definitely starting to grow hair.

And equally unlike Churchill, he's starting to sleep.

Now without meaning to put the moccas on ourselves, he's been racking up the hours of nighttime slumber, including his second, third and fourth all-nighters. If you count a 6am wakeup an all nighter (and we will).

But on the weekend the lad outdid himself - if not his mums mammarian storage abilities - by sleeping for 11 hours straight. Yes.... e.l.e.v.e.n.

This, as alluded too, was too much of a stretch (scuse pun) for mums norgs, which became rock like and even "huger". If thats possible.

"Cop a feel of this!?!" said Mistress P.

Now in a past life this may well have been considered something of a come-on/golden opportunity for some "Sunday schooling", but in the post-preggas world everything is an exercise in the new and the bold. Cos they were indeed rock like: less like silicon, more like silica.

Nothing a quick mini-express didn't soften mind you.

Of course all this good sleeping had to, inevitably, come to an end. And as good ole Murphy (of "law" fame) would have it, the wide-awake late-into-the-evening grizzles and feeds demanded every 4 hours started again the very night prior to Mistress P's first day back at work.

While all were very glad to see her and thankful she was back for at least one day a week, it appeared the news hadn't traveled so fast to the personnel department. Seems the forms (in triplicate and signed by a deity) had dutifully wound its way into red tape purgatory, and hence they thought she'd been at work all week. Whooops... (lucky she actually had been doing lotsa work at home all along...)

And all the while, Dad was taking a day off and minding the tacker... their first full day together home alone.
"No wukkas", dad thought.
...right up until it came time to give the boy a feed. As warned could happen by others, Master M had forgotten (over the past 3 weeks) that bottle = boob, promptly downed tools and refused to drink a drop. Not to mention voiced his displeasure with the situation in no uncertain terms.

An hour-plus of jigging, walking and feeding (at the same time - at last a use for the windsurfin' muscles), along with lotsa yelling (mostly by the lad), soon had some 110ml transferred bottle-to-boy. Which he subsequently burped up a fair proportion of - but at least the connection had been restored. For now.

Sleep, work, rock boobs, new hair and that bit less Winston-like.
Week 11.