How quickly its all come about.
There we were one minute wondering if the Thorpy-swimmers would ever make it off the blocks, and suddenly here we are at 28 weeks-in and Mistress P is starting to nest.
"We need a new door for the kiddies room..."
Done.
"We need to get Mike into a real bed..."
Sheets bought, bed sourced from Nana and Papa; a genuine hand me down from when dad was a young AB.
(Admittedly dad must be nesting too, as he reckons its time to move house.)
"We need to get this house ready!"
A 50 point list was drawn up immediately.
Being 28 weeks, and having had a few probs in the early stages (not to mention that mum and dad are getting a little, err, long in the tooth), it was off again to the horse-piddle to have one last peer into Sissy's little watery world.
Another scan.
And the end result - all looking good and we have a little girl who, according to the stats associated with head size, bone lengths etc, has officially cracked the 1kg mark.
("Well where the hell is all the other weight coming from?" bemoaned mum, pondering her belly...)
1.1 kilograms (± 0.17) to be exact.
We've also entered the hot stage.
As in mum; pumping out waste heat like she was sponsored by the coal lobby.
Hence we now have a bed with dads half covered by a doona, and mums half by a ratty old thin blanket.
And if past experience is anything to go by, things can only go more nuclear...
Finally the boy.
Thursday 14 May 2009; his first night in a "big bed".
No more cot for this fella - we've joined the bigtime. And isn't he proud... Uncle Bailey was marched into the room by the boy to be shown the "big bed" and be given a personal sleeping demonstration.
Ted, bear and doggy have been dismissed to the cot. (Well, until bedtime, when they are clawed back.)
And finally a little story called the independence of language.
There we were having brekky, but the boy only ate a few mouthfuls of his weetbix/moosli/milk/warmwater mush (as opposed to shovelling it down like normal; we're a 2 weetbix kid you know).
"Ok, well do you want a banana?" mused dad.
"No." said the boy.
"Bread?"
"No"
"How bout Jam Toast?"
"No."
"Fruit?
"No."
"You sure you don't want toast?"
And then it happened.
Out came the hand, the palm was raised to dads face face, and...
"DADDY! STOP TALKING!"
I thought this start with teenagers.
I guess our work here is done. Print this post
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