Cry Baby Weekend #1

We all thought it would end in tears.

The inaugural "Cry Baby" weekend, starring four babies under the age of 6 months plus Master M and his trusty sidekick Master A, was held in the very same house at Sandy Point that dad and Mistress P were married in. Its all rather circular really.

The babies in question were all related, though not in the common or garden variety way, but rather through employer; all being produced via at least one parent who worked in the climate section of the Bureau of Meteorology. The last time such a baby boom occurred in the same workplace was the disastrous El Nino of 2002/03, hence it was with some trepidation round the water cooler when a baby onslaught was on the cards again. Trepidation proven correct; we've been bubbling at the edge of an El Nino all year, with dust storms blanketing Sydney, Melbourne's driest first six months on record, and record breaking heat in winter. And now it appears Cry Baby weekend may well be the straw that breaks the thirsty camels back - the Southern Oscillation Index has fallen 8.3 points since Cry Baby weekend alone (and still falling as we write).

In days of old a trip to Sandy was all beer and BBQs and stories of bravado, where too much windsurfing was barely enough and nights were for regaling the boogie boarding adventures of the day.

How things have changed.

The hardest-core activity of Cry Baby was changing the morning stink-bomb nappy, while days were spent either strolling the streets and beaches with a pram, eating, lounging on the couch while your bub had a nap, eating, feeding a carrot to the horses, eating, and catching 40 winks infront of the coonarra. Oh and eating.

Given the eating, and in particular the number of desserts everyone brought for the weekend, "Cry Baby" may have been otherwise termed "Cake Biting" weekend. We think we ate approximately our body weight in Pav alone. Each.

As for the kiddies, well they were on their best behaviour all weekend. And much as we all thought they'd be triggering each other off in Dresden-like crying firestorms, it was quite the opposite. If anything they appeared to calm each other, allowing photoshoots on the floor and lots of "ohh-ing" and "ahh-ing" from the mums and dads. (Or maybe the serenity from the bubs was simply a by-product of them always having a view/smell of at least one lactating mum at all times.)
In fact much of the weekend seemed to be spent just staring at bubs.
And conversely for the bubs, boobs.

Apart from the older two kiddies that is. They decided that playing with trains would be high on the weekends schedule. Only problem being it had to be the train that the other one had. Hence they were either a) clutching an armful of trains as though their life depended upon it, or b) crying and/or chasing the other to get whichever train they needed (note: not wanted; needed).

For all this battle of train wits, when it came time to go home there was Master A yelling out "BYYYYE!!" as he jogged up the driveway, while Master M leaned out the doorway waving a hearty "SeeYaaaaaa!!", just like the couple of old mates that they now are.

In fact master M loved the weekend so much that when he arrived home he decided that he actually did not care much for the humdrum life in the Baghdad end of Hampton, rather he wanted to be back at "someone-else's house" - that being the name he adopted for the place we stayed in after mum and dad explained to him that we weren't going to be spending the weekend at home, rather at "someone else's" house.

He wanted to be back there so much that when he returned from childcare the following Monday, he refused to be coerced into entering the slum he previously called home, but announced that he was off to Sandy Point/"someone-else's house" and bolted out the driveway. Followed by mum, who didn't manage to catch the sprinting little devil till he was a dozen houses down the road, as running while clutching a pillow you use for breast feeding a bub + a flapping flat nappy can slow you down a bit.

This enthusiasm for a home away from home wasn't even dampened by the long drive back, during which the lad almost managed to down a full bottle of luke-warm milk + read his newspaper (a Thomas the tank engine flyer on safety at train stations; the only thing we can heap praise onto Connex for) + admire the rushing scenery on a windy road near Korumburra. We say "almost", as he regurgitated the previous and now somewhat-curdled contents of the bottle all over his clothes/seat/newspaper leading to an impromptu roadside stop and strip.

After which, he announced that sitting in his seat was a bit "tough".
And indeed it would have been.
It bloody stank.
(Arguably second worse stink of the holiday after the trips-end nappy overtopping bin at the house. "Smell that'll outlast religion" as Kenny would say.)

In a vaguely similar manner, about half an hour later little Ms S also started demanding milk of the mum's-boobs variety, and hence another impromptu stop was called for. This time in the sleepy Westernport hamlet of Lang Lang, long known in family circles as the place where a) dads-dad used to ride his bike an impressively long way - from East Brighton - to work on a farm cos he loved the cows, and b) where dad did his Non-Commissioned Officer training when his school demanded a second year of army cadets from him, and dad reckoned he'd rather be a 'yeller' than a 'yellee' if he had to keep doing it. About all Lang Lang taught him (apart from how to yell) was that huntsman spiders don't particularly like having Aerogard blown on them from a can. While its being ignited into a flame thrower.

Hence... Lang Lang playground it was for a Ms S top-up and nappy change. Which lead mum and dad to muse that having kiddies will actually get them to see a whole lot more of rural Australia than they ever did being footloose and fancy free and tearing through every country town at 10% over the legal limit.

That said, they'll mostly be seeing playgrounds.

When finally home there was no peace for the wicked, with Ms S having to go see the council nurse for her first ever jabs. Poor little tike; an oral dose of vaccine-goo plus a needle in both legs.
She yelled.
Dad cringed.
Mum stayed safely outside in the playground with Master M.

And then Ms S, just as her big bro did 2.25 years earlier, slept right through the night - if you call 9pm to 5am all through the night - for the very first time, just like a (slightly perforated) angel.

Cry Baby weekend #1.
We all thought it would end in tears.
But actually it ended in very big smiles.
(And a rather smelly bin.) Print this post