Family quarterly result

Three months old today.
Three months old today.
Everybody clap their hands,
We're three months old today.

(Well, actually yesterday, but we don't like to ruin a good story/swim-class song with the facts.)

Yes, little Miss S is a full season old already.

And right on cue, (well a day prior actually; 16/11/2009), Little Miss S did her first ever roll over.
Back to tummy.
Genius.

The end of the fourth trimester also means that we no longer have a bub who eats/sleeps/poos, but rather one who eats/plays/sleeps. Then /poos.

It's a definite and clear demarcated transition in life; the first eyes wide open stage, where the outside world starts to come into the brain and things like dads and brothers and (sadly, this is true) television start to get noticed (her favourite appears to be the Simpsons); anything with colour and light which moves and shakes and stimulates the grey matter into making new pathways.

Cos lets face it, you can only have eyes for mum's boobs for so long.

Its all very exciting for a parent (not so for others, granted), because it means she's starting to think.

Now if only she'd start thinking about chugging down a bottle of mum's mammaries finest homebrew we'd be laughing. Granted she does now make a tiny effort, and dad did manage to get a whole 2o ml into her in one go. (Woohoo!) Which he learnt is about a fifth of what she should drink in a session. (Boooo...)

Speaking of television and battles and learning about things other than breasts; did we mention The Boy?

Master M has covered all of the above in having accomplished what many a 50's baby-boomer (as opposed to a Naughty's baby boomer, as we're sure this lot will be known) has failed to achieve in their lifetime; he appears totally capable of working a television and video recorder. (For those reading this in five years time, a video cassette recorder, a.k.a VCR, is a big box into which you plugged a slightly smaller box which contained magnetic tape onto which was recorded moving pictures. I'm sure there'll be one in a museum somewhere. Alongside the garden sprinklers.)

Hence he can now fire up said box, eject tapes he doesn't like (i.e., dads windsurfing stuff) and put on things he does like (e.g., The Wiggles), and change the channels on the telly until it comes up with "a seven!" which to him now means 'video will play soon'.
(Dam us for teaching him numbers so early...)

On the "one step ahead" front, he hasn't yet discovered that the power switch on the wall renders all the above obsolete.
And if he works that one out, we'll change the VCR to channel eight.

But all this, frankly, is chicken giblets compared to the real offspring story of the week.

(I warn you, its not pretty. Weak hearts leave the room please.)

There was dad, doing his best as little Miss S had scratched her face, sitting on the deck with her lovingly laid in his arms under the rays of a setting Sunday sun, trying to clip her fingernails...

"Clip".
One gone.
"Clip"
Gettin' there.
"Clip"
"ARRGHH!!"
Not only did he clip the nail but also managed to take a sliver of fingertip off with it into the bargain. (He could tell how much - it was still there in the clippers.)

The girl yelled.
Dad freaked a bit.
(Ok, a fair bit.)
Blood flowed.
Pressure applied, and after a few quick sucks to clean it up, the bleeding stopped.

As, remarkably, did the crying.

Still, just to be sure to be sure, mum bunged Miss S into the car seat (in which Miss S soon fell fast asleep...) and had her all checked out at Monash medical centre, where remarkably there was no queue and lots of apparently semi-bored paediatricians, and even a plastic surgeon (who quite enjoyed looking through a microscope at the sliver which mum had brought in a small box), eager and willing to offer opinions.

And they all agreed.
It wasn't that bad; there'd be a little scar and maybe a slightly shorter finger nail, but that putting in a stitch would only result in an equally non-obvious scar anyway, so...

Officially Miss S' first accident, band aid (not even a Wiggles one either) and Mercurochrome (ouch).

Good one dad, you muppet.

Still, there's nothing like a good old disfigurement of your offspring to convince yourself you love them more than life itself.

"Sorry."
Love,
Dad.


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