There's never a camera when you need it

There it was.

A rogue hair in the dinner.
And another on the table.
And a bunch in the plughole of the bath.

Yep... its that time again.
Oh yeah, {to the tune of Hammertime}, Moulting time.

As with all things baby related, the changes not only come thick and fast for the bub, but also for their long suffering mum.

In the case of hair loss, its all down to mum's hormone levels, cos during pregnancy the oestrogen thingys delay the hair folicle growth resting phase when the hair normally falls out. This delay leads to luschous manes and hence sexy mums.

But, as an old lecturer of mum and dad used to say, what you gain on the swings you lose on the roundabouts, and hence, a few months after birth... out comes all that extra hair and the Farrah Fawcett phase comes to a close.

All in one big "waiter there's a dozen hairs in my soup" fashion.

(In fact there's one of the blighters on the keyboard here as we write.)

If only losing a few extra hairs was all mum had to endure.

Lets just say, at least in Mistress P's case, swimming can be dangerous.

Especially if you're mum to a spectacularly keen little fish (lets, for sake of argument, call him Master M) who has developed a Thorpy-like kick off the pool wall.

Cos that's what he did.

(Just as instructed by his coach.)

Do a Thorpy-like kick hard off the wall.

And headbutt (with the back of his head) mum clean in the eye, knocking her semi-senseless and giving her a doozy of a shiner.

Ouch.

Strangely, dad's suggestion that mum just put purple eyeshadow on the other peeper to match wasn' t taken seriously. Or, for that matter, appreciated.

"And don't go round doing that 'she burnt the chops' joke either" warned the black eyed one.

Right you are.

For some reason, the past fortnight has actually been a succession of such "Funniest Home Video" moments, if not non-PC jokes.

At least one involves Little Miss S, who at the ripe old age of 5 and a bit months, is finally able to sit up on her own.

(You kinda forget how such little milestones actually are so big.)

Ok, she can't actually get herself vertical on her own, but once plonked in position she can balance there for a fair old while and seems dam pleased with herself into the process.

However, and as alluded to by the "for a while" bit, she inevitably overbalances sideways and clonks her head on the ground/pillow/parent.

That said, not all the video moments in the

household involve getting clonked (unlike on the show).

For instance, what do you get if you mix a 2.75 year old who keeps wanting to go faster, a 40th birthday party out in a park in the (36°C) heat, a playground complete with "wizzy teacup thing" that you sit inside and spin round at warp speed, and eating too many chips?

(You're probably way ahead of us already.)

Dad was watching from afar, and suddenly noticed the "whoop whoops" of an excited lad had turned into a sudden and decidedly un-2.75 year old quietness plus a chameleon-like colour change to some shade of green.

Dad leapt up.

Ran over.

Stopped the cup.

"You ok mate?"

Lets just say the reply was in technicolour, covered much of the teacup/playground including wider surrounds, and that its always amazing how much more it seems when its coming out rather than going in.

Poor lad.

That said, we are actually very proud of some of the stuff that comes out of him. Or rather, his growing ability to control it.

Yes, we have a lad who is almost (...almost)... {da da daaa daaaa} potty trained.

The process thus far has involved wall charts of stickers, a couple of Thomas the Tank Engine bribes, a bag of Freddo frogs (rewards for a dump well done), and Rory the racing car - who is really Lightning McQueen - pull-ups soon replaced by a six pack of 'Rory' Reg Grundies.

The turning point may well have been his childcare.

Dad arrived to take the boy home to find the lad dancing round a pole.
As you do. (Thankfully minus the heels and g-string.)

When he saw dad he bolted over, dispensed with the customary hug, grabbed dads hand and lead him away.
To the dunny.

Dropped his duds.

Dropped his pull-ups.

Sat up on the (special mini kiddie) toilet.
Did a wee.
Jumped off.
Put on his pull up.

Pulled up his pants.

Fushed the loo.
Washed his hands.

Dried them with paper towel.

Put his rubbish in the bin.

Then stood there - all smiles and waiting for applause.

And well he might.

What a bloody good effort.

Encore!

But it didn't end there.

Fast forward a few days and there's Mum, freshly out from the morning shower and enjoying a moments solitude.

She hears footsteps and a pushing at the closed bathroom door.

Followed soon after by a rattling at the closed and latched back door flyscreen.

Then quick running steps down the corridor and the distinct creaking and clanking of the front door being swung open.

Then.
Silence.

Mum realises the boys done a runner, out into the street.

Flings on a robe, bolts through the house and bounds out into the front yard praying not to see boy pizza on the tarmac/that her bits are all exposed to the general populace walking by, only to find...

Master M, middle of the front yard, duds 'round the ankles and pull-up at half mast, having a wee on the grass. A Funniest Home Videos moment if ever there was one.

(Note image for someone travelling past: Front yard of dying grass containing a somewhat dishevelled and panting lady in dressing gown and sheepskin slippers standing next to her naked son while he's having a wizz on the lawn. We're all class here in the Baghdad end of Hampton. Here's hoping the Googlemaps Street View car wasn't driving past.)

But as dad points out, this is also one of the key realisations when becoming a man:

The world is my toilet.

(Dad is so proud.
Always.)

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Festival of the firsts

Ok. We don't know what's been put in the water round here (aside from flouride and some form of soma), but 2010 is already proving the Year of the First.

We're talking real life-changing, big-time, no-going-back from here matey, firsts.
With a capital F.

For little Miss S, well it almost comes with the territory, being a professional card-carrying 5-month old and all that.

She's had her first shower in a real shower. And not even a water saving one (ohh... errr...).

Her first meal in a pub (the Dava in Mt Martha; scored five 'Yeehas!' out of five on the playground scale from Mike, though inversely scored five rat droppings out of five on the Gordon Ramsey "Fook me this is crap!" scale for the food.)

Her first time in a cot (as opposed to a basinette).

Her first sleep in her own room (well, mum's study really).

Her first sleeping bag.

Her first roll over from back to front (soon mastered).

And then her first roll from front to back (arguably still a fluke).

And then there was the biggies....

After gradually showing more and more interest in the family dinner times, and not being content any more with being banished to the rocker on the floor, she was plonked on a lap. Which lead to her staring intensely at every mouthful of food ingested by mum, dad and the bamix (imagine the mess a bamix would make if applied to your dinner at the table. Thats about what happens when a 2.75 year old is let loose on a plate of spiral pasta bolognese with a fork). And arguably her first genuine whinge.

Hence, and somewhat contrary to WHO guidlines, it was time for...

...her first solid food.
MMmmmm... mashed banana...!
Slurped off her mums fingers like a 4.5 month old possessed (Date: 29/12/2009)

She's now had an assortment of textures and flavours, with the current fave being farax (i.e., rice meal) mixed with Gold 26 formula milk and a formerly frozen cube of pumpkin.
Or Banana.
But never the two at once.

This solid food caper has, inevitably and unfortunately, lead to her first...
...stinky poo.
(Description removed for the weak of stomach.)

The other biggy from the girl was, finally, after literally a couple of months of persistant coaxing... drinking from a bottle.
First 50ml (in one go).
Then 100ml.
Then 150ml.

To the uninitiated this means... freeeedom.
Mum no longer has to be within tittie flopping-out distance of the lass at all times, rather she can indeed rock and roll all night and party every day, safe in the knowledge that her bub wont starve without her.

Of course mums boobs may explode unless vacuum pumped at regular intervals, but that's a relatively minor inconvenience in the grande old scheme of things. (The aforementioned bottle feeding also lead to a mum first by the way... her first full day back at work without bub.)

The final first for little Miss S; well being of the climate-changed generation (Gen Z the internet generation - phooey), it was about time she went through her first 43.6°C (110.5F) day. After all, her brother had already seen four of them; seriously and sadly, the same number as anyone who lived the entire 20th century in Master M's Melbourne.

The corresponding night was also the equal hottest Melbourne night (minimum 30.6C) since records began in 1856.
Indeed we knew it was hot; the boy kept demanding that his "heater" be turned off.
"Mate" reasoned dad, "that's a fan - it'll keep you cool."
"TURN. HEATER. OFF!"
"ohhhkaaay..."

Yawningly... there's one first still lacking from the little Miss S tally.
Sleep.
Not one full nights kip through in five months.
Sleep oh sleep; why have you forsaken us?

Of course the firsts don't end with the girl.
The Boy is racking them up at a fine pace too... can't be outdone by your little siss after all.

The big BIG first was the first poop in the loo.

Explanatory note: If you don't have kids; imagine the joy you'd get from lying in your favourite chair at your favourite spot in the world eating your favourite food from your favourite chef all the while having horizontal mumbo with the A-list celebrity your spouse has given "ok, if you ever get the chance you can bonk them, {sigh}" rights to, well... thats approximately half the pleasure you'd get from not having to change one nappy overtopping with crap cos the kid deposited it themselves in the toot.

This is all part of the first attempt at potty training.

As a result, right now we are on high level "Spencer" alert; that be "Spencer" from the Thomas the Tank Engine movie. (The boys first ever full length movie by the way.)
Hence...
A wall chart, stickers, and 20 poops/wees and Master M is on the first bus, front row, to Spencer city.
He is somewhat excited.
So are wee (scuse pun).
He's almost one of us.
Nappie-less.

As part of this pot-trainin' process we've also had...

His first day in Reg Grundies. Or at least first few hours...
...a little boy emerged running into the unfortunately closed bathroom door pleading "potty!", the delay resulting in somewhat sodden nethers and subsequent demanding for a Pull-up.

"No mate, you want undies" recommended dad.

"NO!" replied the boy, while raiding the change table, finding himself the last "Rory the Racing Car" (who is actually Lightning McQueen from the movie Cars, but lets not burst a bubble here), Pull-up. Putting it on himself (itself a first) and tearing off like a man possessed.

Note to selves: leave door open.

Finally... a first for dad.

Or rather three.
All unfortunate, all (possibly) related to lack of sleep, and all demonstrating why mum is amazing in how togther she is after 5 months of waking nightly.

First first (and one for the "don't tell the council nurse/Victoria police" file.)

First drive off in the car with boy unbuckled. (Only discovered when approaching the home driveway and the rear view mirror revealed a boy standing up, getting himself ready to leave prior to the car coming to a stop.)

Second first: Arrive home, same trip, to find the house front door wide open. (To any burglars watching.. note; first time. And we have a cricket bat.)

Third first: juggling the two kiddies (and himself) to get breakfasted, dressed and de-pooped, dad managed to successfully burn, nay cremate, SEVEN slices of toast!
Seriously.
Seven.
They were counted out as they dropped into the compost bin; the rats (after their entree at the Dava) ate well that night.

Ahh... the festival of the firsts.
January 2010.
You gotta love it.



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