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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