Gone Troppo

Well Master Mike thought that a 35km ride to nanas place was a big trip, and then a 70km tootle to the airport, then a 100km run to great-great aunty Win, but now he's left all them girly-short distances for dead in-so-far-as tootling is concerned.

He (and we) are in Cairns.

As in Cairns, "3000km away as the crow flies" Cairns.

All in the name of attending a huge international work conference for mum (Saturday to Friday inclusive, 8am to 6pm, 9 (as in n.i.n.e) parallel sessions).

The trip up, of course, entailed the boys first plane flight, which he did manfully. Even if he did have to bump another baby from the bassinet seat (cos Master M was younger). The flight went great - right up until the last 10 minutes when he screamed like, well, a baby. Damn cloggy ears. Even breastfeeding at a rapid rate didnt help until we were safely on the ground and there was a bit less noise and excitement. (Though we may have started him a litttttle early.) Then he acted cool, suave and nonchalant, and had half the plane ooohhhing and aaaahhhing as they disembarked past us.

"Arent you a beautiful boy then!"

...said the lady sitting behind us who had to listen to him scream 5 minutes before (and who dad eavesdropped on her story of how in her youth she acted in a film with Chips Rafferty near Alice Springs, and how he picked her up from the airport and made her sit on the bench seat of his ute and "spread em girly" round the gearstick, revealing her blue-bowed suspender belt... ohhhh errr....)

Still the family arrived safe and sound and will be here til this coming Sunday. The boy is loving all the attention (from half the conference attendees as well it would seem), hating the uncomfy baby-seat in the hire car, racking up tropical beach and jungle experiences, successfully avoiding bitey things (including crocs - well trained by lotsa singing of the "never smile at a crocodile" song), and sleeping better through the warm and very humid nights than dad, and amazingly, mum. Who would have ever guessed!

He's had lots of firsts, quite apart from the plane flight... but they, and the pics, will have to wait till another day. We've all gone troppo.

Roll over

We've had a roll over.

No, not some disastrous test of the survivability of the car's baby capsule, but rather the mysterious first ever self-propelled flip by the lad from face down to face up. And we have no idea how he did it (though maybe it has something to do with a rather large head-to-body weight ratio, as babies are want to have),.. or for that matter why. One moment he was down, and the next he was up. Bravo!

The boy is also discovering more and more about toys every day.

The scariest of all is surely the (brazillian) butterfly... attached to the side of the cot, it flaps, it spins, it glows and it plays some sort of bizarre rythmicy tunes probably last heard in some cult that worships shiny shoes. The boy was transfixed. In fact we've never seen him so mesmerised by anything in his all too short life. He didn't move, didn't burp, didn't fart - just stared. Immobile.

For about 3 minutes.

Then he screamed his head off. And we can't blame him. There was something about the eyes on the thing staring intently at you while all around it things flapped and spun and glowed. A 3-month olds version of a scene from Blue Velvet. It was evil on AAA batteries. (Not to mention that it's designed to be attached to the side of a cot - something "they" all tell you shouldn't be done. Cots are for 'sleeping only' "they" say... and we tend to agree.)

We'll have to try it again next time he's having a tanty.

The other toys of choice are the personalised "Michael" rubber ducky (it goes squeak squeak when you press its bum - as a good rubber ducky should) which of course is not recommended for kiddies under the age of 72 (due to small parts), his big set of linky-chewy rings (more about them later) and the current fascination - the rattle.

The rattle is basically a bit of sawn-off broom-handle with some bell thingys banged all over one end, and has indeed come into its own since the boy discovered clutching. As in clutching hold of dad's shirt when he tries to change him (and hence a veiled "I couldn't do it, I'm only 3 (months)" attempt to dunk dads head in poo), clutching hold of the milk-soiled bib (and attempting to eat it) then whining cos its smelly, and clutching on mums hair, glasses and boozys when she attempts to feed him. Clutching. Its fun.

And especially so when you have a stick with metal stuff on it that jangles. Or at least it seems like fun right up until the motor skills have a whoopsy, it gets that little bit out of control, and you whack a parent and/or yourself in the face with the jangly bit. Still, it keeps 3 month olds off the streets, if not the hard rubbish collection.

The aforementioned rubber rings have also the claim to fame of being one of his first learnt behaviours not involving poo, wee or milk. Mum/dad dangles the rubber ring in front of him, and with Adam Gilchrist-like glee he reaches up and plucks it out of the air. And plonks it in his mouth. At which time parent yelps with glee and boy smiles in acknowledgment of such praise. And then he does it again.

This can last all of 10+ minutes. Then he gets sick of the grabbing and is happy to just play with the ring, eat the ring, wear the ring as a bracelet or dispatch it to the floor for dad to pick up. Then a scream cos he knew he was having fun but now can't remember why. (Damn goldfish brain.)

Finally, nappies... Once again we've reached that magically wonderful time called transition. i.e., the wee comes squeezing out the "infant" sized ones and wee comes gushing out the {next size up} ones, necessitating up to four changes of baby clobber a day. The damn kid's nether region circumference is slap bang in the hey-diddle-diddle of Mr Huggies two sizes. (And yes, we are pulling out the frilly bits on the side.)

"Mop to aisle four please, we got a leaker!"

But boy he's got a killer smile.

Oot and Aboot

We're now three months old. The end of the fourth trimester, and he is certainly showing it -moreso every day. There really is a little guy here now, and not just some amorphous screaming lump of animated carbon.

Nice to meet you Mike!

He's now also managed over a week of sleeping through the entire night - no, not a week in total, but a week of days in a row. There is a god. (Or at least an atheistic version of one...)

The week involved three big trips out, not to mention the standard mothers club cafe' strolls.

The first was to meet nana and great-aunt (GA) - if thats what nana's sister is called - as well as his second cousin (Emma), who is all of two weeks younger than the lil man.

All and sundry gathered at GAs place out in the 'burbs, and everthing was going swimmingly... till Mike decided to drop a big one. And then again. And again.

Ok, so this is what babies do - poo. Nothing wrong with that. Off to change him on the washing machine, with GA looking on adoringly.

"Oh isn't he wonderful" she said....
"Arent you a beautiful little... ohhhh...errr..."

Dad had removed the nappy and looked away momentarily, and in that split second...

WWWEEEEEEEEEEE...

All over Mike, dad, the washing machine, the floor and any assorted shoe or article of clothing within a radius of two feet.

"I'd forgotten how little boys can spray it about..." was GA's consoling words of wisdom as dad got down on the floor and started the mop up operation.

Down on your hands and knees soaking up wee. Now that is parenting.

(Mike just grinned.)

Subsequent trips out were far less eventful. Firstly to his first BBQ at Miss J's place, where he was clearly the star of the show (being the only baby there kinda helped), and hence mum and dad were able to sit back and let him be passed around for half the night while they enjoyed the marinated Greek lamb...
Mmmm,... marinated Greek lambbbbb {drool drool}...

The final trip was to visit great-great-aunt (that makes even less sense: Mike's great-grandmothers sister anyway...) whos lives down near Portarlington, about a one and a half hour drive from home.

This was first and foremost a chance for her to meet the lad, but it was also a test to see how he'd travel on a longer car voyage prior to his first trip to the snow next month.

The meeting went well with GGA suitably inpressed (and impressive) with the boy. Its amazing what 90+ years - or over 360 times the total length of Mikes life-to-date - of knowledge gives you.

A trip to the sea's edge and a wonderful cuppa looking out at the diving winter Australian gannets - heaven. Mike even managed to avoid the temptation of urinating on GGAs floor, even though he was tossed onto the ground (well, a set of very sensitive a scales with a rather large pressure plate) for a weigh in: 6.5kg, including clothes - thanks for asking.

The trip home was a little more arduous, with a tired and hungry boy needing a feed stop and a scream stop, and thus racking up a 3 hour total travel time for the return trip. Still... lessons were learned and the whole excercise declared a resounding success all round.

And he's grown even more hair.

Quarter time

I'm three months old today!

The end of the mystical fourth trimester...

The Michael Henry Experience

Twelve weeks. And the boy is talking.

Well, not so much talking as looking at us and going

"AHhhhhhhhhhh GAhhhhhhhhhhh AAhhhhhhhhh"

then looking us in the eye and expecting some form of reply in return. (We usually say:
"Really? And what do you think of Fermats last theorem?")

"AHhhhhhhhhhh GAhhhhhhhhhhh AAhhhhhhhhh"

Bwilliant.

The other thing that is bwilliant is his new routine. Plus the simple fact that he now has a routine. It goes something like:

• Wake mum up at 7:30am
• Get fed (with sponge bath in the boob-swapping period)
  
• Play with stuff (e.g., mirror with oddly familiar baby in it)/go to baby ryhme-time at the library/watch mums exercise class/sleep till 11am
  
• Wake up
• Get fed
• Play with stuff (e.g., own hands)
  
• little sleep till 2
  
• Wake up
• Get fed
• Go for walk in pram or baby bjorn/visit friends/mothers group/play with stuff (e.g., buzzy bee)/sleep till beer'o'clock
  
• Wake up
• Get fed (not beer, yet)
• Play with dad when he gets home from work (NB: after dad kisses mum)
• Watch mum&dad eat tea/play with stuff (e.g., horseys)/little nap
  
• Wake up
• Get fed
• Get wrapped up, jigged and put in cot 9:30-10pm
• wake up at 7am (yes... sleeps through many nights)
  
• kiss from Dad in the dark before he leaves for work
• wake up mum at 7:30am

Ok, theres many perturbations in there - a few tears, screams, random ploppys and leaking nappies - but on the plus side, if there is a required nighttime feed (usually 4am) he sleeps in till nearly 9am. Which he did on the weekend just gone, and hence mum&dad got a long lie in too. (Another "Bwilliant!") And so extravagant and ultimately decadent.

And we're assured this routine will change.

We've also discovered a gradually changing musical taste. His favourite at the moment appears to be dads mouth-music/guitar-only version of Jimi Hendrix "Manic Depression" (probably best he doesn't know the lyrics) while being bounced on dads knee in time to the ever increasing speed of that million dollar riff. (Maybe you have to be there...).

Oh, and he's also taken a liking to the Sesame Street "Mahna-mahna" song being performed via raspberries on his chest. (If you listen to the link, you'll be humming it all day; you have been warned.)

Somewhat scary how ingrained it is in 38y.o parents...

Talking, routines, and a near-miss ejectile poo at dad (we've pulled that description for the faint hearted). Week 12.

Winston

Every baby looks like Winston Churchill.

At least for the first few weeks, and then they gradually take on their own defining characteristics which make them less Churchillian and more, well, themselves. In the boys case, he's definitely starting to grow hair.

And equally unlike Churchill, he's starting to sleep.

Now without meaning to put the moccas on ourselves, he's been racking up the hours of nighttime slumber, including his second, third and fourth all-nighters. If you count a 6am wakeup an all nighter (and we will).

But on the weekend the lad outdid himself - if not his mums mammarian storage abilities - by sleeping for 11 hours straight. Yes.... e.l.e.v.e.n.

This, as alluded too, was too much of a stretch (scuse pun) for mums norgs, which became rock like and even "huger". If thats possible.

"Cop a feel of this!?!" said Mistress P.

Now in a past life this may well have been considered something of a come-on/golden opportunity for some "Sunday schooling", but in the post-preggas world everything is an exercise in the new and the bold. Cos they were indeed rock like: less like silicon, more like silica.

Nothing a quick mini-express didn't soften mind you.

Of course all this good sleeping had to, inevitably, come to an end. And as good ole Murphy (of "law" fame) would have it, the wide-awake late-into-the-evening grizzles and feeds demanded every 4 hours started again the very night prior to Mistress P's first day back at work.

While all were very glad to see her and thankful she was back for at least one day a week, it appeared the news hadn't traveled so fast to the personnel department. Seems the forms (in triplicate and signed by a deity) had dutifully wound its way into red tape purgatory, and hence they thought she'd been at work all week. Whooops... (lucky she actually had been doing lotsa work at home all along...)

And all the while, Dad was taking a day off and minding the tacker... their first full day together home alone.
"No wukkas", dad thought.
...right up until it came time to give the boy a feed. As warned could happen by others, Master M had forgotten (over the past 3 weeks) that bottle = boob, promptly downed tools and refused to drink a drop. Not to mention voiced his displeasure with the situation in no uncertain terms.

An hour-plus of jigging, walking and feeding (at the same time - at last a use for the windsurfin' muscles), along with lotsa yelling (mostly by the lad), soon had some 110ml transferred bottle-to-boy. Which he subsequently burped up a fair proportion of - but at least the connection had been restored. For now.

Sleep, work, rock boobs, new hair and that bit less Winston-like.
Week 11.

The only difference between men and boys....

...is the size of their toys.

Week 10 and the boy has continued in the amazing progression from screaming sack with arms and leg into a individual human being with personality. Granted still with a fair degree of screaming ability. And arms and legs.

His latest discovery is play. For the first time he's actually realising that theres more to life than sleep and boobs. For some men this realisation takes closer to 30+ years, but the advanced nature of this lad means all it has taken is a dangling horsey mobile and a Lamaze buzzy bee. He's fascinated, if not fixated.

Almost as much as when Mistress P wears her flouro lime green PJ's with sparklyblue stars. The boy's been known to slip into such a trance-like state staring at said stars during a beast feed that he looses the ability to drink... Sadly this may indicate a future career as an astrophysicist (bugger... cos we want him to be a carpenter)... or may just be a sign of his masculinity (i.e., low level of multitasking ability.)

He's also continued with the lifestyle of the rich and famous, via membership of the mothers club, swanning about cafes all over Bayside. Dad reckons its less of a parents group and more of a pram pushing locust plague, descending upon unsuspecting cafe's and devouring all in their path with ravenous glee and a shrill twitter of delight(/rubbing their back legs together). He reckons he can almost hear the screams of innocent baristas being devoured from as far away as Docklands.

Despite the carnage, theres still been time for Master M's first journey out to the mountain bike course at Lysterfield (home of the Commonwealth Games MTB'ing), not so much for a ride but more a push along the gravel tracks around the lake. Appreciation was shown by falling asleep for the entire time. Which is something he is getting a lot better at, and has even slept through the entire night for the second time now. Which is a lot better than mum could do - she was up and out of bed at 5am despite the boys sleep in, and scaring the bejeezus out of dad when he crept up in the dark to head off to work.

"The boys asleep - what you doing out of bed?" startled AB.

"I wet it".

After an offer to buy a bag of bigger nappies, it turned out that no, it was not of the wee-wee variety, but rather a steady soaking mammalian trickle from the undrained bazoongas. Curse you mother nature... have you no mercy for the sleepless?!?

Still, life has settled into a partial routine, and new things are being learnt at such a rapid rate that emails to dad at work are required to keep him in the loop. Cos working dads miss out.

--------------------
From: Mistress P
Date: 25-Jun-2007 12:17
Subject: FW: Infant CPR info session [SEC=UNCLASSIFIED]

Mike had a great play session today - I lowered the horsies so he could reach them and he listened to the whole ABC nursery rhyme CD while batting them on his back. Apparently babies can roll from this age, so I thought it was good for him to lie flat on the mat for a bit. (He also did some good tummy and nappy free time on the change table while he had his flannel wash earlier) We then played peek-a-boo while I was in the shower and he was in his rocker... he didn't quite know what to do with the michael duck {toy rubber ducky} though... then he sat in his rocker in the lounge and batted the buzzzy bee - even pulling the rings up to his mouth - while I tried expressing. He then showed tired signs, even though he manfully kept trying to play with the toy, so, after a few grizzles trying to settle him in his cot I settled on the sling, a brief walk around the deck and he is now fast asleep on my chest as I type on the couch.

How things have changed.

For the better.

Month x 2

Well its happened.

At the ripe ole age of 2 months and one day, Master M has brought the biggest smile to his mothers face in weeks. (And theres been a helluva lot of smiles.)

Reason: he slept right through the night. Yup... put down at 10:45pm, not up till 6:45am, giving mum 8 hours of blissful slumber for the first time in over 8 weeks. Or at least near enough to 8 hours - a quicky dash about for some booby-pads in the wee small hours due to overfull and leaking milk cans put a mini-break in there. But we're counting it as a sleep through.

All this sleeping may well have something to do with the partyboy lifestyle he's been leading of late. Not content with taking mum off to his girlfriend Freya's "welcome to the world"/2 month-old party on Friday night, he insisted on raging again with mum on Saturday, this time at mum's friend Megan's 30th.

Dad, on the other hand, moped about all weekend with the first virus of the winter. (Boooo winter.) On the downside he was put on the quarantine couch away from Master M, though on the plusside this meant a weekend off nappy duty. (He reckons - and many may find this hard to believe - the downside far outweighs the plus: he wants to hold the boy.) The solution for mum... get herself a massage with friends of course, while the amazing great aunty Jill and uncle Ray took Master M for a walk on the one sweet promenade down St Kilda way.

Eight hours sleep and a massage. Nirvana.

The week also saw Master M's first brush with the workplace. After making yet another trip to the airport, Mistress P and Master M made a surprise visit to dads salt mine... just in time for a few chunks of Ms B's cherry ripe slice (Mmmmmmm chheeeerrry riiipe sliceeee...) and chocolate cake, courtesy of a colleagues farewell. (How good is that?) This meant that everyone was standing about and chatting and buzzing on a sugar high, and also meant that mid conversation a workmate leaned forward and announced to AB:
"Shouldnt you recognise that sound by now?"
when the boy was brought through the door.

Its amazing how many people you've never had a chance to chat to in the workplace leap into deep and meaningfuls like long lost friends when you're holding your boy.

A feed and change was soon required, which necessitated our first visit to... the family room. This mythical place actually did exist; and quite flash too. As AB started changing young Mike, Mistress P noted the pickel he'd be in if said son did the old wee-wee or ejectile poo trick onto dads workclobber just prior to an afternoon meeting, so slapped a bib on dad instead. All class.

The other big highlight of the week was the 2 month check up. The vital stats:

• weight 5.40 kg (bit over 50th percentile)
• length 59 cm (75th percentile)
• head circumference 40cm
• posterior fontanelle closed
• anterior fontanelle open

So all up... doing very well indeed umpire. Long and a bit thin for length (just like dad as a boy) and a hole still in the front of his skull - which is actually completely normal - the front bit doesnt close over till 18months or so, while the back bit closes over in the first 8 weeks.

Party boy chick magnet super model. Who likes a sleep. Thats our boy.

big trip

Its hard to believe that Mike's nearly (in 4 days) two months old. Already.

Groundhog day can do that to you.

But being 8 weeks old means that its time a lad was oot and aboot, exploring the big wide world. And hence, being the staunch monarchist that he is, it was decided to celebrate the Queens Birthday (actually its King George III's birthday, but lets not get overly pedantic)/ski season opening long weekend with...

A trip to the beach.

As is the want of the family, Sandy Point it was once again. Grand ideas of a windsurf were scuttled when the only wind for the weekend came from Master Mikes poopchute, and hence the three days mostly constisted of lots of walking along the beach, around the town, to the playground, and along the road to Shallow Inlet and back. The latter walk is some 7km round trip, but the advantages of breast feeding meant that a pit stop and refuel could be had on a picnic table by the inlets edge, in amongst the tea tree and flittering superb fairy wrens. Bootiful.

One of the great Sandy Point pluses is the ocean beach at low tide. Its long and wide and firm, making it perfect for beach cricket, crazy landsailing and the apparently new Sandy sport of competative pram pushing. For evidence of the current baby boom you need look no further than Sandy beach - prams were everywhere, and if you didnt have a bug-a-boo megadollar thingy you were apparently not in the race. (We have a 4 wheeler "sports buggy" - proudly made in New Zealand of their finest, and apparently heaviest, steel, and hence needs an All Black front row to actually push it through deep sand. That said, put it on the Waratah Bay beach below the high tide mark, with associated cement like sand, and shes flying...)

The other joy of a weekend away is sharing it with friends. In this case ones with an 11-month old and ones who are still "practising". (Regularly.) This being our first trip away with Master Mike and others, it was a steep learning curve. For instance, we never realised how much he cried until every time he did so, we'd leap up and panic that he was annoying and/or awakening everyone in the house. (At home we're often happy to let him bellow for a while if we know nothing is wrong.) Of course everyone else was probably noticing about a tenth of what we did, but try telling yourself that when the walls are echoing at 3am...

That said, the cool sea air also gave him his longest uninterrupted nights sleep to date. From 9pm to 4:30am. Thats 7.5 hours straight... Crikey! Plus he travelled a treat. The bit-over-2 hour drive down was done fully asleep, and the return voyage was only interrupted by a little bit of grizzling near the world famous (if you're an asparagus worshipper: which we're not - it makes our wee smell) Koo Wee Rup, which was easily solved by some rousing renditions from the "Australia's Best Beer Ballads" CD...

But its no longer all grizzles and sleep for the lad. He has also, just in the past week, made two steps forward that to us are a joy, but to others might seem ho-hum.

Firstly, he's started to smile - and not just when he's pushing out a big Mr Hankey, but when he is genuinely happy with the world. Its heart melting stuff when he looks at you and grins (without then pooping himself) - worth the price of admission alone.

And secondly, he's discovered other babies. There was that one at Sandy, who looked bigger and dribblier, and who stared back occasionally and sometimes tried to hold hands/slap us about. And then theres the one in the mirror. He's wierd and a bit hard to fathom, cos he's being held by mum/dad at the same time, and is always looking us sraight in the eye. Thatta one is most confusing.

So that was it for the first big trip away. A little nerve wracking for mum and dad at times (but still great fun), a whole lotta new experiences for the boy (sand dunes, bush tracks, red capped dotterals, BBQ's, beez neez beer (or at least the smell of it), baby toys, sleeping in mum and dads bedroom again, beach driving (dam yabby-pump holes!), heavy rain, burnt toast, log fires, and cold bathrooms) and another step along the road to normality. (Whatever that is now!)

It was then back home to the joys of the first big vaccination experience. Family headed down to the health care place to be greeted by a dozen-plus other screaming tots, some waiting for the pin cushioning and some in their mandatory 15 minutes recovery session, and a cupla mums (and their support team hubbies) from the Wednesday mothers group. It was actually quite a social. Until...

Two shots in one leg (Hepatitus B and Diphtheria/TetanusPertussis/Polio), and one shot in the other (Pneumococcal).

Mum couldn't watch, Dad held his arms, Doctor went the needle and Mike yelled like a banshee - for about 5 seconds per jab and then just sat back, went
"So thats all ya got ya pussies??"
and fell asleep.

They breed 'em tough in the Baghdad-end of Hampton.

Fully sick

We have a little boy with a little cold - still.

And as babies this young cant breathe through both their mouth and their nose at the same time, it really pisses 'im orf, and leads to the occasional bought of bellowing. Hence AB now sings him a new lullaby, "Screamer" - to the tune of "Dreamer" by Supertramp, with accompanying hand actions:

Screeeeeeamer/Yer Nuthin but a Screeeeeamer/Can you put your hands on your head?/Oh no!

(Dad doesnt know any more of the lyrics so monotonously repeats above... but it is true he cant put his hands on his head.)

Even with the cold and Mr Grizzly status, we have to admit Master M does spend more and more time now just sitting and gazing at the world quite happily - as opposed to the first cupla weeks when he would sit and gaze quite happily... for about 5 seconds, then realising what a terrifying place this brave new world was, would burst into screams and demand to be put back in the belly.

But there is now also the new persona to add to the list. Mr Snuffleupagus. As Master Mike sleeps away you can hear the snotty breathing from across the room. If not the street. Poor little tike.

Add to that he's drinking like a fish, which is good for the cold but bad for the laundry. Cos he is also becoming somewhat adept at having a great big white milk chunk chuck afterwards.

"Oh no... he's Fully Sick" cries mum.

Which dad now knows (and if this isn't a sign of the times we don't know what is) that this is not a reference to burnouts in a Valiant or being fat and cheesy, but is a call to grab a new jumpsuit and wipe-up nappy, and to get swabbing on the curd.

The other clear sign of the times was dads cycling fashion faux pa. In the cool gloom of morning... (grrr.... winter... if it wasnt for snow we'd hate it (even more) ), with lights turned down so as not to wake anyone in the house, AB scrounges his cycling gear and tip toes out for the ride to work.

Arrives in the change room @ work.

"Mate, you get dressed in the dark?"

"Err.... i did actually..." replies AB, as he follows his fellow cyclists gaze down to two totally different socked feet.

Still letting sleeping babies lie is the call of the day when they're not feeling all that well. And sleep he does now, not in a sissy little girly basinette in mum and dads room, but Master Mike has made the leap into big-boy land. Or at least a cot in his own room. Which is kinda cute as he snuggles down with his feet touching the end (its a SIDS thing), leaving 3/5 of the cot empty. He has even learnt to settle himself to sleep if placed in bed alert and awake.

Being past 6 weeks now, Mistress P and Master Mike had the mythical 6 week check up. And the diagnosis... Mum is doing great, with a quicker-than-average flattening belly and not unusually still-sore coxic. About all she is suffering from now is a small lack-of-family, and hence the ability to get some time to scratch herself. Hence she's enlisted the girl from across the street to baby-sit for the odd hour or two, and AB is trying to kick her out of the house on weekends and his day-a-week off. The result so far - Mistress P went and helped friends move house, then scarpered off to a BBQ where she had... 2 sips of (their) beer! That and her first swim for 2 months... Sanity returned.

As for Master M, he's officially and physiologically "advanced" for his age. This seems to largely take the form of a number of the reflex actions - such as grasping at anything put in his hand or throwing his hands up when dropped from sitting onto his back- tapering off already, or rather, happening when he wants them to and not the other way round. (Usually these reflexes last 2-6 months.) His lungs are good, heart good, weight gain good, eyes good and good strong muscles. All up he's, well... excellent!

Apart from being Mr Snuffleupagus. Thats a bugger.

Wolfman

Week 6 and we're discovering the joys of a boy with a little head cold (hence the appearance of a new persona - Mr Grizzly) and the emergence of twin witching hours - the ever traditional 5pm to 8pm, and now a bonus for mum after dad leaves for work - a 7:30am till 9:30am. Bugger.

But theres also been the discovery by mum and dad that all the lullabys and sweet blues tunes they've been singing to Master M are worth diddly. And we don't mean Bo. Mike's announced to the world that he's no music girly-man - he likes a bollocking good dose of Wolfmother. The louder the better. (Maybe it's just admiration of their screaming levels...)

Clearly this is one of the signs that he actually is swimming in the AB gene pool (AB still carries a Deep Purple ticket in his wallet from about 1996 - you cant actually read it anymore, but he reckons he knows what it is...), contrary to a number of friendly observations of his obvious resemblance to Mistress P's fine featured face, hands and assorted body parts.

As further evidence he's not the postman's son (Mistress P notes our postman is actually a postwoman... "don't ruin a good story with the facts" says AB), uncle Jim has noted a remarkable similarity between Master M's twisty little toe and his own slightly spiraled metatarsal. How cool is that bit of sideways genetics..?

Mike has also suddenly taken a great liking to tummy-time. Whereas he used to just flop rag-doll forward and grizzle into the mat, he's now lifting his head like it was something he was born to do. We're not sure if the new found enjoyment of tummy-time isn't also partly related to his discovery of the gastronomic delight that is licking the aforementioned mat, but we rather wish it wasn't. "Change mat" and "good old tongue clean" are a couple of aspects of parenting we had hoped to keep somewhat separate.

Still, he's getting a stiff strong neck out of it all, and hence not only will he be able to prevent himself from asphyxiating if he rolls over one day (he has already done so once on the couch...), he will soon be able to pilot an F1 car round a 3 lateral G corner.

Speaking of future earning potential,... errr good nature friendly sporting activities, Mike has had his first ever day of beach bumming, down at Rye on a howling 30 knot northerly hanging with all those good-fer-nuthin windsurf louts. He got to stand on a little 49cm wide speed board, have sand blast into what hair he has left, go for a long wander/roll along the foreshore with Mistress P and unplain-Jane, and even have a sleep (with mum) in the back of the car.

Highlight was clearly going down to the waters edge and watching mum have her first windsurf (see pic below) since January and Coronation Beach, Western Australia. Sure, she just played on imaginary waves, but she was clearly slashin' (dude) and impressed.

Lowlight was probably having a man (lets call him,... errr.... dad) wearing a nappy of his own ("Hey, its a seat harness!") wiping your bum in the back of the car in full view of tourist-heavy Beach Rd, Rye.

Still, it all proves life doesn't have to change completely. And that imprinting can never happen too early. (Windsurfing and beach good; Brown-eying traffic - while fun - not so good.)

Anyway, thats about it for a week that involved a little less sleep (but a bit more fun) than usual.



Footnote: The sleep bit, or lack of it, was arguably best demonstrated by Mistress P staggering and stumbling off to to bed at 9pm, totally buggered, and in the process Fraudianly combining the phrases/words "I'm wrecked" and "I'm cactus" into:

"I'm erectus...".

Oh dear.

Postscript: After a weekend of worst-sleeps so far, he outdid himself, in the opposite sense, with a one-pitstop-only Monday night. Bwilliant! Maybe people are right about that 6 week hurdle...

Groundhog Day

Time flies when you're having fun. Or at least when every day seems a lot like the last.

Master M is now a tad over one month old, and during the past 2 weeks has stretched 3.2 cm to a whopping great 57.5 cm long, and added an arm-bending 500g to now be 4.73 kg - both still in the 50-75th percentile range. So doing quite nicely thank you very much.

He's also lost a lot of his acne (so he's once again the cutest baby on the block) but this is countered somewhat by the fact he's also lost most of his hair. We didn't realise till we looked back at some of his photos from when he was a wee (weee) whipper snapper - chalk that up as another reason to keep a blog. (How young can that male pattern baldness thingy come into play?)

He's also now officially; Michael Henry Watkins. Yup.. forms signed, sealed, delivered and ticked off by the family assistance women in the medicare office (where they oohh and ahhed just like everyone else as Master M slept blissfully away in dad's arms). He's now irreversibly locked into...
**The System**.


The downside of this is that, of course, he can be tracked for ever after and will never have any real privacy in this wonderful e-world of ours, and will surely be barcoded and microchipped before he's 20.

The upside is... the gummint give Mum and Dad the one-off plasma TV allowance! (i.e., A payment of over $4000 just for popping out a sprog - surely the biggest boost to JB Hi Fi's bottom line ever...) And then there is also the immunisation allowance (bummer, only a set of golf clubs/$300) and the child care tax offset (of another $4000, which is still a cupla grand in the bank/a new wave board for AB, next tax time).

All up, this boys a nice little earner.

Now of course much of the above is just one great big barrel of John Howard pork, but hey, thats whats great about democracy. They offer you (your own, lets face it) money. You say "thank you very much". Then you vote the bastards out anyway. (Surely if we sold democracy this way to, say, Iraq, the war would have been over years ago...)

The lad, of course, has no idea about any of this. All he wants is a(nother) drink. And hence to give Mistress P a little distraction from the Groundhog Day that is early motherhood, we've done some expressing and Master M has now suckled his first silicon nipple. No Pamela Anderson jokes please (though Mistress P is comparably pneumatic); we're talking bottle feeding here.

For dad this was quite an experience as Master M sucked down almost perfectly his weight-in-kg*165 /number-of-feeds-per-day amount. (i.e., about 100 ml). There certainly is an intimacy involved in the whole feeding process that you don't get any other way. Though admittedly, this feeling may change at 3am when he also smells of poo.

For mum though, its just a relief to have some of the shackles removed. Granted the bottle feed has only occurred once thus far, but the mere fact that it can be done is morale boosting enough, and dads been booked in for future duties.

Apart from feeding (and washing and changing and...) Mistress P has also spent her daytimes, now that AB is back at the salt mine, visiting and being visited by numerous people, mostly fellow mums. And one of the new highlights of the week is the parents club, which has now truly become mothers club as almost all the hangers-on (i.e., the hubbies) have been banished back to work.

And true to prophesied form, it has quickly become a hotbed of discussion about a) hubbies, and b) sex. Sometimes both at the same time. On the latter topic it appears that only some have had it and most haven't, but that half want it desperately and half (heres the hubby bit) are beating their betrothed off with the biggest stick they can lay hand to.

Then (for one member of the latter half community) the biggest conundrum of all raised its ugly head:
"His birthday is coming up - what do i do?!"
(...we checked the fine print - conjugal birthdays aren't actually in the marriage contract. No, seriously...)

So thats been the last week and a bit.

Bigger, longer, richer and with fewer zits. (Just don't mention the hair.)
Mikes the Man.

Working class man

Four weeks old.

And we're a big boy now.

Yup... no more "newborn" huggies for Master Mike. He's graduated to the "infants" and hence we're left with a nappy mountain of mini poo-bags (AB says its our very own carbon sequestation program.) We already have some friends at the 9-weeks-preggas stage, so we suspect they wont go to waste...

And while Mike has made the first step towards tax-payer-status, dad is once again a working class man. After a few weeks joining Mistress P at home on baby standby and then getting to know little Mike and his various expulsions, the time has come (the walrus said) for AB to once again be staple gunned to the desk in Collins St and do something good for the world. Or at least write a climate forecast that gets misinterpreted by the Hun...

In the first couple of weeks this is taking the form of "every-other-day" at work. And already AB is finding that its a bit of a killer. Ever sat down to review a document, read half a page, and realised you hadn't the foggiest idea of what you've just read - or even if you had read it?!? Well thats what reduced REM sleep will do for you...

Sleep deprivation can also do funny things in other ways. Like give you a bad haircut.

Scene 1: The clan venture off to Fountain Lakes to sign their collective lives away to Medicare, and for AB to have the 6 weekly fight with a lawnmower. The wonders of mobile phone technology meant that AB and P(+M) could head off in different directions and regroup at a later time. Unfortunately Master M decided otherwise, and started bellowing like a blacksmith in mums ear.

Scene 2: Mum decides to abandon ship, and wanders back to the $15 cheap cuts (AB: "real men dont pay more than a lobster for a haircut...") and informs dad shes making a beeline for the car. Hair-cut-lady hears crying baby, sees frazzled mum, states her membership in the motherhood, gives about 3 more clips on dads head and packs him on his way.

Scene 3: At home, AB stands in front of mirror and realises that on one side his sideburn has a bizarre 60 degree slope, more akin to a skijump than a haircut, and on the other side he appears to have a mutton chop that Graeme Garden (The Goodies) would be proud of. Not to mentiona slight cocky crest atop his head... (nothing a bitta spit wouldnt fix).

All this is enough to (almost) bring a tear to the eye... something young Mike now appears to be able to do. Make tears that is. We've only seen one or two, but its something new.

New also was a wander through Sherbrooke (AB always has to stop himself saying Sherwood, and thinking of a band of merry men) forest in the Blue Dandenongs, and hence Mikes first introduction to the Aussie bush. Not that he paid much attention, strapped to dad in the baby-bjorn carrier, but we'll take his silence as a vote of delight.

Still it was just the start of a big weekend for young Mike.

Mistress P may well feel its Groundhog Day, with Mike currently feeding every 3-4 hours, but on Sunday it was also her first Mothers Day, which encompassed a trip to grandmas place on the Mornington Peninsula and subsequent stroll past the house where 37 years ago Mike's dad (i.e., AB) was of similar size, but screaming a helluva lot more it would seem. (Unlike Mike's fists of fury, AB had feet of fire, which apparently thrashed about so badly that they actually wore their way through a bunny rug...)

Mistress P was not only rewarded on Mums-day with a slap up BBQ (i.e., the Blokes cooked) feed amongst the trees and birds in the warmth of the sun - at 23.9degC, it was Melbourne's warmest day this close to winter since 21 May 1975 - and a chocolate teddy bear biscuit or three, but Master M came to the party (after a fairly, lets say, raucous, weekend of witching hours, though slightly tempered by his first use of a dummy) by sleeping for 6 hours straight. In his bassinet. At night: 9pm to 3am.

Really, could a mum ask for more?



Footnote: BigTum pics are now available in the BigTum photo gallery at:
http://picasaweb.google.com/windjunky/BigTum

Old School ; New School

Its now been three weeks, and the "firsts" just keep getting ticked off. First trip to a sailboard shop (SHQ) being a highlight (just edging out his first stiffy...). First mozzie bite being the lowlight. In between theres been first trip in a supermarket kiddie-trolley thing, first projectile poo (mum had to strip naked and have a full body wash) and first shower (with dad).

Little Mike also had his first maternal health care check up. He's put on nearly 400 grams (in 10 days), and grown another 2.3 cm , making him 54.3cm long. Apparently, this growth rate is all good and infact somewhat above median, so he may well have climbed the height/weight percentile ladder a little more.

And mum and dad are learning a helluva lot too.

For instance, did you know dads are superfluous to the baby raising experience??
No, neither did we, until we visted our first parents(i.e., mothers) group...

The group consisted of a whopping great 16 mums (and 17 bubs: 1 set of twins) with the little'uns ranging in age from the youngest - just under 2 weeks - to the oldest - 9 weeks. Fortunately for AB, there was also 3 other dads at this first group meeting, including the dad of the twins.

The woman taking the class admittedly she hadnt done this very much, but she was a nurse of many years and a midwife for only slightly less. Still, when she announced that fathers pretty much just got in the way during this baby rearing thingy, and hence had to sit back and let mum rule and basically keep in the background cos mother knows best, all the blokes, and a fair proportion of the chicks, were, well, a bit stunned.

What is this? The fifties???

Mistress P was actually more upset about this comment than AB was - but thats prolly because AB has heard it all now, and realises that this is the old school baby nursing philosophy colliding with the new school one.

Old School - blokes dont change nappies and if (and I paraphrase from one parenting book) "mum feels like relaxing during the hectic day of looking after baby, a good thing to do is to cook a nice dinner for your husband, as he has probably been complaining that he hasnt been fed that well during the early weeks of parenthood". Oh sweet fanny adams. Did Bill Heffernan write this stuff???

New School - it took two to tango, so now you both gotta pay the band. A poo'ey nappy doesnt discriminate who changes it, so neither should you. (As Donald Duck Dunne said in the Blue Brothers; if the shit fits, wear it. Or something like that.)

Anyway, thats the rant.

The best thing about the "parents" club meeting was 1) realising how buggered everyone else was, and that, in fact, we were doing quite well thank you very much, and 2) that there were a number of other parents living remarkably close by. The closest - Megan - is in fact less than a sand wedge away, diagonally opposite our place and next door to "mad taxi driver family". (As soon as we said "do you live next door to 'mad taxi driver family'?" there was an immediate "YES!" of mutual recognition (of the madness we suspsct), plus a laugh.)

Quite apart from the growing realisation that life will never be the same again, is the growing fear that it has changed the way we'll look at boobies for ever more. At "parents" club they were just being thrown out and about like nobodies business, and indeed at home the sight of a naked breast has become a daily (as opposed to birthdays and wedding anniversary) occurance.

The newfound pneumaticy and the need for the occasional 'air dry' has AB worried that Mistress P will wander off down the shops one day with "the headlights on"...

Not that its any worry for Mr Mike. He's still reveling in the joys of breastfeeding. He can go about 3-4 hours without a drink, but any longer (or sometimes even shorter) and the little head starts bobbing back and forward and the cries go up. Put him infront of a booby and its like docking the space shuttle - complete with inpenetrable airlock.

How life has changed...