Cold Balls

Well the musics over.
Or at least the mid-year holiday/conference season.

And hence we're all back in the Baghdad-end of Hampton and muzzying our way though the final days of winter and, ipsofacto,... the last of the Melbourne 2008 black death.

i.e., Mikes sick again.
Dads sick again.
Mums battling on like the trooper she is.

Still, at least Mike has discovered balls.

Hey, it's no fish gazing in the tropics or tobagganing a hill of primo Hotham pow (dude), but when you discover that you can not only throw but also catch, it's a big step! And hence you do it again and again and (in between nose wipes for spewing ectoplasm) again.

And we're talking serious catching here... arms outstretched and grabbing like a Mark Schwarzer penalty save. (Ok, that may be overdoing it a little... but dads impressed.)

Whats even more impressive though is that this is all being done on the total fuel source of approximately one (1) sultana.

Once again, the boys off his food. Sure, it may have a fair bit to do with being sick, but there's clearly periods we've noticed when food is rabidly consumed and periods when it's simply an annoyance to him.
Apparently this isn't all that uncommon with kiddies.

Still, how he manages to race about like a man possessed with the fuel source of a gnat is a mystery to modern science.

Then theres the box.

It may be the cliche of cliches, but you get him all the toys in the world and he'd rather play with/in a box. Right now he thinks he's changed his surname to Schumacher and has taken to sitting in said box and expecting a wild ride across the polished boards (see video). Oh well... if you cant beat 'em, join 'em; we drew on some racing stripes.

Brmmm... Brmmm...

Postscript: He's started to eat again... but it appears dinner time is now brought to us by the letter "P".
For dad's birthday (Chinese takeaway... we're all class here...), he gobbled his way through Prawn crackers, Peas, Pork balls (sweet and sour) and Paringa Estate (from the Mornington Peninsula) Pinot Noir. He left the chicken, cashews and baby corn. (Clearly his diet is not PC. Boom boom.)

...ok, ok... maybe not the Pinot.

Mr Snow It All

The lad must be wondering what sort of crazy mixed up topsy turvy greenhouse mad world he's living in. Cos no sooner does he get used to the heat of the tropics, wearing shorts and getting dunked in the Coral Sea with fish, than he's freezing his goolies off.

Yup. His second trip to Mt Hotham, a.k.a The Snow.

Unlike last year's trip to elevation when the lad was all into lying about and drinking milk and thats about it (as you do at 4 months old), this year it was all about exploring the lodge, playing with the other kiddies, chasing little brunette girls (his favourites), seeing how many nibblies you can steal off the adults snack tables and raiding unsuspecting lodge guests eskies.

(Is it better to throw out the half pack of illicitly gained dried apricots he's strewn over the floor, or just put them back into the unknown persons cooler and hope said apricots haven't stuck to an errant floor pube?)

And then there was the stairs.

See, Mikes been well trained by mum and grandpa to "go down backwards" when it comes to stairs. Which was a good thing, as the lodge has them aplenty. Which he went down. And up. And along the corridor to the other set. Which he went down, then up. Then along the corridor again. To the original stairs. Where he went... oh, you get the picture.

Which at least was a little better than the fact that he has also learned to climb chairs. And hence was suddenly found to be sitting up very nicely thank you very much at another family's dinner table. And being served dessert! (No, we didn't know them, but they seemed happy enough to accept a random banana and strawberry eating child.)

But it wasn't all lodge play and food theft.

Mike was initiated into the snow itself.

First there was a toboggan run. Or rather, drag. All rugged up like the Michelin man (thanks Dave and Jules!) he was popped onto the lodge toboggan and taken for a slide up to The General to get the morning paper and sour cream (lite).

All seemed well.
Till he fell asleep.
And stayed asleep.
And hence as evolution has yet to supply parents of sleeping ones with 3 arms, he was dragged back in the toboggan in a somewhat comatose state, generating "theres a man pulling a rather small corpse in a sled" looks from passing skiers.

"He's asleep..."

But it wasn't all corpse pulling. There were actual live solo runs down the slope at the end of the lodge, which Mike styled like a pro, even putting a hand down to steer and balance.

Rad dude!

He loved it so much that when we got him home he stood in his toboggan (horrifically for all concerned, in a snowboarder -like stance), and wanted more.

Not only were his first toboggan rides in order, but he also got a go on skis.

Or at least bunged in a backpack and taken on downhill's by dad, and cross country's by mum. Ok, it was only for a few hundred metres both times, and on slopes that weren't exactly double black certain death, but, hey, he was attached to terra firma via skis.

Well done.

There was also his first day of a genuine baby-madness child care centre (while mum and dad skied together - they felt so naughty...), which he left in somewhat of a daze and promptly fell asleep for the night ungodly early. We think they put them on drugs.

The following day it was back to the Big D to see Harry the Dragon. No, we don't know what a fire breathing (i.e., snow melting) beast has anything to do with skiing, but hell, it keeps the kiddies amused.

And occasionally wearing blue lizard wings and a tail.

All up a bloody great week. And it must be said that the boy traveled the 6 hours each way bolted in his car seat like a champion.

Well,.. almost.

See, having survived a rather hairy lotsa-snow and chains required descent of a very cold and icy mountain - car-sick-less - the cruise of the highway was surely a vomiting doddle. Till suddenly...

(mum) "Oh Oh... he's puked!"
(dad) "What? No..."

Sure enough he had. Right down his shirt, pants, car seat and into shoes.

But it wasn't so much the puke itself, but rather how he'd puked.

See, he'd been playing with a rattle/maraca all Carmen Miranda-like (sans fruit hat), making lots of noise as you do, but suddenly decided that simply wasn't enough.
So he tried to eat the maraca.
From the handle end.

Oh well, guess you gotta learn about the gag reflex somehow...

Beautiful one day, perfect the next. (Plus fish.)

Well the plague is gone and we're B.I.T (back in town).

That town being... Cairns.

Yup, once again the clan pointed the sloop north and jetted off (apologies to future generations for the 2.7 tonnes of CO2 emitted) to FNQ. Both mum and Dad attended a conference at the very same venue where mum attended one last year and hence we're all, including Mike, feeling a bit like locals. (Go on, ask us... wheres the nearest Coles to city centre...?)

The highlight of the trip was not actually the conference itself, but rather Mike's first boat trip to the outer Great Barrier Reef - Moore Reef to be precise - with "Reef Magic"; basically a very fast catamaran that roared along for 90 minutes then moored at a floating pontoon.

Of course mum and dad panicked the whole time that the newly running man would sprint straight off the end of the boat and be lost forever, but luckily this never quite eventuated. Though not from want of the boy trying.

Attempting to keep him in one place - be it in the cabin of a rather large boat or the confines of a economy class seat shared with mum and dad on a Boeing 767 - is a bittova handful. To say the least.

Still, at sea it meant that the boy entertained numerous Japanese tourists with his laps of the boat's lower deck. Being all batty blue-eyes and blond hair, he appears to present a combination irresistible to your common or garden variety Asian tourist.

(Though the crowd of such which surrounded him on a later voyage to Green Island, then proceeded to make loud proclamations while pointing at the somewhat bemused lad, after which they all laughed uproariously, had us a little worried they were actually taking the piss (scuse-the-French). )

Still, all that running about meant at least one good thing. The boy got to sleep in all the best tropical places. On the deck of the floating reef pontoon. On the pier above the coral and fishies at Green Island. In the depths of the jungle at the Cairns botanic gardens and rainforest walk. Sleeping in paradise - It's some of his best work.

Frankly, the trip to the reef was glorious, and indeed the staff on the boat said it was one of the top 10 days of the year: clear skies, no wind, mild-rather-than-hot temperatures, and visibility of about 30m underwater. Dad saw seemingly millions of fish in all the colours of the rainbow, including one electric blue and orange splotched thingy that looked like a Ken Done painting gone mad(der). Mum went on a guided reef "wall" snorkel in 30 odd metres of water and saw not only giant parrot fish but also a gen-ew-ine swimming, breathing, chomping (well, at some stage in its day we imagine) shark. And Mike got to swim in the kiddies cage in the warm water of the ocean, which he appeared to absolutely love, and also got to watch the fish from the pontoon deck (but more on that later).

And then to cap it all off... on the way home the crew spotted a humpback whale. Which just as its continual water spout blowing got a bit dull, breached just for good measure (though mum was so busy trying to take a photo she forgot to actually look for the whale itself), landing with an almighty skin-reddening backwhacker, the likes of which haven't been seen since dad misjudged a leap from the tower at the Shepparton (a.k.a "Shepp") pool as a 10 y.o.

Anyway; Mike's first whale.

Which got dad to thinking. Mike is now 15.5 months old. He has travelled in planes, trains, cars, gondolas, bikes and boats, and he's seen other countries (if you class New Zealand as "O.S") , the Great Barrier Reef and jumping whales. And what age was dad when he's experienced all this?

38.

Ok, 36 if you take out the jumping whales.
And 30 if you remove the gondola.
And thats in years.
Amazing.

The funniest /saddest part of the whole reef experience thing had to be Mike and the fish.

See, after lunch, Mike discovered that if you looked down through the cracks in the deck of the pontoon where the boat had moored, he could see the fishies!

(We say after lunch, as we suspect the fish have become acutely aware that pontoon floors with gaps in them become, at lunch time, a prime source of food. Like, who needs to spend their life living in amongst the continual stings of a sea anemone just to snap at some chance floating-by piece of parrot fish poo when you can hang around the floor of "Marineworld" and at precisely 12:30 till 2pm each day, get vege lasagne, honey soy & sesame chicken, bbq'd prawns, and a pineapple and cantelope chaser for dessert. Especially if you have little food-spraying boys (i.e., Mike) present who manage to eat half their goddamn body weight in slices of fruit alone. Seriously... dad knows; he fed Mike for a full hour/three platefuls and more to the point, changed the follow-up nappy the next day. A nappy with a stink no man nor beast should ever have to experience. As Kenny would say; a smell that will outlast religion.)

Anyway back to the story; Mike. Fish. Cracks in floor.

Mike's love of the fish meant that he spent the better part of the last half-to-one hour walking about with his head on the floor peering through the cracks in the pontoon deck at the fish massing below. (Probably eying off the little set of pinky toes that were deliciously dangling down said cracks.) The little bendy-over fish watching man was, indeed, a classic.

That said, there was a proper (and free) underwater observatory on the pontoon for which you simply walked down some steps, sat at a window, and instantly had an underwater view of anything caring to swim (or after Mike's lunch; stagger) by.

Herin lies the sad bit, given all the boys crack peering.

As they were boarding the boat to leave, mum turned to dad and said...
"So he must have loved the fish from the observatory!"
To which Dad replied...
"Errrr... I thought you took him down there... "

Whoooops.

(Guess we'll just have to go back.)

Join the dots

The Deathstar (a.k.a Westfield Southland Shopping Centre) didn't get that name for nothing.

There we were happily playing in the kiddie safe area, all happy and smiles and being willed by the dark side of the force to stay another hour and spend all our hard earned, when Mike decided he wouldnt mind a drive of the big red car (slash X-wing fighter).

So he wandered over.

Unfortunately the 3 y.o bogan/muppet driving it saw Mikes approach.
Sat up.
Put on a grimace.
And when Mike got in range... thrust out a hand straight into Mikes chest and sent him flying across the playpen and square onto his bum.

Mike was, well, stunned. (Much like his watching dad, this being his introduction to play pen rage.)

Oh well, just a little shove. Life goes on. No one hurt

Only the stormtrooper bogan decided that if you're on the dark side you may as well prove it.
So as soon as Mike rose to his feet the prince of darkness lept from his cockpit and gave Mike a fair old whack in the head Barry Hall would be proud of.

Little shite. (The kid; not neccessarily Barry Hall.)

Guess you don't gain universe domination by being the nice guy.

Little shite.

Of course this wasn't Mikes only pain for the week. In fact it was just the start of a bad run for the lad.
First he had to put up with dads cooking.

See, there was the poor sap rushing to cook tea before the worker in the family (mum) comes home and hence was taking a few shortcuts when all of a sudden...

"OOOOOppppps!"

Instead of a sprinkle, in had gone half the goddamn chilipowder jar into the spag-bog sauce.

"No worries" mused dad... "I'll just scoop it out."
Which he did, gave it a little more simmer time then and served it up.
Boy first.

"Wonder why he's gone off it and whinging..." wondered dad a few minutes later. "Thats some of my best work."

Taste test.

"Yowsers!!! WATER!!!"

Bugger. (Poor (hot) boy.)
But, unfortunately for the lad, mere culinary scalding/poisoning was nothing.

Apparently at the local day care centre (not Mike's) there had been a notice on the door announcing that "hand/foot/mouth" had gone through the place like a dose of salts and everyone should be on the watch out. Now hand/foot/mouth is a nasty piece of work, leaving spots and blisters all over a kiddies hands, feet, and not surprisingly, mouth.

But it prolly should also have the word "bum" in there. Cos thats where we first noticed it. A spotty arse.

Mum and dad didnt really think anything of it and happily let him play with the other kiddies at the dinner party, but dad felt a bit of a nong cos he'd just told all and sundry how using a new clothes washing powder had cleaned up the boys eczema, but a shirt change had revealed the worst case of eczema+spots known to man or beast.

The next day the grizzles started, the tiredness set in, and misery was commenced. Not to mention a total hatred of food as the blisters started in his mouth. Poor tike. And it was pretty much this way all week.

The coop-de-grass came around 5:30am one morning, when the lad had woken hungry and tired and sick of his spots.

Mum duly rose in the hope he'd relax and sleep a little more before the day of clinging and grizzles started in earnest, but he wouldn't settle even with a belly full of formula (he was popped back onto baby formula to try and get a little energy into him in some non-solid form).

"Bring the boy in here and see if he'll rest in our bed" called out dad.

He didn't... his love of the red LED lights on the alarm clock got too much for him even when on deaths door, so he started to crawl over a dozing dad to get at them.

Or at least that was the plan. Just when his head lined up slap bang with the middle of his beloved fathers somewhat hairy chest, he paused. He raised himself a little higher. He spotted his target below. And...

HHHUUUUEEEEE!!!

Yes. Vomit. All... over... dad.

Who just lay there for a second in the dark... till he could feel it oozing down his shoulder blades.

"Medic!"

(Where's the video camera when you need it?)

Shoes on the other foot now

The boy becomes a man.

Or at least gets around in a bathrobe in the morning, that we like to call his "Heff". (As in Hugh Hefner - who else.)

"Where's Heff Michael?" "Put on you your Heff..."
You get the picture. And its kinda cute, in a wobbly (young) person in a dressing gown kinda way.

He's also had his first ever haircut (mum saved some locks) and now has a slight Gallagher brothers from Oasis look to him. Apparently he breezed through it like an old hand.

And clearly we're feeding him too much. Cos he's grown - heaps. Which we don't discover by accurate measurements from the back of the bathroom door, but rather, by which drawer he can now reach/demolish the contents of.

He's been able to get into the spices one for a while (as mentioned last post) but now he can reach to the back and has the ability to work out how to open things; lets just say we never realised how many bay leaves are in a full packet till we had to pick up seemingly hundreds of then from all round the kitchen. (Mike helped pickup, granted...).

The other worry is his a) love of keys, and b) newfound ability to reach into the key drawer.
We suspect we have battles coming, if not a decided lack of mobility when we find all the car keys are missing. (Maybe he's just trying to reduce greenhouse gases.) Watch this space - we may be in need of lifts.

He's also decided that you can search and destroy so much more if you climb up on stuff.
Now this is a worry.
Whereas his playtable used to be for, well, play, it (and other various step like devices) appear to now be used as a ladder to all things illicit. Mikes stairway to heaven, if you like (only we hope its not literally to heaven of course...).

But his best climbing effort thus far was actually done sans table.

See, he loves a good soak as much as the next bloke, so for some time whenever he saw a full tub or mum/dad in the shower, he'd grab the edge of the bath and lift his little leg as though he was trying to climb in.

Only now... well, his leg had grown long enough that it got high enough, and his arm pushing was strong enough (err... and maybe his head now weighs enough), that he went up, over and toppled in.
Fully clothed.
Into mums shower.
And landed at her feet.

Shocked the bejeesus outta himself. (Not to mention mum.)

Damn growth spurt.

Damn climbing.

He's also perfecting the art of this walking caper, and hence can now go backwards, forwards and even pirouette (which he did several times, with a few added "stand up/sit downs", when mum put on Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, First Movement; as you do). And all this can now be done with hard soled shoes.

Which is pretty impressive, especially given that it was only on the 20th time dad put Mike's boots on that mum looked over his shoulder and said:
"You need to lift up the tongue to get his feet in.."
"What tongue? Ohhhhhh... that...."
(i.e., seems Mike's poor feet have been forced to share his boots with a crunched up tongue that dad didnt know existed - surely a modern take on foot binding...)
"Wondered why they were so bloody hard to get on him..." mumbled dad.

Which wasn't the only podiatric related mishap from the Y-chromosome donor, who also discovered he'd put the left shoe on the right foot, and vice versa. (Don't tell the council nurse/mum.)

The culmination of the walking came at Cape Shanck, when Mike decided he'd had enough of the afternoon tea by the side of the walking trail/his parents, and headed off. For about 20 metres before stopping, turning, and waving goodbye. Then another metre forward. Stop, turn, wave goodbye. Then another metre, stop, turn... you get the picture.

Eventually enough goodbyes had been said and he was off. For a good few hundred metres (with parents hiding just behind to see where he'd get to/stop him walking off the nearby cliffs). He'd 'ave surely crossed the Peninsula if not for the approaching dark.

Maybe he's more Mawson than Hefner?
(Jeez, we hope so.)

Copy cat from Baghdad-end-of-Hampton

He walks.

He talks (well, kinda; the doctor and mothers group ladies are impressed with his "MUUMM!s" anyway).

He copies.

First it was the computer, typing away like mum and dad. But he's been doing that for ages and possibly cos he keeps thinking he'll find the "never smile at a crocodile" song again on Utube.

Then it was the shoes (and hats); trying to put them on after he'd yanked them off, just as mum and dad do.

And this was soon followed by finding the power cable for the laptop and, quite deliberately, wandering up to the 'puter on dads lap and trying to plug the cable into the back of it. (Ok, a power plug doesnt quite fit in a USB slot, but its full marks for trying.)

Thanks Mike. You're a scholar and a gentleman.

And finally it's the cooking.
Having watched mum and dad clink and clank away with pots and pans making him his mush ever since he switched to solids, he's decided that if he too clinks and clanks he'll obviously be able to make whatever he likes.

So out comes the pots and pans from his favourite pots and pans drawer.
Out comes his wooden spoon and metal ladle from the spoons and ladles drawer (easy to find: always the first draw down in any house in the free world).
And if he's feeling adventurous, a few spices and herbs from the spices and herbs drawer. (Mum swears he's this close to being able to open jars; we've stashed the chili powder...)

Then it's down to it. Clinking and clanking and mixing and separating. Its kinda like watching the Muppets Swedish chef.

(Ultimately, we're hoping he's more Jamie Oliver than Gordon Ramsey.)

The other remarkable and slowly dawning thing of the past fortnight is his comprehension.

As the lad grabbed the remote control and bolted for parts unknown, Dad was heard to cry...
"Michael, bring that back to Dad."
And... he did.
Crikey.
As the lad whipped the jars out of the spices and herbs drawer and onto the floor yet again someone pleaded...
"Ohhh Michael, put it back pleeeease."
And... he did.
Wow.
And at breakfast time on a school day Mum asked the lad:
"Where's Dad?"
And he looked straight past the donor of his XY chromosome, trotted to the back door and gazed out at the bike shed.

Oh well, near enough.

Mike's also been off his food and generally a bit of a sickly of late. Not to mention having molars breaking through and milk teeth threatening. Hence;
"Another wafer thin mint Mr Creosote?"
"NNoooooo..." said Mike.
(Tru dinks.)

Get yer motor runnin', get out on the highway

Dont tell the council nurse (part VI)...

There we were all recovered and alive and kicking and raring to go again and mum goes and checks behind his ears.

Ohmilordy...

Red, gunky, slimey and a general wasteland of parental neglect.
Off to the doc.
Tests...

"You've got both kinds; steph and staph."

Which basically equated to the following formula:

teething + long fingernails + snotty cold =
scratching behind the ears + grotty fingers =
bloody nasty infection.
QED

Strangely such a diagnosis made Master M a happy lad.

See, whereas dad dreaded fighting the boy 3 times a day with antibiotics that tasted like rhino poo mixed with odoureaters, times have changed since pussy was a cat.

Baby medicine now contains aspartame (i.e., the stuff in diet coke) and is musk-stick pink, hence it was more a problem of stopping him getting the whole bottle and slamming it down hard than force feeding him through a tube.

Ok, so the lad (and every diet coke drinker) will probably die of some ungodly disease in 30 years time when they discover fake sugar is the new asbestos, but hey... its makes parenting easier. Its gotta be worth it.

Slightly more worrying than the lads newfound love of all things from the Bayer factory though - he's discovered egg cartons.
Or rather the inside of egg cartons.
And how the inside of an egg carton feels remarkably like a tittie inside his mouth.

Given that he has been weened a cupla months ago, seems the inside of an egg carton is the closest he'll be getting to any norgs - well, till his teenage years anyway. And hence he's sucked the tips off several of the cardboard boobies like theres no tomorrow.

Seriously, you wouldn't do it in front of the Queen.

Its so embarrassing.

Though it does demonstrate a bizarrely innate intelligence.

Especially with cardboard.

Second case in point.
If you've attacked the hole in the tissue box and thrown tissues all over the house and mum/dad have dutifully collected them all up and stuffed them firmly back in the box, then getting the tissues out again (which of course, you must do...) is damn hard.

So he stopped.
And looked.
And measured.
And proceeded to rip open the side of the box. Which gave him newfound access to the tissues, and hence said snot rags were promptly tossed out and onto the floor in their hundreds.
Well done.

Finally - his first organised bike ride.

Along with some 50,000 others, Mike trailered if for 30km of the yet-to-opened Eastlink freeway, towed by mum. Despite the fact the organisers thought 10,00o might turn up on a cold winters Sunday morning and it was gatecrashed by 40,000 others and some said it was a total disaster, Mike+Mum loved it. Not to mention they were part of Australia's biggest ever bike ride.

Now thats impressive.

Triple shot of vaccination juice

We're back.

What with dad flying to parts unknown (or at least 60degN), and mum off at a highfalutin' business manager course, its been a whirlwind of activity in the household which has meant things such as blogs have had to wait their turn.

So, where were we?

Well come 12 months old and the lad is due for not just a big chocky cake with 1 candle and more pressies than you can point a Huggies Toddler 10-15kg nappy at, but also shots.

Big shots.
Like Measles/Mumps/Rubella (MMR) triple shot.
It hurts just thinking about it.

But alas and alack, the lad was sick. So we waited. Then the council vaccination times were during our holiday. So we waited more. Then the boy was snotty. So we held off. And... errr... somewhere in there we mighta forgot for a bit. Then...

We got a dirty letter from the gummint saying "If you don't give your son his MMR shots pronto we'll cut off any welfare payments/your various appendages/send the boys around to rough you up and you really dont want that do you? Oh, and dont dare come the conscientious objector line with us cos that stuff is BS and we'd all be dying of polio/smallpox/black death if the likes of you had their ways you society collapsing science-less scum."

Or words to that effect.
(And right you/they are. Seriously.)

So off the lad was taken to the local doc for his jabs. Which are all normally done by a nurse so the doc seemed all at sea and was, frankly, pooping himself he'd nail the poor lad like some infant jesus.

First jab... "WhatthefuggwasthatWHAAAA!" said the boy.
Second jab... "WHAHAHAHAAAA".
Third jab... "Is that all ya got? {i.e., no whaaaasss}"
He was a little champ.

"They often get a bittova temperature in 8-10 days" said the nurse as Mike strode out.

Skip forward 8 days. Mum at highfalutin business course, dad off battling the vikings, and nana and grandpa left holding the baby(/toddler) during the daylight hours.

Clock hits 4:45am, exactly 8 days post shot.

"WHAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...."

... and he wouldn't be consoled until it was about 6am when he decided to start his day proper. Great for mum... who had been up till 1:30am thinking about work and course stuff. And had more highfalutin to do the next day.

The following night they all struggled to get him off to sleep, but he finally settled around 12:30am thanks specially to grandad. Next day more grizzling (or "keening" as nana liked to call it, though that does seem a little morbidly over the top), till it was off to the docs and a measured temp of 40.8.
As in Degrees C.
Poor tike.

To add insult to injury... teeth.
Huge swollen lumps of gum sticking up where the molars are about to erupt... hence more panadol, sed-a-gel, some homeopathic teething stuff, bottle teat to chew on.

By the weekend all and sundry were exhausted, but Mike was slowly returning to his old terrorising self. Hence a rest day at Nana and Grandpas (with infinite thanks) on Saturday.
And by Sunday everyone was home again in the Baghdad-end-of-Hampton.
Including dad, from parts unknown, who promptly announced;

"Gee... he seems a little grizzly...."

Dad - you shoulda been here yesterday.

Postscript: All is well, apart from a return to snottiness for Master M (and dad), thanks to the bloke sitting / wheezing/ dying next to dad on a 10 hour flight from London to Bangkok. (Thanks dying bloke.) Nana and Grandpa appear to have survived relatively unscathed and will forever be on our xmas card list (when we make one), and rumours of mum chastising very (and more) senior staff from her workplace during her course while suffering her sleep deprived/mothers-worry delirium... appear to be grounded in truth. (Oh well, the oft hinted "Never to be promoted" file cant really exist, can it???)

I think therefore I am... Mike.

The boy is learning so fast we can almost hear the cogs ticking.

Theres the knives and forks and trying to emulate mum and dad at the dinner table, and the look on his face when we stab a fork into some nosh and hand it to him, and then HE is able to feed it to himself. (You'd think we'd given him next weeks tattslotto numbers...)

Theres the using the camera. Or at least picking it up and trying to use it like he's seen others do - errr... then dropping it and breaking it ($60 bucks just for a repair quote - what a rip off!).

Theres the "shapes through the holes" toy that he's worked out is more fun than a mouth full of marbles when you get it in. (Ok, mum and dad have to point out the correct hole, but still...)

And theres the bib. After 8 months of putting a bib on for each meal he's certainly gotten the picture, and indeed for some time has been ripping the bib off to signify he's had enough.

But Tuesday morning, and now with the added benefit of this hands-free walking caper, we found him grabbing a bib, putting it round his own neck, and marching off in search of his brekky chanting

MummmMummmMummmm...

Ok, it may sound lame but its amazing to us.

Just as was his singing.

His aunt and uncle had come over for a little family bonding. In this case, via a song for Mike ("five little ducks") which was accompanied
by flipping the pages of a newly mum-aquired book of the same name (and story for that matter).

Whereas Mike would normally rather eat a book than read it, in this case he loved it. (Reading that is - where reading is looosely defined as flipping pages and stabbing at pictures and only occasionally trying to rip the thing to shreds.)

Suddenly, the singing...
"Five little ducks went out one day, over the hills and far away..."
was be answered with a
"Dah dahdah dah dahhh dahhh da da".
Several times.
Yes, we think he actually was trying to follow the tune. Must be the ancient Welsh blood.

Not to mention his joke.

He looked at mum and aunty.
He babbled at them for a few seconds.
Then burst into laughter.
("And now we can all get some sleep!" - apparently, according to Mike,
it was hilarious!)

The only really problem with all this learning is his newfound fascination with the dunny.

And its brush.

Alright, at least he doesnt try to eat it (the brush that is), but he is desperate to plonk his hands in the toot itself. Which on the occasion when dad had left the door open while trying to siphon the python (as is the male way), and hence suddenly found himself with a wee lad (scuse terrible but unavoidable pun) trying desperately to push between dads legs to get a good look at what was going on... was a little beyond the pale.

Still, the progression from bub to thinking and challanging boy is a true wonder to behold.

He'll be reading Trotsky next.

PS. And in a significant step for a modern bub he's been tried on some peanut butter (we have both kinds - smooth and crunchy) and didnt curl up and die.

Q.E.D

Thirteen months old.

And we think its time to ditch the baby tag. We have now...

A Toddler.

The walking caper has opened up a whole new world of things that have gone unnoticed in the previously quadruped stage. And more to the point, with the hands-free option that comes standard with the walking kit, things can be transported all over the house and/or suburb at a rapid rate. Plastic spades, mums hair clips, remote controls, toys, errant forks, letters, thongs,...

Thankfully he still cant help himself from leaving a breadcrumb trail of detritus when he finds a wallet.

And he's also clearly grown. We know. We've heard the ripping.

There was dad happily tapping on the computer while the lad was blissfully sleeping (or so dad thought) in his cot in the other room.

{Kerrrplunk....}

"Whawasthat?" mused dad.

{RRRRRRiiiiiipppppp.....}

"HMMmmm the lads room.... giant rat probably..."

{RRRRRIIIIPPPPPPP!!!! --"Heheheheheheeeee..."}

Synopsis: Whereas previously the lad had just been tall enough to reach the corners of a rather speccy satellite-pic-of-the-globe poster we'd bunged above his cot, he had suddenly discovered he was tall enough that, standing on tip toes, he could get a good enough grab hold to bring the whole thing off the wall - blue tack and all - and rip it to shreds.

As you do.

Oh well, so much for the subliminal astronaut / meteorologist training.

Not only is the lad running amok on two legs but he's now officially weaned.

Yup... the "if he can chase me down the corridor and lift my top up for a drink its gone on far enough" time has been reached, and hence, as mum says, boyo, you're on your own.

Not that the lad is all that worried by losing the booby juice, as he has mastered the use of the word "Ummy"/"Mummy"/"UMUMUMUM", which is used in both "Hey mum, no hands!" watch me run/push truck/stab myself with scissors context, but also "When/wheres lunch??"

Other words he's learnt appear to be "DADADA/DAAA" for dad (very cute), "AwwwOhhhh!" for some form of stuff up, (e.g., dinner bowl dropped on floor/placed on head), "FFffffff" for dog (cos a dog goes "Wooffff", but the "Wooo" bits a bit hard) and "Ta" which actually means, and is used in the correct sense when accepting something handed to him, "Ta".

On top of the walking and talking, he's a) gone up a nappy size, b) become a strong little bugger.
And he knows how to use it.

Hence we offer the following logic as to why he has progressed to the next level of development:

He had candy.
We tried to take it off him.
It was bloody bloody hard.

( Q.E.D: He's not a baby anymore.)

I did it my way (week)

Not for the first time we've had a week of firsts...

For starters, we officially declare Sunday May 4 as the day the boy started to walk (see video below).

Or at least spent more time and distance on two legs than he did on all fours.

As with all things Watkins, it all started with a girl. Or an older woman at least.

The lad had been down at Pt Leo, watching mum and dad attempt to catch ripples with a Trigger Bros. demo board. Given the complete lack of waves, Mike was prolly a tad bored.

So he took a few more steps than usual; flat, firm-but-not-concrete sand being a good surface for such things.

Afterwards, as is your want when you've paddled (as opposed to surfed) for about an hour, mum and dad wanted food-as-fuel. A.k.a greasy burger from "Pittys" at the Point (when will they get the buns right?).
They entered. There was a lady.
"Ohhhhh aren't you a cutey....How old is he?" she said as he went into typical Mike seduction mode.
"One... two weeks ago" replied mum.
"Does he take steps?" she asked
"Oh, a few when he can be bothered..."
And with that he smiled, turned, and proceeded to walk from one end of the shop to the other.

Seriously.

Then coo'd and eye-lid-batt'ed at the lady a little more and paced over to the door and tried to head off for a stroll round the block.
"Oh.... he's pretty good isn't he. Mine didn't walk till 15 months".

Mum and dad just tried to act cool while somewhat disbelievingly watching the show.

All this appears to be part of international (or at least the Baghdad end of Hampton) "I wanna do it myself" week.

Like eating. With a spoon.

Yes, he's been grabbing handfuls of stuff and shoving it in his gob for ages, but suddenly he wanted an implement.

At first he tried to put solid stuff on his plastic spoon and then swing it towards his mouth. Which on most occasions was more like firing a trebuchet than feeding, but it was obvious what he was trying to do.

So we gave him mush again - just like when he was a little boy - the idea being that if he had something that'd stick to the spoon it'd have an increased probability of actually making it all the way into his mouth and hence he would be less likely to die of starvation and us of impalement on a particularly pointy bean.

And in the mush went. To his mouth that is.

He was so stoked he just about screamed the house down in delight.

Feeding himself, just like mum and dad... well, if mum and dad grapsed their eating utensils like a gearshift on a semi-trailer, bagged the outside of their face with the food in preparation for shoving it into their mouth, spoon facing down.

But apart from that, just like mum and dad.

That said, when he cant do things his way he's discovered {gulp}...
Tantys.

Where the hell did he learn that??

The past week have seen the first real gen-ew-ine dummy spits. (Only he has never used a dummy.)

Case in point.

On the Sunday trip down the coast he discovers the nose bag full of food.
In goes the arm, out he throws the Ryvitas, his spoon, a jar of Mr Heinz baby-muck, a face washer, a Pink Lady apple (is there any other kind for eating raw - seriously?)... and emerges standing bolt upright. With a banana.

Dad: "Sorry matey, you've already had one - thats for after lunch. Here, give it to me..."

He slowly turns, pulls himself up to full height, and gives "the look" {i.e., Fugg off dad - finders keepers, I saw it first, law of the play jungle and all that...}.
Dad reaches over and takes the 'nana.

Oh boy.. thats it... head drops to the ground (while bum is still up in the air), body falls sideways and lands {thump} on the ground, grizzle turns to wail, starts rolling about on back like some demented morteined giant blowy. Right as a nice couple emerge and want to sit in the chair opposite for a bit of peace and quite and bay views.

Its somewhat hard to say "get over it" to a kiddie.

"Geez mate,.. its only a 'nana..."

But then again, it is international "I did it my way" week.

Cupla extra camping pics

Doh!

We had a second camera... hence a cupla more camping pics from the Prom.

We love the Prom.

Its really good.

(Pity the mozzie bites were subsequently misdiagnosed as chicken pox... but thats another story...)

Mike goes Wild

Theres one good thing about a dead and rotting dolphin.

It makes you realise that baby poo doesnt stink. (Well, in a relative sense.)

The week just gone was spent taking young Master M on his first official camping trip, down to "the Prom".

And he loved it.
Dirt to crawl in. Wet morning dew to soak up with his pants. And all the seaweed he could eat.

And his favourite?

His friend Snappy the seagull, who very quickly learned that Mike in his high chair equals food scraps littered for a solid half metre radius. He was harder to get rid of than your shadow/religion.

Though he was somewhat preferable to the seriously fat arsed wombat who lumbered into dinner one night, sniffed about literally under Mike's toes (much to Mike's delight, though we'd rather he didn't wave said toes about so much like some sort of jangly wombat lure/jig) until mum went into serious DFWMK* mode. And tried to kick it.

"Are you serious - look at those claws!"

They were scissor hands.
Mr/Ms Wombat didnt seem to mind and lumbered off.
Mike just giggled.
Mr/Ms Wombat got revenge by returning at 3 in the morning and trying to root our esky.

Camping with a huge family tent and all the creature comforts a hire trailer and the Griswald family wagon could stuff in was certainly worth all the effort. Daytimes were mostly spent walking, with Mike slung up on back in the Wilderness Equipment "Wild Child" - which we can heartily endorse, if not afford (it was a hire jobby).

Little Oberon Bay was a highlight, with massive granite boulders, spectacular views from atop the clifftop walking track, water seven shades of blue and the aforementioned dead dolphin (see bottom left of above pic) on the beach for added "flavour".

"Err... i wouldnt stand infront of that bloating belly if i was you..." was the suggestion.

"Right you are" we replied, noting that if it smelt that bad from 10foot, it probably wouldnt smell any better if it exploded, napalm like, and covered you with dolphin guts. (Though in our defence, we did have an emergency pack of Huggies scent free baby wipes for just such a situation.)

Other walks included Squeaky Beach and back (and yes, it does indeed squeak when you walk on it - something to do with the size of the sand grains), though again Mike seemed more intent on eating the seaweed; and a trip to Millers Landing, up in the northern end of the park.

This had a little added adventure when dad decided it would be a good idea to wade out across the submerged mud flats to a nearby island/bird rookery.
With Mike in pack.
It was doable - just.

However after a brief deserted island stop for a snickers, it was realised that the tide was still coming in, not out, and hence a quick skidaddle was in order. Though not quite quick enough; the crossing back was done by mum in her Reg Grundies. (Pic removed to save the pantless.)

Mike, all the while, just watched the world from on high, amusing himself by pulling the hat off the head of his human carrier at random intervals or going to sleep. Which, while in the pack, he did a lot of. In fact mum and dad realised that in the the whole camping trip he didnt have one daytime sleep in his cot - the poor bugger. All were in pram, car seat or, most often, baby pack.

Still he got his revenge too. The lugging parent would be repeatedly tapped on the head/neck by the swaying brim of a sleeping boys hat, which in principle sounds all kinda cute and nice, but in reality the tap tap was more like a bushwalking version of a chinese water torture.

All up, a big, if at times a little tiring, success.
Big thanks to Mike's Nana and grandpa for the Taj Mahal tent and mountain of gear, and to his grandma for helping to prepare food for the trip.

Mmm... Pre-cooked spag bog...

Certainly beat "fresh" Dolphin steaks.

*(Dont Fugg With My Kid)