Ya canna change tha laws o' physics

Back when mum and dad were physics and maths nerds, they learnt all about the second law of thermodynamics.

The second law of thermodynamics is the law of increasing entropy (or the reduction in capacity of something to do work). In nerdy jargon, it states that the entropy of an isolated system which is not in equilibrium will tend to increase over time, approaching a maximum value at equilibrium.

So a melting ice cube is a good example - its not in equilibrium so its entropy is ever increasing as it breaks down/melts.

In laymens terms it means that its easier to break stuff than make stuff. Things will continually disintergrate (lose energy) until they can break no more. Think of entropy as reaching a perfect score if you get total chaos.

So what in the wide world of sports does this have to do with Mike? (Though you may well have already sensed a link...)

Well we dont know what something that facilitates a change in entropy is called, so we hereby suggest to the world of science that from hereon in, it be called a "Michael".

We know it makes sense.

Cos if a full wine glass is sitting on a table within reach, he pulls it off (and then stinks of wine). If a newspaper/phone book/nappy/gas bill is sitting idlely by in a formed state, he'll chew it up into an apparently infinate number of newspaper/phone book/nappy/gas bill bits. If a plastic truck full of blocks is sitting neatly in the corner he'll crash it and spread the blocks as far and wide as physically possible, including under the fridge - then move on.

I think you're getting the picture.

Of course it then requires considerably more work from mum and dad to fix the chaos.
Why cant it be the other way round?
Bloody physics.
Bloody entropy.

Unfortunately one of the ways of destruction he's discovered is via his 6 neat little chompers. Which is kinda ok, until he wants food or just meets another human he hasn't met. Then its all

chomp chomp chomp...

on human tissue.

Thats one thing we'll have the thrash out of him sooner rather than later.

The other learnt activity that is indeed a candidate for a sound thrashing is his rampant mobile phone use. Yes. Seriously.

An old disused mobile phone was tossed into his basket of play things, as it seemed solid and shiny and generally worthless and inedible. He didn't care for it all that much until....
Mistress P looks around and there he is sitting on his play mat, with the phone against his ear, "talking" away into it like he'd been doing it all his life. (Which if he starts now, in percentage terms, will very soon be effectively that.)

We always liked the idea of some comedian (Seinfeld?), about giving mobiles to the homeless so that they didn't seem as odd when they were walking along the street talking to themselves. So maybe that will now be the case with babies to make their mumblings at least appear to have a purpose. Hell, their babbles into a broken handset have gotta make at as much difference to the fate of mankind as 99.9999% of mobile calls...

Oh sod it, lets just implant them from birth and get it over and done with.
"Oh, yours is a Telstra?? My son is a Virgin..."

Ya canna change the laws o' physics.
Or, it seems, youthful desire for telecommunications.



Postscript: Dad says all is forgiven for the mobile use, and indeed will pay all bills (this week) as young Mike, taken to the beach to play in the sand/chase seagulls/watch dad windsurf, clambered up onto dads sail of his own free will, grabbed hold of the boom, and got himself into a pretty darn good laydown-gybe position. Dad was so proud, instead of screaming "he's gunna break my f$*%^in sail!!!", grabbed the camera.
"Lean into the turn a little more son... there ya go!"
:-)

The whole world in his mouth

Another first. And some fascination with balls.

Not to mention the fact that as of today, the lad has officially spent more time in the outside world than the inner (and slightly more gelatinous) one.
Yes, 9 months old.
Where in the wide wide world of sports did that time go?

Ok, his new first. Its goes a bit like this.

Phone rings; Dad answers.
Dad: "Hello, Dad speaking..."
Bloke-on-the-other-end: "G'day - can i speak to Michael please?"
{Dad stops, thinks, ponders...}
Dad: "Errrrrr... yes,.. but I dont think he'll be able to tell you much - he's 9 months old. Think you go the wrong number mate..."
{Dad goes to hang up phone but as he descends receiver hears a muffled...}
BOTOE: "No... hang on... yes, thats right... I'm from..." {yadda yadda yadda}

Yes, Mikes first phone call. Seems mum forgot to pop her name (or Mikes age) on some form. Told you he was now officially "in the system".

As for balls - well he has three favourites at the moment.

Firstly theres the mini soccerball which, for at least 15 minutes, he chased all round the house bashing along in front of himself as he went. We were most proud. Almost as proud as his grandparents would have been if they had seen him at the beach, chasing, just like the ball, the seagulls. Only this was a very bizarre slow-mo chase, with the seagulls constantly keeping a 6 to 10 foot distance between themselves and this strange little crawling human. He was remarkably persistent. And happy.

But back to the balls. All this rolling and chasing may well have learnt from other balls. These in the form of blueberries. Yup, the boy appears to be a blueberry addict. We're a bit unsure why, as the blueberries on offer are the most tasteless, bland and boring blueberries known to man or beast, but hell, he likes 'em.

(Then again, he does appear to enjoy eating lemons, leaves, grass, snot and stones, so he's hardly a food connoisseur.)

However it would appear that at least part of what he loves about blueberries is that they roll. And that he can catch them. It all started with dad rolling one across the table and the boy giggling. Then grabbing. Then eating. So we rolled him another.
Slowly but surely the grabbing got faster. From "let it hit me in the chest, stop, stare at it, then place my hand on it" grab to the full "thrust and lunge" grab.

We're not quite up to the Gilchrist-like dive, but theres certainly an improvement in hand-eye co-ordination going on. The only question thats remains is, do we train him as left or right handed?

The final ball is his globe stress ball. For an adult its all nerfball like - soft and crunchable and somewhat calming in the hand. For a boy though, it is, apparently, edible.

We first discovered this when bits of partially identifiable (possibly the horn of Africa) blue and green sponge appeared in his poo. And indeed investigation revealed 3 almost continental-sized chunks missing from the stress ball.

He's got the whole world in his mouth.
Or at least its main tectonic plates.

Roll over Mikehoven

We have a roller.

Alright, we've known this for quite some time, but now, frankly, its no longer cute, funny or to be encouraged.

It seemed only yesterday that Mike was happy(/incapable of anything else other than) to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling and/or bat the horsey mobile above his head for hours.

And then he finally rolled - one side only: port tack we recall.

As parents we were stoked. "A rolling baby!" Wow... we were so pleased. And he was so pleased that we were pleased. It was a very circular pleasing.

But now that rolling is de rigeur (both tacks) its started its new life use as a weapon.

"Think ya gunna change my nappy eh dad?? Think again!!!"
{roll roll roll}
"Ha ha ha!"

Its been pointed out that on the ground this can easily be tempered by the "legover" technique, involving sitting at right angles to the boy and placing a leg over his upper chest that he can also cling to with his arms, enabling unrolled access to the nappy down below. Fair enough...

But on the change table even Nadia Comaneci would struggle with such technique due to the added thrill factor of being 4 ft above the ground. Hence the incessant rolling is not just a fun way to pee off the parent but also a surefire way to the local horse-piddle with broken appendages if mum and dad aren't quick enough to push him back down.

The only upside of the 4 hourly change table battle is surely going to be his first word. I'd bet a Tosca it'll be....

"NO!!"

(And we were so hoping it'd be "duuude"...)

Of course the week also brought one other undesirable new found skill.

Whereas previously the lad was content to sit in his IKEA special high chair (as used in most Melbourne cafes...), he now appears to have worked out how to struggle up, over and, well, out. Though we're not exactly sure how...

Cos the first anyone knew about his new found Cirue du Soleil skill was when he was spotted dangling precariously from the high chair by his finger tips and about to piledrive himself into the floorboards.

"NOOOOOOO!!!!"

Lets just say Mr Medicare will be relieved that he's such a strong little bugger.

(Once again - normal "don't tell the council nurse" caveat applies.)

Fully Sick - Mike goes Italian

The plague has official struck the Baghdad-end-of-Hampton.

Or at least number 41 anyway.

While the rest of the free world was celebrating xmas and taking the traditional January holiday to the beach, Mike was sick. Fully sick.

First a cold, then a virus (arguably picked up from dad, or at least the same xmas party that dad infused it from) and then to rub salt into the gums, teething. Roll that into one big snotty ball and you have - misery.

Slow wailing, moaning crawls from one end of the house to the other, in search of mums (rarely dads) legs to cling to until she lifted him onto her shoulder for a cuddle.

And did we mention the heat? Just when you thought it couldn't get any better, along comes global warming and, in a "we dont have extremes of temperature in a La Nina summer" summer, and in the space of four days, we get three days of 40degC+. Only the little evaporative cooler in Mike's room stopped the house attaining core-of-the-sun status.

There is no god.

All that said, an upside is that Mike has discovered the beach. Ok, at first he did try to eat sand an awful lot, but he appears over that phase now and has discovered how to make great long snaking snail trails by crawling/dragging himself along the sand. Funny how they always end up back at mum, boob end of towel.

He's also discovered the sea. He appears fascinated by the waves - all 2cm high in the shallows - and will hang in mum or dads arms and watch the breakers lap at his toes for hours. Ok, minutes. But theres a genuine fascination there and hence we do believe we have a future Mick Fanning in the making.

Not to mention going in for a "swim".

Like any self respecting lover of warmth he did the little "ohhhhhhahhhhhh" and wriggle as the cold water touched his tummy for the first time, but was soon loving it. Or at least loving watching dad play peekaboo by ducking under the water and resurfacing every few seconds. This appeared to be game of the day, and, along with slapping the surface of the water, was demanded at regular intervals - much to the pleading of dads lungs.

At home, and when the boy has actually been eating (which hasn't been a lot - curse you virus) we've decided that the lad must be, in part at least, Italian. Either that or mum's preggas visits to her old stomping ground in Lygon St (being next to the Royal Wimmens and all that) infused through the belly. Cos Mikes current favourite food appears to be lasagna. Oh, and noodles. And spag bog; basically anything pasta based, to the point where if there are other veges involved he's been known to sort the veges from the pasta inside his mouth and spit the veges out. Lil (smart) bugger.

Oh, the one caveat is Vegemite. Tip to young players - "eating" Vegemite appears only half the fun. The other half is wiping it all over your face, body, chair, table, floor, mum... oh, that and absorbing as much as you can off the bread onto said body parts and mouth, then spitting out a grey-brown looking mush of chewed dough onto the floor for a parent to retrieve before an honoured guest steps in it. Brilliant!

The above is also an indicator that the lad is now pretty much eating whatever mum and dad eat. This, mum and dad reckon, is not only a bit of a time saver but also a great weight loss measure into the bargain, cos they still cook the same amount but now hand a fair portion off to the boy.

Sure beats stomach stapling.

Postscript: Boy feeling better, cool change arrived, common or garden variety chaos resumed. Ahhhh...

Slow sick crawl...



Looking for butterflies...

Mike gets his Clause into xmas

Ok, we was wrong.

Yes, Mike did indeed love the wrapping paper, but he did actually enjoy the pressies too, and appeared to realise something was going on and hence was on his best behaviour all day. Which is more than can be said for everyone at xmas! He also enjoyed lots of roast chicken, a lick of beer off the rim of his uncle J's stubbie, and enough roast veges (inc. lots of pumpkin - his long time fave vege) to last the rest of the week.


And as per usual he's been advancing in leaps and bounds. Or at least in the most recent case, tiny steps sideways. He's perfected the art of pulling himself to upright clinging to tables, couches, crockery cupboards, bookshelves and dad's legs (by dragging himself up on dad's leg hairs; you can tell from the other end of the house by the cries of pain - from dad). But he has now also learnt to creep along... slowly but shirley... along the edge of whatever he has clung onto.

Hence nothing on the coffee table is safe, and various objects need to be constantly moved as he tracks them down. His current favourite appears to be the Freedom furniture catalogue. Which at first glance may appear a random act, but in actual fact is clearly the sign of an intelligent life form who realises that such catalogues contain new furniture with doors, that can be closed and made kiddie safe/remove access to all sorts of contraband.

Told you he was smart.

Thankfully, as well as the creeping, he's also learnt how to get down - and not by bouncing either. A long reach down with one hand in some sort of half-moon yoga pose, a knee on the ground, and we're back in the floor business and off to new troubles.

Even works in the bath, where the lad has taken to 1) attacking the taps and, 2) pulling the plug out. All fun and games, but, when dad let him have his wish and hence his plug, the boy actually realised what he had done and, as the tide went out around him and it dawned on the boy that may well signal the end of bathtime... he tried to put the plug back in.

Ahhh... we'll make a hydrologist out of him yet.

A dancing one it would seem. Having learnt to clap and wave in recent weeks, he's now realised that he can add this to his love of the music and dance.

Ohhh yeah... get down boy!

Lemon

Time flies when you're having fun.

Or in this case, when mum and dad are constantly that little bit sleep deprived.

Yes, Master M has clocked up the (Chinese lucky) 8 months and he's officially firing on all cylinders. Vital stats include:

Weight: 8.405kg (bit below 50th percentile)
Length: 71.5cm (just above 50th percentile)
Head circumference: 45.5cm (just above 50th percentile)
and err....
Testes: Descended.

He's also managed to pop out his 6th tooth (and 4th on the top) without us really noticing. (Well, if you don't count that one night when we missed 2.5 hours sleep from 2am onwards...) Which just means that... he's getting better and better at eating.

And boy, does he luurve eating. Don't worry, he isn't turning into Fat Albert (or at least, not yet), more a Gordon Ramsey; he has a definite array of foodie likes and dislikes, but will also have a chomp on anything not nailed down or able to fight back. His taste though, must be questioned.

Case in point. Mum and Dad, after a weekend of running about and generally being overly active and sociable, (hey, it is almost Xmas - but we'll get to that later), were knacker-bagged come Sunday night. Hence they threw in the culinary towel and bought fish and chips.

MMMMMMmmmmm..... f.i.s.h....a.n.d....c.h.i.p.s.....

They offered Mike a little grilled fish.
Look, smell, slight screw up of face....Chomp chomp chomp.
They offered Mike a chip.
Look, smell, slightly less quizzical look... Chomp, chomp, chomp.
They watched as Mike saw the lemon.
He lunged, grabbed, smiled, and chowed on down on the flesh and peel like some crazed lemon-loving version of the cookie monster.
Pulling it off him only had him screaming...
"GIMME GIMME GIMME!!!!" (or the 8 month old equivalent).

Go figure. (At least we know chippy night will stay cheap.)

Slightly more worrying was the trip to the beach to watch the big windsurf race of the season. Mike was less interested in watching the action than eating the sand. Dad just pondered if next day the boy'd be pooping glass... (he didnt).

On the developmental side the boy's had two steps forward. The biggest, clearly, is that he now, officially, knows his own name. Yes, 8 months in and the boy spins his head around when he hears "Michael" (or even "Mike") and sometimes even comes a running. (Or at least a bellyflop sliding.) Mum tested it numerous times by saying, in the same tone of voice "giraffe" or "bessa brick" or "speleotherm" and yes, indeed, he just didn't respond the same.

Housten, we have contact.

The other development is clapping, and to a lesser extent, waving. Much as he had already learned that those long fleshy things attached to his body could drag his body across the floor, cling to things when standing and grasp food (and in actual fact, theres been an advance there too; he's learned that if you open your fist when eating... THERES OFTEN MORE FOOD IN THERE!! ...amazing), he's suddenly decided that these things can also be used for fun. Like clapping along to the crocodile song, and, if the recipient is really really lucky.... waving and/or high-fiving on cue.

Given all the chrissy do's he'll be attending soon we expect him to be putting the fleshy things attached to his body to good use doing all of the above. Which brings us to the topic of an 8-month olds Xmas.

If one more person comes up and says "ohhh.... Mikes first Xmas... he'll be so excited/how wonderful/you must be so happy"...
!!POW!!! Right in the kisser.

He is 8 months old. He doesn't know his bottom from a hole in the ground and yet people think he'll understand what Santa, pine trees, tinsel (ok, yes, it does distract him somewhat during feed time), mince tarts, snow-in-summer, some religious dude and Myrrh (who the hell knows what Myrrh is anyway?) is all on about. Yes, we'll give him a pressie or three, but I'll bet you a Tosca he'll take one look at the pressie, one look at the wrapping paper,... and go the paper.

Well, only if there isn't any lemon lying about.




Postscript: Its bloody hard for a child to sleep (and person to write blog) if there's thunder right over your house. It was so much easier when he'd only experienced drought. I blame La Nina. Bah Humbug ...and Merry Xmas.

The war against terror

He's up.
He's down.
He's here.
He's there.
Lil' Mike's bloody everywhere.
(But above all he's a cheeky lil terror.)

Ay Kurumba... this is going to be tiring.

The lad has not only mastered the art of the bellyflop/butterfly propulsion method to shoot him from one end of the house to the other in no time flat, but has also mastered the art of climbing up onto his feet and clinging onto stuff.

Arguably the most impressive is his overhang rock climbing technique for getting to upright from under the coffee table. Hillary like, while partly under the table itself, he flings a hand up and onto the table-edge, and swings his body out and upright from below. I'm sure he'll have a step named after him in no time.

This is all well and good but...
Unfortunately he has not yet mastered any form of the art of getting down.

Hence once standing upright and clinging to something for a while, of course having dragged the biscuit tin/mixing bowl/full cup of water onto the floor for good measure, (or, in the case of pulling himself up on the dishwasher door, vomiting a milk feed straight into said dishwasher) he decides its time to move on.

He then realises that he cant. Cos the floor is down there and he is up here and never the twain shall meet.

Or rather, will only meet via a fall. Of which he is now doing several a day, often involving what, for an adult, would be bloody painful. (Dad knows... as he fell off his bike while clipped in - in the backyard - only yesterday, and has the bruises to prove it.)

For a kiddie though, the pain only seems momentary. And amazingly, that moment seems to be perfectly correlated with the amount of time it takes to get a cuddle from mum or dad.

Added effect can be made, if mum and dad don't leap to their feet instantly, by, rather than bellyflopping across the room in a split second, dragging yourself onto all fours and doing the slowest, most pathetic and woefully agonising looking, crawl across the room. (While sobbing and batting the eyelids.)

Yes, crawl.

Much as we thought he couldn't, he can indeed crawl perfectly well, but was saving it up for moments of dramatic effect. (Just don't tell him till he's 21 that its actually hilarious!) Personally, he prefers the flop for its speed.

(Ok, he was a little more inclined to use the crawl when we put his carpet-layer knee pads on him, which is kinda understandable as the polished floorboards are a knee killer - at least for dad when he gave Mike a hallway drag race. )

The week itself has again seen Mike partying hard. Well it is xmas after all.

There's been mothers group (where he went a bit shy and generally stuck with mum and dad) and mum's work xmas do in Batman Park, soon to be followed by the steet party (held in a park) and an early family get together.

It enough to drive a man to porridge - his new favourite food.

(Well, a blokes gotta build up those muscles for the next bout of terrorising.)


Video 1: The Hillary Step


Video 2: The (happy/what does that camera taste like?) crawl...

Get up, Stand up,..

Oh no... not only is the wee lad now mobile and taking a penchant to raping, burning and pillaging all he can lay his hands on, he' now standing upright whenever he has something to cling on to.

Fair enough... thats all fine. But he also yet to fully grasp the duel concepts of a) gravity, b) pain. The end result being that he's taken more hits than Rob from Shitscared (maybe we'll have to put a helmet on him like sidekick Mick's).

Still, he kinda bounces ok, and mum and dad are on constant Mike-watch, so hopefully he'll survive this stage without losing too many neurons.

That said, its all kinda impressive for one so young. So far this week he's managed to

• drag himself to upright using the wires surrounding the deck. (Yes, a worry, given 2ft drop below...)
  
• clamber up so he can reach into the fridge (appears impervious to the cold, not that we're going to test it by closing the door on him mind you)
• stand bolt upright in his cot, necessitating a lowering of the base and hence future back incapacitation for mum and dad from having to lift him from so far down. (Spare block and tackle engine hoist, anyone?)
• climb into the crockery cupboard, thus requiring the better and breakable crockery to be moved to parts unknown where dad is, arguably by definition, still unable to find them...
  
• clamber up the stereo cabinet... and turn on the radio; mum found him dancing - she swears - standing up and hanging on with one hand, to the "La Porchetta" pizza restaurant jingle...
• pull himself up and then hang off the edges of the coffee table. Then try to eat/lick it. (Note to self; improve wipe up of milo spills/cookie crumbs.)
• grasp the side of the bath and peer over looking for toys. (On a serious note, about 6 kiddies a year drown in Aussie baths, so from now on, 1) no toys left in bath, and 2) bath always drained immediately after use.)
• finally managed to get himself high enough so he can stare into the rainguage and wonder what all the fuss is about each morning. Cos, not surprisingly, theres nothing there...

But we mostly just love that he dances. Indeed he appears to have taken quite a liking to music in the past few weeks (well, above his long held passion for the "Crocodile smile" song) and doesn't mind a bit of a boogie. Add to that the blue eyes, the blonde hair the svelt waistline and winning grin, its a wonder he's not in the worlds sexiest men list already...

"Give it time." says dad "Took me at least a decade."

However the waistline may be in for an expansion if current tastes hold out. The lad has decided that dinners of mush (i.e., pumpkin mush, zucchini mush, cauliflower mush, broccoli mush etc ) are - and understandably - boring.

He wants mum and dads food.

Which in the past week means he's tasted his first dinkum Aussie meat pie, as well as some home-made pizza. Goodbye waistline...

Ok, he's also had some bolognese sauce and a little pasta, as well as lotsa steamed veges (he's yet to cotton on that the steamed veges are identical to the mushed veges - wonder what that says about his sense of taste?) and a little pita bread, so it hasn't all been bad news.

Well, unless you are his clothes or the floor. Eating "real" food means he also wants to feed himself a little more, which also means that he wears about 20% of it, with a further 30% reaching the floor. Which inevitably, being barefoot summer time now, mum and dad stand in when they stretch out the legs under the dinner table.

Something, lets be honest, they didn't actually miss when he was babysat in the evening for the first time (thanks Nana and Grandad!) and they went out for their fifth wedding anniversary dinner... alone.

Get up, stand up. Does anything ever stay the same?

Never drew first but I drew first blood

Oh here we go....

We've just tipped into another classic phase of kiddie development that we were hoping, to be honest, would take a cupla more months to hit us.

He's mobile.
And exploring.

Using the patented and perfected Mike belly flop propulsion method (see movie below), he's now able to propel himself from one end of the (albeit admittedly small) house to the other in only matter of minutes. Or in the case of mothers group, from in front of mum to hiding behind a pram on the other side of the room in the time it takes to say:

"A dingoes got my baby!" (the standard aussie mums "lost baby" cry).

Arguably more of a worry was Mike's keenness to follow the other mum/owner of the pram out the door as she trundled off - apparently he was fascinated with the working of the bugaboo wheels and wasn't going to let such an engineering feat get away without a chase. (A clue to his future profession perhaps?)

Apart from pram wheels his other favourite and often returned-to investigations appear to be:

1. The crockery in the low cupboards
2. The phone books

For the former he gave himself one helluva shock when he managed to pull a set of bowls onto the floor with a humongous crash. (None broken.) So mum put them on the top shelf.

Which only gave her an arguably bigger shock when he was found STANDING UP supporting himself by clinging onto the shelf and grabbing at the bowls again, just prior to falling backwards (nice catch mum).

He was worryingly proud of himself.

For the latter, and in a somewhat bizarre obsession, the lad will happily flop halfway across the house to try and grab the phone books out of the bookcase and... start eating them. (a-la the "book muncher" advert on the teeve - though wasnt that before his time..?)

So far he's only devoured most of the government services section, and appears to have a slight preference for white over yellow pages.

Oh well,... we use the inner-net anyway. The newsprint-lipstick look is a bit of a worry though (don't tell the council nurse. Again).

The explorations, however, have recently taken on a decidedly Transylvanian aspect. Sure there's always been the odd chomp on mums shoulder when he really wants milk but is only getting carried about, but this time it was a little different.

Playing with dads face -as he does- he clearly mused to himself
"Whats up that thing?"
and hence shoved his index fingy clean up dads snoz.

Hooked it.
Stuck the fingernail into the septum.
And dragged down.

"We have claret..." yelped dad as he proceeded to bounce off into the bathroom with his nose pinched and head held back...

Finally, and a little off track but uncannily/arguably accurate...
Dad couldn't help himself slightly editing Sienfeld's interview on Enough Rope this week, and in particular the comments about being married {or in the edited version, having kids) and being single {kiddie free}...

JERRY SEINFELD: Um well to me the funny thing about {not having kids is}, see I had friends {with kids} and I wouldn’t visit them when I was {kid free} because I thought their life was so pathetically depressing.

LAUGHTER

JERRY SEINFELD: And then, now that {I've got kids} and I, I have {childless} friends and I feel I, I don’t really like to be with them now cos I find their lives trivial and meaningless.

LAUGHTER

(and here's the clincher...)
JERRY SEINFELD: And I think in both cases I was correct.

...and they reckon he talks about nothing.

Ok... Mikes flop-propulsion-technique instruction video...

Un Zud

We think the bird made it.

A week in the land of the long white cloud staying at his great-grandad Jacks place and Mike was a new man. Or at least a 3.3% older one, with a spanker of a cold/bird flu and mumbling new sounds (including mummm...mummm..mummmm...mummm, which we will interpret as "mum").

He's also learned forward propulsion.

Its not exactly a crawl though.

Remember back to the bad old days of the breakdancing 80's when those guys would lie down on their bellies and rock themselves back and forwards on their tum in such a way they'd head north? Well thats pretty much what Mike has mastered. More a lunge than a crawl, but it gets him to where he wants to be.

He'll be doing the moonwalk and "ladybug spinning on its back" before we know it.

New Zealand also meant catching up with his grandma, who hadn't seen him since he was a few days old, and meeting the new relatives from Thailand. Which was a boon for mum as the "team of Thai's" did a cracker of a job and gave mum much time off for good behaviour.

As did the waitresses at the Korean restaurant.

No "would you like a high chair" at this place. In the best Kiwi/Korean tradition, they whipped the boy off and played with him in a corner while mum tucked into the kimchee.

Asian culture. Its not all rice and whacking people with big sticks. Its Respect.

Mike also got to catch up with his "third" grandma - Katrina - and one of Mistress P's half sisters, who were all besotted with the lad. And even more so after they all went down to Bucklands Beach and had a windsurfing lesson - Mike included.

The corruption begins.

As one close friend who has paid for much of his sons windsurf addiction in ways not limited to financial warned us...

You'll be sorry! Get him into stamp collecting or bird
watching....

We couldn't do that to him Bernie. We've seen what birdwatching does to people.

As for the aforementioned bird... well as noted in the previous post Mike took great fascination in hunting down this little twittering creature, and hence it soon learned to live on the outside roof of its cage at the furthest point possible from this breakdancing bubster. Still it didn't stop Mike from opening the cage door and tipping the cage over at one stage. All very traumatic for tweety, who at last report was in therapy, but expected to make a full recovery.

The welcome home was magical. Waiting at the airport to collect them dad actually felt a little nervous - he'd never been away from the boy for more than 12 hours, let along over a week. As the doors slid open and mum emerged with boy strapped to her tum looking forward, dad said his customary Mike meeting call....

"Helllooowwwwww..."

Mike turned, looked at dad, smiled, stared, digested, then... did the biggest, cheesiest, overdone "I'm an actor in Neighbours/Home and Away" double take shake of the head including full eyes-wide-open gasp... and beamed.

A bloody heart melter.

(To all those that looked after the lad and made his first OS trip so memorable... A big big... Thank You.)

Mike goes All Black

Theres nothing sadder than waving goodbye to your boy and watch him slide off through the doors and into the unforgiving (and occasionally plastic gloved) arms of... Border Security.

Yep, this was Mikes first trip OS - off to the land of the long white cloud: New Zealand. And despite continued simmering tensions over the great under-arm incident of 1981 (well, Mikes dad was at the game after all), they let him in.

Off it was to great-grandad Jacks place - where grandma was also staying after jumping off her boat fresh from Fiji - and immediately all and sundry were captured by the boys smile. (Well, it is a killer after all.)

Unfortunately the speech training on the way to the airport...
"Can you say... g.r.e.a.t...g.r.a.n.d.a.d...J.A.C.K??"
...didnt quite appear to pay off.

The boy is certainly babbling something though, and making sounds we havent heard before but which do seem to be a little more than just squeaks and squeals. And it appears to make sense to him, or at least the grenadier guard teddy bear he's "talking" to.

(The response...
"Mmmm... realllly...."
from mum and dad appears to suffice as answers.)

So far Master M's favourite things about New Zealand appear to be:

• eating bananas (grandma was caught slipping him the odd contraband 'nana; heres hoping he doesn't get too, how do you say this politely, blocked up...)
  
• scooting around on the floor in his new and somewhat strange lunging/rolling action that now appears to be getting him wherever he wants to go... and attacking the budgie cage. (Mike appears to think the budgie is just another talking book thingy that'll make sounds if he bashes it enough. Mistress P is terrified the bird will have a heart attack by the time they leave. )

On the plus side of learning, the lad has had so many people waving at him that he has, apparently, learned how to wave back. Its pure bubby seduction.

On the negative side, he's learned that he hates stuff on his head, and more to the point, that he can do something about it.

Whereas just a cupla weeks ago he'd happily don his sunnies and hat and head off for a groovy and sun conscious stroll, now, and of course just as we're coming to summer, he's discovered he can rip his chinstrapped sunhat off his own head faster than you can say "heightened susceptibility to skin cancer".

Not to mention the millisecond that his sunnies now remain on face.

(We think the mumblings mentioned earlier sounded remarkably like Right Said Fred's "I'm too sexy for my hat" at one stage.)

Finally, and with a total lack of segue,...

When dad was a lad one of his favourite fillums (Blues Brothers) had a scene where Jake and Elwood met up with the Good Ole Boys, after stealing their gig at Bob's Country Bunker ("We play both kinds; Country and Western") and trying to con them that they were a Mr Stein from the musicians union. The dialogue went something like:

"Spose we aint got no union cards and we go in there and play anyway?
Now what you goin to do about that? Stein?
You goin' to look pretty funny trying to eat corn on the cob with no #$%& teeth!"

And its true.

Mike did look pretty funny eating corn on the cob with no (ok, 5 half thru) teeth : see pic above.

Smiley II

Postscript: Ahhh... bliss.

Not only did the boy go to bed without grizzles, but slept through to alarm time (and beyond) this morning AND self settled when he half woke in the night.

Ahhhhhh...

Mr Smiley

Teeth, teeth, teeth.

The boys sprouting them like they're going out of fashion. Almost as out of fashion as getting a good night sleep.

We're now up to five chompers - three up top and two down below - but the main casualty from all of this appears to be the nights. While the lad is all grins and guffaws during the waking hours, at night he's tending towards mega-pissed off with the whole teething caper and has taken, in the last few days at least, to a return to his newborn ways and is waking every few hours during the night.

Mum and dad are back to being the waken dead. And just slightly scared witless that he's setting a new pattern for himself.

This, of course, all coincided with the annual Melbourne Cup windsurf carnival down at Sandy Point, and hence a weekend away. And three others in the house trying to sleep.

Or four if you count Master Ms newest mate - Master A. Ok, so their relationship mostly consisted of the 9-months older Master A trying to bop Mike on the noggin with his feet, hand and/or toy box lid, but M didnt mind. They were mates.

(Its a guy thing.)

And being the Cup weekend, it was only fitting that Mike not only touch his first horse (a sandy quarterhorse in the paddocks behind town - in fact over the back fence from where mum&dad got hitched) but also ride his first nag.

So it was a hobbie horse and dad was holding on tight, but the lad had the hands and heels action going well enough to make his uncle, Punter J, proud. (Sorry J, we didn't notice if his whip-hand was right or left, so cant comment on his preference for the Sydney or Melbourne tracks. Yet.)

The weekend was also a chance to catch up with numerous windsurfy types, many of whom hadn't seen Mistress P (and for that matter Mike) since last season, when mum-to-be was wowing them with wicked turns on a virtual wave while Mike was still ensconced somewhere between the hip, hooters and harness hook.

As expected, Master M outdid himself, flirting with all the older women, getting pampered by the tweeny girls, and getting dubbed "Mr Smiley" by all and sundry.

And its true. He is Mr Smiley.

Even when getting hit on the head by a toy box lid.

Back home he was again putting the smile into action, and almost (...almost...) scored his first kiss!

While at mothers group (which dad still reckons is more akin to an outlaw bikie gang when it comes to mass pram takeovers of the local cafe's), Master M got up on his haunches (and no, he still cant crawl) and did the wobbly dog + smile to a slightly older miss who had learned to crawl.

Over she came to look.
And they faced off.
And he smiled.
And then they both did the big wide mouthy opening thing like they were about to slop on with a big cavernous Kel+Kath kiss...
...then both got cold feet and just slapped each other in the face a few times.

(Its a bikie gang mating ritual thing.)

The next week, though, is a biggy. Lets just say Mike now has his very own passport (valid till he is five and completely devoid of signature - someone kindly recommended a nappy stain would do but we politely declined) and isn't afraid to use it.

Lock up your women, wider world. Mikes comin'.

The good, the bad and the sideways

The week started badly.

Master M was having a few more teethy type troubles and hence he'd decided that sleeping during the night was clearly the main cause of this gummy shenanigans and hence he wasn't having any of it. Sleep that is. So he put his foot down.

Or rather, his voice box.

And hence every time we attempted to lay him to rest he'd awaken and scream his little lungs out. Which made it rather hard for anyone to get some sleep, let alone just a little relaxation. Kiddies panadol and sedegel did the trick to a degree, but the lad clearly was seeing a correlation between hurty teeth and cot and hence didn't want a bar of it.

Be it 9pm or 2am.

Then, just as quickly as it started it stopped. And he learnt something new into the bargain.

Not only did the boy suddenly go back into his normal dozy evenings and subsequent slumber through (most of) the night, but he also discovered that when you roll over in your sleep you can actually... and heres the tricky bit.... put your head sideways (instead of mouth straight down into non-breathable matteress) and keep sleeping!

Bwilliant!!!!

He's also taken a shine to a) daylight saving (i.e., he sleeps in and dad is now the first to wake up in the house); b) a Growsuit.

The Growsuit is more akin to a sleeping bag, and for some reason he quite likes it. Probably because as he wriggles out of his covers in the bed (and yes, we have no idea how he fails to crawl forward when he is awake, yet mysteriously levitates forward when asleep) he would get colder and colder, but a sleeping bag means his bedding comes along for the ride.

The week wasn't all sleep and teeth and bags though. The week also brought the longest period he had been out of mum or dads care in his entire six months of existence. A full afternoon and evening being looked after by his wanderlusting and birdwatching grandparents. And didn't he show off! Lots of smiles and games and tugging of the Santa clause beard. He was like a pig in poo.

Of course mum and dad were like nervous nellies, and hence wrote up a War-and-Peace-like tome of do's and dont's. A Master Mike user manual. (Can be found on the left hand side of this page, under "Mikes notes".) Which of course was barely needed and mostly served as an amusing read for uncle Jim between sections of the form guide.

Finally, Mike's also discovered two new favourites.

First, a new favourite song. We'd heard that a) little kiddies like rock, and b) little kiddies like moving black and white shapes (the colours on kiddies toys are mostly there to appeal to the parents - tru dinks). Hence when he watches The Hives "Hate to say I told you so" on dads laptop he's transfixed.

Which dad admits probably isn't on the World Health Organization approved viewing list and may well be scarring him for life, but hey... it keeps him off the streets.

He's also discovered rice cakes.

Yes, flavourless, calorie-less, cardboard-like rice cakes. (It must be the hippie blood in him.) Or more to the point, he has discovered feeding himself rice cakes. Which is all kinda amusing when he gets down to the last little bit, and, babies being only able to clutch and yet to learn about pinching things between thumb and forefinger, mean that he still cant work out how to eat that last bit of mushy cake thats trapped in his vice-like fist.

He can hang onto it for hours. (Well, maybe not hours.)

Which of course just means he's kept amused while mum and dad crawl about the floor recovering bits of half-chewed rice cake bits from a one metre radius.

Picking up after kids already.
Hate to say I told you so.