The best year of my life

Finish this sentence.
"This exact time 366 days ago I was..."

If your answer is:
"...somewhere in the lower portions of a birth canal."
you may well be the boy on the right.

And in another 1hr 14min you'll be exactly one whole year old.

Sunny South

Daylight Saving.

It fades the curtains, confuses the cows, and now... fails to impact upon the sleeping habits of Mike. Ok, all was fine when spring sprung forward, but now falls falling back the boy hasnt.

We are (now, thankfully, were) back to 5:45am starts.

Oh well, at least it gets dad into work early enough to knock off in daylight. And come weekend, nick off for a surf! (Mmmm... the glass is indeed half full...)

We blame Tasmania.

When Mike isn't contributing to sleep deprivation he's taken to drawing - clearly another example of his grandfathers genes. At first we were somewhat concerned that he was more than likely to impale himself/mum with the pencil than create a masterpiece, but, well, we was wrong.

As dad pointed out (see pic left, and explanation submitted as attachment A) clearly the Mr Squiggle etching is a beachside scene of the Heidelberg school genre; bayside beach, wispy sky, naked bodies, windsurfer...

Other activities have included, (but are far from limited to), carrying stuff about in his truck (great - now the remote control could be anywhere), ducking his head underwater at swim class, failing to duck his head when walking his truck under tables (ouch), eating seaweed, throwing food great distances, trying to climb stuff - like the TV cabinet, going to his first playgroup, lovers tiff with Teddy (they no longer appear to be sleeping buddies), laughing at his mum when she stubbed her toe (a.la Homer Simpson: "Its funny cos it didnt happen to me") and...

...made his first joke.

Yes. A joke.

Having just vaguely grasped the concept that "Aww-Ohhhh..." means something happened you didn't really want to happen, he's been known to mutter it, very occasionally, at times of accidental muck ups. A dropped mush spoon, a tipped over truck, a raspberry blown when his mouth was still full of weetabix etc...

Hence when he summoned {name removed to protect the embaressed} to play with him in another room after dinner, far away from everyone else and presumably their earshot, and {...} dropped a mighty beans-for-lunch powered poop toot, Mike waited the perfect comics second before blurting...

Aww-Ohhhh!

His first joke.
And it involved bodily functions.
He made his dad proud.


Attachment A: (click to enlarge)

Mike W, 2007-
Sunny South II, 2008
Pencil on recycled paper
29.5cm x 21.0cm
Family Fridge Gallery

Crawlaway Boy.

We've retrograded.

After the excitement of the boys first steps he lept up the following morning, all bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready for his first jog round the 'Tan.

Unfortunately a few steps later he'd fallen hard on his bum enough times to convince himself that this biped form of propulsion was too much of a pain in the ass (literally), and hence he reverted to quadruped again and has crawled virtually everywhere ever since.

Sum total thus far of about 15 steps.

Oh well. As Homer Simpson says; "Cant win. Dont try."

That said, his truck pushing abilities (see the video on this earlier post) have come forward in leaps and bounds. No longer trapped by walls, he is able to stand and swing his truck about like some demented squealing truck swinging hammer thrower and start afresh.

As to how this "balancing on two feet while flinging a truck about" can be easier than walking... well thats one of the great Mike mysteries.

Maybe he's seen too many King Kong movies.

Still at least at the combined mothers-group first birthday party (...its been nearly a year already???) it provided great merriment as Mike offered trips around the lounge on his one baby-power John Deere.

He's also taken to another new trick - one that gets two thumbs up from mum and dad.

See, unlike his previous incarnation where putting him to bed appeared, to him at least, akin to driving a stake through his still beating heart, he now appears to like to sleep.

Only problem is that now, albeit occasionally, he's taken to a sleep directly after his dinner. Or more to the point, directly after he has finished eating and had his 5 minutes of smearing the leftovers all over the ikea high-chair's tray.
The problem?
He puts his head down for the nap, IN his now smeared high chair tray.

Ok, its kinda funny -at first - but doesnt do a lot for his hairstyle or the family shampoo bill.

But even better, when put to bed theres no longer the hours of wailing and thrashing and "woe is me" cries.

Now its a little "I really should put on some sort of show cos mum and dad have gone to such effort" grizzle, then...
Pffftt.
Asleep.

We thank the bear. Pooh bear to be precise (non-Disney version).

Seems bear is Mike's new bedmate, and they can been seen having a little cuddle just prior to dozing. Its arguably the cutest thing in the free world.

But its not all plushy girly bear-love sweetness and light.

With the Yin theres always the Yang. And it was a known risk.

Combine a bit of nappy free time, a run around in the backyard, and the male predication to get at one with nature by relieving himself on it, and it happened.

Yes. A chunky Mr Whippy on the deck.

Mum was horrified.

(Maybe it'll keep away the cats?)

Finally, and speaking of cats, its taken us a long time but we've (ok, well.. errr.. dad has) worked out Mike's dopplegaenger.

Blond hair, short and straight on the sides, long and curly out in front.
It has to be... BRIAN SETZER!

"And who in the wide wide world of sports is Brian Setzer", we hear you ask?

Well back in the 80's (and some may say sadly still today) there was a band called the Stray Cats. They played rockabilly and generally looked like some Frankenstienian combination of Sid Vicious (Sex Pistols) and Elvis - or at least the Elvis before he ate a jar of peanut butter, a jar of strawberry jam, and one pound of crisp-fried bacon on a baguette. Times 2. For lunch. Everyday.

The blonde cat was Brian Setzer. A comparison picture is worth a thousand words... (though a little imagination wont hurt either; note hair.)

Ever since, dads been driving everyone nuts singing "Runaway Boy" all round the house.

DAA-DAA DO-DO DO-DO DOO-DOO, DAA-DAA DO-DO...

You get the beat.

Just dont mess with the boy.
He's almost 1.

A small step for man, one giant leap for... Mike.

Yup.

Its been done.

As of around 8:30 pm April 3 2008, 2 weeks shy of his first birthday, he's taken his first steps.

At first a bit of a sly stand up and one step rebalance with dad saying "DIDJA SEE THAT?", which five minutes later became a genuine two step walk.

And sad to say, it was towards the telly remote control.

Which even sadder to say, he thinks is a mobile phone.

Of course the Heisenberg uncertainty principle/observer effect immediately sprung into action. As soon as the camera was pulled out he refused to do it again. That is until the very moment dad pressed stop and the camera went into "process" mode, rendering itself (temporarily) into a useless lump of shiny metal - then, of course, Mike did a three step jog over to mum.
Literally.

Ya canna change the laws of physics.

The Colli-Wobbles

Melbourne.
Autumn.
Easter.
The gods have gone crazy and hence its either snowing in the foothills or baking like the Sahara, with nothing in between.

Hence, during a period of the latter dad had taken Mike down to their favourite beach at Ricketts Point, Beaumaris, for a splash about in the shallows.

As Mike was having his requisite pre-paddle crawl about and shell-licking he spotted a little dog, and grinned.
And in turn he was subsequently spotted by the little dogs owner.
Who ran over, yelled "whats his name?" and totally enamored, proceeded to pick up Mike and dance about with him on the beach.

Which attracted her friends.

Suddenly, Mike was surrounded by a dozen Japanese students all oooh-ing and ahhhh-ing, wanting cuddles and taking photos with their mobiles phones (see pic, wonderfully called "cute-boy.jpg" - thanks Martin!).

It was somewhat surreal in a Paris Hilton paparazzi kinda way...

Lets just hope it doesn't go to his head.

While he wasn't pre-occupied with charming the masses over Easter, he was attending his first canoe polo tournament; watching mum compete in and captain the "rest of the world" team (dad tried to convince her to call themselves the Barbarians, after the Rugby side,... it didnt appear to catch on with the laydees...) in the national championships.

And scarily for dads sanity, Mike appears a convert/natural, with mum and dad having to chase him all over the park to curtail his fascination with attempting to clutch and break very expensive carbon fibre paddles, sit on and crush very expensive carbon-kevlar boats, and chucking himself in the river.

After realising one of the strange water creatures in funny hats was mum he was obsessed, even attempting to paddle his pram home. (We'll have to explain to him fluid viscosity...)

At least its a cheaper sport than windsurfing.

By easter Monday the games were over so family tootled off down the coast for a lunch at a quaint little cafe overlooking the bay. Upon entering they realised that tables and chairs were only just wide enough apart for their fancy new pram to maneuver through, narrow as it is.

"Oh,.. sorry", as dad crashed into a table leg.
"WHOOPS", as he crunched the wheels over someones foot.
"Scusi..." as he pushed past a ruffled waitress.

There were a few looks that, somewhat ironically, were perfectly described in The (r)Age the following day by comedian Nelly Thomas:

"One thing I didn't know about having babies is that some people don't like them. You walk into some cafes with a pram and they look at you like it's the Gaza strip and you're carrying a heavy backpack."

The highlight of the visit once seated, apart from gorging themselves silly on an all-day breakfast menu (mmmmm..... a.l.l... d.a.y... b.r.e.a.k.f.a.s.t...) was, of course, Mike. Offering him a snack off mums plate, mum n'dad would blow on his serves of corn fritatta and then hand them across.

Which instead of eating, he'd blow on, then smile for approval of his newly learned trick.
"Go on freddy, eat it..."
{blow blow, smile smile}
"No... eat.. yum yum...
{blow blow smile smile}

Oh well. Its a skill. As well as a dieting technique.

Finally, from the trip home, we give you: How to (nearly) win a Darwin Award (part 1).

Dad, a decent and law-abiding Carlton supporter (ok, lapsed Carlton supporter - he hasn't gone to a game in years, but fondly remembers when he lived across the road from Princes Park and attended nearly every home match... for the last quarter anyway, when the blue-coats would open the gates and you could sneak in for free; he was a penniless student after all), is happily driving the car along the busy four-lane section of Nepean Hwy, minding his own business.

All is calm, peace and light, with bub happily burbling away at the other cars, dad in laid back holiday driving mode, and mum day dreaming about life the universe and everything.

In a sudden moment of TAC-ad like madness, in heavy traffic and with no warning, mum mutters...

"I think Mike should barack for Collingwood."

If not for dads amazing Ninja-like self control, his subsequent Colli-wobble amongst 4-lanes of speeding steel could have been the end of the A,P+M gene pool right there.

(Dont try this at home folks. Seriously.)

Postscript: The top pic is the first ever image of the lad standing unaided. Somewhat embarrassingly (for the boy, at his 21st...) it was taken when he was sprung raiding mums rags,... errrr... female sanitary items, drawer..! Oh.. and if you havent noticed, this is the 100th post on this blog. Crikey.

3 into 2 wont go

Three (full time jobs; looking after boy and work-work) into two (parents) wont go.

"Get some child care!" I hear you say.

Sure. If only it were that easy.

First theres the decisions - do you go child care centre, family day care, council supplied, private, food provided, nappies included, no nuts, no dairy, ratio of carers... decisions decisions.

Which are all academic anyway cos when you do decide (walking distance council run childcare recommended by neighbours and given the big mum tick) you get put on a waiting list.

Council care booking lady: "Excellent - thanks for choosing us. You're now 231st in the queue."

Mum: "Errr... he'll be five by then and off to school!"

Booking lady: {smile}

In the lead up to this somewhat disappointing moment Mum had done the groundwork checking out all the places. And was somewhat shocked. ABC childcare equated to "A Bit Crappy", as did most of the other private places that ticked the boxes "within cooee" and "financially non-crippling".

In at least one she arrived at sleepy time to find cocoons with babbling and staring caterpillar-like bubs strung around in some form of stasis - was like the starting scene from Alien. She tip toed out in fright.

Then theres the afore-hinted cost.

When we told Mike's Nana the going rate she was so gobsmacked she dropped her binoculars. (Thats the birdwatching-type equivalent of total bowel control loss.)

And then we pointed out that that was a cheap place.

For the one centre that was within a greenhouse emissions acceptable distance with some play area and a policy of treating the kiddies as people and not "units", it was waaaay over $90 a day.

Which if you think about it, means that even for the slightly above-average-pay wage slave working 4 or 5-days a week you're pretty much in the coal mine a full extra day just to cover the care so you can go to work. It'd do your head in.

In the end it was decided we'd go with family day care - where the boy stays with a family rather than in a stalag, the cost is in the $60 a day range (excludes nappies and food), and waiting lists were far shorter. Luckily we'd decided to look at the right time - when kiddies were about to start school and hence some new places were trickling in. But which one?

The first place Mistress P inspected had lots of toys and a nice big yard.

"Oh, he'll love getting outside and playing out there, he just loves being ou..." she said.

"HE'S TOO SMALL - NO OUTSIDE FOR HIM!" said the lady in a Seinfeld soup-nazi-like voice.

Mmmm... ok...

The next lady was very nice and would have allowed him glimpses of the sun, but... no yard at all, and a somewhat Spartan interior and toy count. Much as we'd like to breed a future warrior (preferably of the "eco" type) this really didn't seem good enough.

We wondered what to do. Seemed the options were ultimate bankruptcy, stalag 13, Cell block H or Kapooka.

Then a last call from the council.

"Theres one last place - and its just around the corner from you..."

And indeed it was.

With a great big play room with interactive toys galore, a large backyard, a lady who loved walks to the nearby park and getting outside, 3 young daughters who ravished Master M the moment they laid eyes on him (as do all the laydees of course), a little dog kept outside (both a positive and a negative; Mike loves dogs, but dogs can be unpredictable if they get beaten up by little boys), and lots of older kiddies on her books who get dropped off at kindy in the middle of the day hence leaving M with one-on-one care.

Looked great.

"We'll take it."

And indeed thats now been the case since the start of the year, and will soon be upped from two days a week to three.

A winner all round - to the point that, unlike friends who have to tear themselves away from a bawling kiddie every child-care morning, our lad's face lights up like a Victorian national park in summer when he sees Jackie (his carer) or her girls.

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Mistress P
Date: 20 Mar 2008 09:56
Subject: Re: Mmm... its so true...

Hey - I think I had a moment like you had when you picked up Mike that time and he had learnt new dance moves... As we rolled up to the door this morn he started giggling with delight. Then the eldest girl Bridget was holding him, and he was giving her lovely tight hugs, then looking around and grinning at all the goings on. What a fun place they have there. I am so glad he is going there rather than the other 2 families I went and checked out...

love you,
P.

Its enough to make you wonder what we're doing wrong at home.

On the boy front... lots of standing up (including being able to empty the dishwasher without hanging on), a fascination with whats in the toilet (¡Ay, caramba - we have to block access with the change table), some excellent sleeping right through the night, more skinny dipping during the heat, and (it troubles us to write this...) his first baby-cino at a cafe.

3 into 3 for 3

= 3 (happy campers).

Surfin' Smurf

We appear to have spawned the bookmuncher.

It stemmed from when the lad started getting into all manner of drawers and cupboards. And before you say "get some childproof locks"... well we have.
And he's worked out how to get round them too.
The best thing for keeping cupboards closed, we have found, is one of his mums hair-ties twisted to give optimal tension and looped around opposite handles.

However as dad was in the kitchen schleping through the dishes while mum was away at a big-wig conference in Canberra (which, by the way, was her first night away from the boy since conception...), dad heard a "rattle rattle" of buffet lock picking, a bit of "bang bang" of a buffet opening, and a subsequent "riiiiiipp riiiiiiip" of tearing of the "A", "B" and possibly half of "C" sections of the local yellow pages.

Indeed ripping up yellow pages appears to be his favourite activity at the moment and he can seemingly do it for hours. (A TelstraII shareholder in a previous life, perhaps?)

When he's not creating phone book confetti, he's been pushing his little truck around. Even more. And thats lead to a sudden confidence in being upright.

Hence when dad sprung him tearing into the Yellow Pages once again, instead of looking sheepish and innocent and all "Dolly did it...", he stood up, balanced there holding onto nothing but an advert for concreters (local), and just for a second gave all watching a sudden "ohmigod he's about to walk.." moment.

He didnt...

But indeed the past few days have brought a rapid increase in the lads free-standing hang time, including an impressive 15 second jobbie in the middle of a Sat'day arvo Baby Bunting frantic new-mum shopping frenzy. (We were offering to hire him out to the mums-to-be for product testing, but no one seemed to take us seriously. So we bought him a new ben and jerry... err... bill and ted.... ummm, no... phil and ted's fancy pants pram.)

The lads also taken a liking to eating inedibles. At first it was stones. We think most of them have been retrieved but that damn law of averages thingy suggests that, just like the infinite size of the universe multiplied by the miniscule chance of life elsewhere = aliens exist, well given the volume of stones placed in the mouth X risk of one getting through, there must be a few swishing through the lads intestine.

Where they'll now be mixing with at least one plum pip (whoops! insert "Dont tell the council nurse" disclaimer here), raw green tomatoes stolen from the garden and, after our long weekend at the seaside of McCrae , about a house-builds worth of sand. In fact he tried to eat so much of the stuff we're surprised he didn't start to poop glass.

Instead, given the recent aquisition of an ice cream bucket full of blueberries straight from the Kinglake farm (thanks Matt and Courtney), and the boys insatiable cravings thereof, he's been pooping a sort of sloppy purple.

Its kinda like opening the nappy of a smurf.

The McCrae trip (thanks Bev and Rob!), however, had many a highlight: his first self-held drink from a sippy cup, playing with the big boys (all of 2, 3 and 5 years old), more attempts to crawl into shipping channels (we blame the swimming lessons - he now keeps going even after his head has gone under) and a bit of star gazing - at 3:30am, from inside a pram, as dad blearily shuffled him around the Arthurs Seat lowlands to get him back to sleep.

A bookmunching blue-poo'ing self-standing star-gazing lock picker.
You cant accuse him of being boring.
Just cute.

Truckin' on.

Famous 20-20 hindsight words #1: "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Mum and dad had been contemplating a return to their old life and bike rides down to the beach, and in eager anticipation had been eyeing off bike trailers for Mike. Eventually one came up (thanks Derrick!) and they grabbed it.

A helmet was hunted down (more later), the lad bunged into the harness and off they headed with all the good intentions of joining Mistress P's long lost uni-friends reunion in the Bot gardens.

The grizzles started at the 2.5km mark. So the convoy stopped and reassessed. Oh dear. The Boy was slumped like he'd OD'd on illegal opiate; head down, body contorted sideways, helmet all askew. Any chiroparctor seeing it would have had a fit... of joy thinking about a dead cert future client.

Boy was subsequently slid back upright, belts altered and helmet realigned, but it seemed obvious. He's just too little. So back home it was, with boy sleeping most of the way, but again, in a position that'd make even David Blaine cringe. Total distance 5.5km.

Lets try again in a month.

Oh, and then theres the helmet itself.

When we finally found a size XS (44-48cm circumference with obligatory dinosaurs motif) we were chuffed that the lad a) would actually allow it to sit on his head for more than 20 seconds (as opposed to his sun hat which he tries to rip off instantly), and b) seemed physically excited by it.
Tops.

So on the way home from the bike shop we let him play with it in his car seat.

Now heres a tip for young players... dont.
We arrived home to find chunks missing from parts of the foam, and a very happy lad with bits of helmet being masticated gleefully by his 6 teeth and crusher gums. All i can say is...Lucky it was a short trip: we should have know that for the lad there is not a great difference between toys and food.

Speaking of food, we give you Lemon part deux; The times they are a changin'.

Or at least the boys tastes. See, a cupla months ago we were amazed when we had fish and chips and the bit he appeared to like most was not the fish, or even the chip, but rather the lemon.

Only this time when we had a picnic of fish and chips in the backyard, young Mike did indeed take a greater shine to the chips, but when he spotted the lemon clearly remembered his past fascination, grabbed the nearest slice and shoved it in his gob.

And recoiled in horror.

So he tried it again.

Yucko...

And again.

He appeared totally unable to stop himself yet totally unable to enjoy it. He was, well, stunned.

So he shimmied over to dad, who was lying back on the rug as you do in picnic mode, gazing up at a weather balloon/planet that he had become entranced by ("Well, it was a dot that just sat there a million miles up in the blue..."), and shoved the lemon in dads gob instead.

So much for getting any rest in the great outdoors. Or for that matter, sleep in general.

Ahhh.... Sleep.

It was all seeming so so good again. And then the lad went back into his recent pattern of sleep till 3:30am (note... AM), stay awake for as long as possible necessitating a mum/dad tag team after the first hour, and then attempt to sleep in blissfully unaware of how rooted mum and dad feel as one or both headed off to work. Thanks boy!

Whats funniest(?) is the boys apparent desire to sleep yet inability to kip down.

See, middle of the night theres all this flipping and flopping and arching of the back and "I DONT WANNA GO TO SLEEP!", but put him down on the floor with a couch cushion and he'll take two or three crawls forward till he's over it and

...{slump}...

he flops down and lays there, head all sideways and arms spread and all "aahhh.... sleep glorious sleep...".

Then he realises his reign of terror has only another 83 years to go, and he's up and off again and awake... for two or three more crawls then

... {slump}.

Sleep glorious sleep.

Finally, his latest mode of transportation; truck driving. Well.. not so much a truck as a plastic thing with wheels and a handle. And not so much driving as staggering (those opiates again?). See below... well we're impressed anyway.

Clean wax and polish as you dust

Some people like things clean.

Some people like things neat.

Mike is arguably of the former, and clearly the latter. ("Just like his dad" says mum.)

Mike's new found philosophy is to avoid immediate clutter at all costs. This mostly consists of throwing stuff from where it is to where it aint - preferably out of view and, if seated above ground level, onto a floor.

Its the "sweep it under the carpet" philosophy of house cleaning.
As opposed to actual cleaning.

Though granted he does appear to have a touch of the spick and span.

Case in point... Dads having a shower with boy flipping about the floor in amongst the dirty washing. ("Gotta have a hobby boy" says dad...)

Boy looks at dad.
Boy looks at water.
Boy looks at dirty washing.
Boy picks up washing and piece by piece, tosses it into shower with dad.

Fair enough.

Or in mums case, and arguably far more entertaining, while she was kicking back in a nice, relaxing, well earned end of day bath, boy crawls in, peeks over the top, looks at the water, gives mum a winning smile,...
and tosses in her slippers.

In between the clearfelling, the boy has swung back into a good "sleep all night" mode. Or at least 3-4 nights out of 5. Unfortunately dad hasnt. His body seems stuck in the 6-hours sleep routine, boy awake or no. Its driving him nuts. Especially now that he's back at work 5 full time and doesnt have a mid week catch up.

Life with a 10 month old; less sleep, more washing, infinite chaos.
And you wouldn't give it up for quids.

Rebel without a cause

Well thats it.

The boys gone all independent. And Houdini like.

"High chair... what you reckon I've got time to just sit around all day?? Sod that..." as he tries (and has succeeded) to climb out, despite being attached in via harness and all.

"Long sleeve shirt on a hot day? Are you parents morons?" so he pulls it off. Or at least half of it so he ends up moping about in a nice lil off the shoulder number.

"Nappy... do you think I wanna live in poo??" hence he rips open the tabs and thrusts his bits to the world.

Speaking of which, he has well and truly discovered them, and will happily hang onto his wedding tackle for a considerable percentage of his nappy free time.

And then theres the fussiness.

Whereas he would have thought he'd died and gone to baby heaven if he fell into a vat of brochilli only 3 months ago, its now treated with the disdain some may say it deserves. Quicker than you can say "hahaha look at dad scraping food scraps off the floor below my high chair like the slave i think he is" its gone. Straight over the side of the chair and onto the polished boards.

Followed by a lean over, stretch of the neck and gaze down just to make sure it landed far enough away.

In fact he's taken to doing this with many of the main vegetable food groups. His mums theory is that as he goes to less and less boob and more and more bottle, he's realising that bottle drinking is the easiest way of all to ingest fuel, and probably the sweetest too.

He's also discovered a new toy; a.k.a, the dirty clothes basket (dcb for short). Whereas the parents have scoured high and low for a suitable "walker" for him to push around as he gets ever nearer to being a real toddler, he's discovered that the dcb is of perfect height and frictional qualities with the floor to be the walking device of choice. Hence it appearing in all corners of the house, often attached to a great big smile.

Heres just hoping he can avoid celebrating his biped adventures by sucking on the used jocks within.

On the home front he's loving and advancing in his weekly swim class (see pics). He's scored top marks in advanced bubble blowing and will advance to being dunked like a baptist in no time. Silly Dad still doesn't know the rhymes but the teacher is overlooking such parental failures. For now.

He's also settled amazingly well into his family day care - but who wouldn't when all the little girls treat him like a king. Seems they cant resist the flash of that smile...
The boys gunna be a heartbreaker. (You've all been warned.)

Finally, the hens night. Being 10 months old - as he turned last week- seems to get you special dispensations. Young mums (other than your own) rip their tops off in front of you, you get to crawl about the floor in womens change rooms at the pool, and no one blinks an eye at you being the only (unpaid...) male at a hens night. Its like living through a scene from Porkys.

And he wont remember a second of it.

Einstein Mike

Another week and another trip away for the lad.

This time down to Sandy Point and yet another chance to paddle in water (he turned blue; ocean waves and seabreeze through the baby-rashy dont appear to mix - a wetsuit has been ordered) and get sand blown into most major orifices.

But the most fascinating - and arguably the funniest thing - in Sandy Point on the weekend just gone was Mike's tears.

See Master M was joined in Sandy by his little friend Ashley, who he tended to look up to. Which isnt all that surprising really, given Master A is twice his age (18 months) and hence somewhat superior in length.

What was initially surprising, and thereafter both cute and clearly manipulative at the same time, was when young A would burst into sobs for one reason or another (as babes do) and Mike would hear it.
Then look at Ashley.
Then look at Dad/Mum/any adult within range
Then look at Ashely
Then look at Dad/Mum/any adult within range
Then put on a bitova lip tremble.
Then....
"WHAHAHAAAAAAAAA!!!"

Wether its a sympathy thing, some carefully orchestrated "me not him" thing, or an evolutionary development thing (cos if master A really had spotted that pterodactyl about to swoop and munch them all, it really would be advantageous for mass wailing to be enacted and parents summoned) we dont know.

But geez it was funny. (Errrr... thats meant in a compassionate way of course.)

Either way, there's parallel evidence that the lad is smart. Maybe too smart.

Hows these apples.

The boy loves a bath. Well at least he loves splashing about and playing with bath toys and yanking on the taps and attempting to rip out dads, errr... "upper leg" hairs when they share a tub. What he doesn't appear to like - and we guess the reason they go over and over it in swim school - is having a plastic boat full of water tipped over his head.

"One two three gooooo" {tip}.

Hence he's devised a plan.

Every time he seems the boat of water being lifted up, senses a slight tip and/or hears the "one two three"s, he's orf.

Straight to the side of the bath where he hangs his head as far out from the edge and over the bathmat/floor as possible.

It makes hairwashing bloody hard.

Lil bugger. Lil smart bugger.

No worries though - we've finally put this intelligence to work. Unloading the dishwasher (see video below). Or at least plucking cutlery stuff outta the dishwasher and nearest parent ripping it from his grasp before he impales him (or them) on it.

Finally, its been his first week (well, two days) of 8 am till 6 pm child care - or in this case, family day care, which basically means he lives with a family during the working day rather than being bundled into a room full of kiddies at a creche. It breaks his mums heart. And nearly exploded dads lungs as he peddled home furiously to collect the lad in time.

Hence Master M has a new lady in his life: Jackie - plus her kids and the couple of others she cares for. And thus far its been all tired smiles, and some weird new form of YMCA-like dancing, when its come to home time (i.e., thumbs up from Mike).

Yet another new chapter begins....

Mikerosoft

We've been suffering a lot of death in the Baghdad end of Hampton recently.

The blue screen of death.

Only for dad its not a case at screaming at his computer and cursing the anti-christ that is Microsoft, but rather wailing in "I've just sat down - not now!" horror at the television screen and cursing the curiosity that is Mike(rosoft).

See, we have this telly. And when it cant get a signal of any sort it doesn't go the fuzz/snow like an ordinary telly, it goes blue. We also have an aerial cable that snakes around the room and descends to a port just next to the couch. And finally, we have this boy (you may have read about him) who is at a stage in life where nothing shall remain as it was. Including things plugged into walls. Such as aerials.

Hence it would seem his sole purpose in life is to wiggle and squirm and push and shove and hack and pull until whatever object that is placed in front of or around said aerial port is circumvented and the cable removed and dad made to wail.

He'll make a great cat burglar.

On the development front he's also been spied standing. Holding a carrot.

Mum had left the fridge open for a tick and quicker than you can say "oh my goodness the chips!" he was in. And pilfered himself a carrot.

He was so proud of himself that he stood bolt upright and displayed it triumphantly to the world, somewhat oblivious to the fact that he no longer had any attachment to mother earth other than his two feet. Mum turned around just in time to see him stand there alone for a few seconds, unaided.

"Wow"...she thought.

"Carrot" ...he thought, somewhat oblivious to his promotion up the food chain to biped.

Though in other aspects it would appear he still hasn't quite made up his mind whether he'd prefer to follow the amphibian evolutionary path. Cos the boy sure loves a swim.

Case in point.
The week past (and hence the gap in the blog) saw the lad thrust off again into the realms of academia, dragged along to another science conference. Only this time it was somewhat closer to home - the wilds of inner city Geelong - and this time he had nana and grandpa along for the ride and babysit.

On one particularly dull afternoon mum and dad jumped the good ship science and the whole tribe decamped to Portarlington. And as soon as Mike saw the tranquil water he wanted in. So much so that he had to be stripped naked and allowed to crawl into the shallows post haste.

Shallows being a bit too girly for the lad he promptly headed towards the major shipping channels. Grandad saved the day, acted tug boat and a maritime disaster was averted.

This love of the water convinced all and sundry that an end-of-conference mad dash home was in order for Mike's first scheduled swim class, which pretty much consisted of Mike getting dragged around in a whirlpool/soup of 6-12 month olds, having water tipped over his head ("one-two-three goooo!" {tip}), and Dad realising that everyone else seemed to know the full choir book of nursery rhymes while he could only belt out "Ring around a rosie".

Or was that "Whole lotta rosie"?



Mum, Mike and Babcia, Mikes great-grandmother...

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.)