Does a bear shit in the woods (or just all over mummy...)?

As was described to me today over the phone while I pored over the administrative crap that seems to dominate my job at the moment, a bear shat. She let rip. An explosion in a sewerage processing plant. A world of choc for mum and bear to share.

She'd been funny for a day or so, eating too little, not sleeping enough at times, not pooing enough, several times in a row. We worried; could she be sick? Is it something we did? Something mum ate? Something dad fed to mum? Is it bird flu? The bubonic plague?

But I didn't think she was ill. Although she was more pensive (or something looking like 'pensive', perhaps pent-up's more like it) than usual this morning, during my daily 5 minutes of lap time before I am wrenched from my loved ones by the irresistible pull of 8.30 Epping line, she seemed alert, her skin and eyes seemed fine, she still spoke... adwu... argool.... ewou...

And it would seemed her message was simple: stand back, I got something brewing. The explosion got past her nappy, past her legs, onto beloved, beloved's clothes, furniture. Her bowels announced their arrival in the world of serious movement. And we were proud.

What a good little Bear!

The Bear Regency

Another grand Saturday looking at houses with Bear. Really, she's such a good girl. While the process is slightly testing on her parents' patience, Bear quietly slips off into dreamland in her capsule and stays that way while dad carries her around and works his maligned muscles manoeuvring her through doorways and around the legs of fellow house inspectors.

"Does this floor need a restump or did the earth just do a little shift?"

*blissfully sleeping Bear*

"Oh, pink and white tiling in the kitchen, how tasteful!"

*blissfully sleeping Bear*

"Nice to see the neighbours have 3 V8s, we'll have to have them over for bookchat..."

*blissfully sleeping Bear*

So it goes.

We've moved north from the Northcote Hub, hill, knob, whatever one might call it, slid up along the slats of temperate Thornbury, and now, along no doubt with everyone else who doesn't have a spare $600,000 wedged in their arsecrack, we are undertaking recon missions into hitherto uncharted territory- Preston above Bell Street, Coburg, Pascoe Vale South, Regent.

A level of geographical precision takes hold, as Preston becomes a hierarchy of preferences from South Preston West to North Preston West to Preston Proper not-too-close-to-Northie. Regent West trumps Regent Ressie. Coburg North and Pascoe Vale Proper get excluded.

Bear looks out the window at alternating period homes and butt ugly townhouses springing out of every spare crevass. The decision's yours, she implies, just get on with it. Mao and Minh-Minh concur...

Proximity to cafes and shops becomes at once more relevant and harder to achieve, because when you have a Bear and two energetic catlings to cultivate the fact that a 3 bedroom fully renovated period home with a nice garden in Regent is the same price as a small rickety townhouse in Northcote, 10 minutes down the road, is hard to resist.

Bear sits next to me, waiting for hugs, so it's adios for now...