Mr Mr Man got his first tooth. Yes folks, without you needing to scroll back through the archive, he's just under 5 months. Bear was about 2 weeks older when she got her first, and it was but an eyelid blink and a few bleeding nipples and she had a full set of choppers.
He's been coughing and scraping and I wonder if this is it. No other symptoms that would suggest swine flu, thankfully, although his dad commutes on a busy train through the heart of Clifton Hill, ground zero for the Victorian explosion in porcine influenza.
An empathetic boy, he sensed things were awry in the past few days. Long squeezes on my shoulder, looking out, thinking, pensive. A Mitta Man has depth beyond his months- although on reflection I baulked at sending his CV to The Monthly.
When he wakes he doesn't generally cry, he talks, warbles, a simple narrative that I'm sure weaves the wonders of breast milk, giggles and constant sleep into a tale worth telling. He often kicks off at 5am; we laugh, despite the time, then bring him in for a last nap between us. He always looks pretty impressed with this achievement.
I got home for bath time, via a detour through Northcote Shopping Centre. I cuddled each in turn, got them into jarmies, handed him over for a last feed, brought a Bear down to the couch where we watched Maggie and Simon making something ridiculous and chocolaty then put her to bed.
For Beloved I had Sparkling Shiraz, Seppelt, 2005, and a bag of hastily chosen lamb cutlets. These I rolled over and over in olive oil and rosemary and grilled on the BBQ with all the love one can muster when, um, grilling on the BBQ.
We crashed in front of the Wednesday funnies, more Shiraz, ploughing through a box of el cheapo ALDI choc bikkies. No, not doing a product endorsement for those, although they are ultra cheap and we did manage to put away the entire packet.
Both girls sleep now; Beloved snoring lightly on the couch. He is fusting upstairs, perhaps waking, perhaps not yet. The cats have stopped batting the pink hair band that's entertained them half the night. Mao has taken up a post, like a sentinel, on the arm of the couch. Minh is ambling and just moments ago needed reminding that no, cats aren't allowed on the kitchen table. She threw me a glance that said I'm too cute to be angry with and pottered away.
I cannot say too many times that this, my family, is a good thing.
The rhetorical appeal of The Donald - The Donald is a demagogue and central to demagoguery is wish fulfilment politics. Demagoguery is not about believing in things, but in saying whatever the ...
1 day ago