2, is the magic number

On entering the third hour of our inaugural journey to Manchester with young Tboy, having only just made it onto the M25 (and even then into a giant queue rather than actually going anywhere) we began to suspect all would not be well. Eight hours later, our suspicions were confirmed. Probably best not to dwell on the wailing and the lamentation and yes I am talking mostly about myself, though he did make his opinions on the Hammersmith road works, M25 congestion,  M1 road works, M6 accident that wasn't an accident and sundry queuing in a sodden nappy, very clearly felt. It was with a measure of relief that we arrived at SC/G's new gaff and a hearty chigger of Wolf Blass. Ta to the Holl'ster for the loan of her teen boudoir and to the little man for remaining remarkably composed, all things considered.

On Saturday, the G Posse assembled en masse for CG's second birthday, and as you can see above, our hostess took everything from posing artfully with bday cake, to looking swaive in a purple wig, well in her diminutive stride. This was the first gathering of all the grandchildren together under one roof, which was a photo-call if ever there was one. Alas, poor Tboy had no choice but to be ignominiously propped up in the corner by his Uncle M, but at least he was looking at the camera. We were fed supremely well and kept thoroughly entertained by our Social Events rep, SC/G; she's a good'n she is, a real keeper!

All too soon we were back on the road and another mammoth journey for our weary little soldier. Fortunately for us, Uncle D had versed us in the ways of 'shhpatting' and as soon as we heard any niggling, we immediately shhpatted all over him and he was off in the arms of Morpheus in no time. (This is a lie) Shhpatting is actually impossible to do without hyperventilating and passing out on top of your child, so while you may utilize it as a method of putting yourself to sleep, the jury is still out as to its efficacy in lulling a child into slumber. So stick that in your shhpat n' smoke it, Child Whisperer!

B   

 

Six week smile?

Yes well, unfortunately, said smile seems to be in response to some dark and devious somnolent thought. We've yet to see any reaction to Papa's inane gurning, though newbie that I am, I continue to be fooled by the smile/defecate interface. We continue then, to receive the Soulseeker Stare (tm) that seems to look into your primal core and find it wanting. Technically, tomorrow is six weeks, so he has a day to perfect his finest smirk, before Daddy turns his gurning dial up to Full Idiot.

Sadly, poor wean has succumbed to a nasty chest infection, care of some unknown entity (JG coffcoffcoff!) leaving him with the kind of bronchial hack one normally associates with a fifty-a-day Woodbine habit. This has added to his already exotic and extensive repertoire of alien, animal and indeed, alien animal noises with which he regales us throughout the night. I should build a hide out of muslin and soiled diapers in the corner of the room and observe him undetected, but that would be silly, not to mention deeply unpleasant.

Next week we will attempt our first cross country sojourn mit baby, to introduce him to his cousins. I am confidant this will all go without a hitch, no really!

B