When I was a young boy, perhaps 10, I wore a lamb’s knuckle to school for one week, on a chain around my neck.

I discovered the knuckle in our Sunday lamb roast one evening and suggested to my father that I would like to wear it to school. Rather than discourage this suggestion my father boiled it down until it was clean and gristle free, drilled a hole in it, and gave it to me on a silver chain.

I distinctly remember it bulging awkwardly underneath my t-shirt like an untreated goiter. I kept it secluded in this fashion during class time and then allowed it to dangle free during recess and lunch, a caveman trinket swinging and hitting me in the chin while I competed furiously at hand-ball, or wall-ball, or dodge-ball, or some other ball related activity.

It only took until the first afternoon for a teacher to ask me about it: “Is that a special bone of some sort? Did you get it on holiday?” No, I answered, I found it in our lamb roast last Sunday. The teacher had no further questions for me at that time but presumably went to the staff room to discuss my adornment in an incredulous tone.

If I am being honest my father had done an imperfect job in boiling down the gristle. Some chewy looking particles remained; and even a rudimentary inspection would confirm my jewel was more likely to be table scrap than a petrified dinosaur molar, or something else of actual or sentimental value.

The children loved it. My hand-ball game was on fire, buoyed by the confidence that only the adulation of a group of primary school children can give you. Rumours circulated about how and why I had come upon this beast’s knuckle bone, and what captivating tale there must be behind its acquisition. I, however, did not feed these rumours. Throughout this brief but memorable period I was always completely honest about the entire story; we usually have a leg of lamb on a Sunday, I had asked my dad whether I could gnaw on the leg bone, he had said yes, I had sucked on it for a while, spat out the knuckle, liked the look of it, asked my dad whether I could wear it on a chain, he said yes and then enabled my request.

I was oblivious to the opportunity for fabricated tales of heroism with which I had been presented, and seemingly oblivious to the fact that the truth was, well, a little bit weird.

Anyway, by Thursday the spots of remaining gristle had become a little funky and my teacher, who had likely been discussing and planning her next approach since the Monday, gently asked me again to recount the story, confirmed whether or not the bone had any sort of sentimental value, not really, and then suggested that perhaps I might consider whether it needed to come back to school with me on Monday. It didn’t.

I am not sure where the knuckle ended up. I continued to wear the chain for a little while but quite soon that too disappeared and the incident drifted over the years into the realms of anecdote.

Today I believe I experienced some of what my father did all those years ago that lead him to what objectively might be considered a reasonably odd decision.

Exhausted and hungry after an exhilarating Gymbaroo today, Milo and I shared a lamb shank for lunch, which he devoured aggressively. At the conclusion of the meal he reached his little arms forward toward the bone, picked clean but still tasty looking. I did what any loving parent would do and handed it to him. The focused joy and systematic gnawing I witnessed was heart-warming. It looked like a small dinosaur bone in his little hands as he waved it around and sucked furiously on its knuckled end.

It was only when he really started to pull with his teeth at the bits of fatty gristle that remained attached to the bone, with success, that I removed the impressive shank from his firm grasp. The forlorn look on his face and his little lips still smacking together were heart breaking, and I know at that moment had he asked me to fashion it into a belt buckle, or a head-piece or a hair-comb I would have said yes immediately and put the kettle on.

 Shankin’

Today was our penultimate Gymbaroo together. Invigorated by Valdis’ words and gestures the previous afternoon Milo looked relaxed, peering out the window at birds and aeroplanes on the drive over. As we arrived Felix looked up from his mop and gave us a gentle smile and encouraging nod, then returned to disinfecting the equipment. I thought I identified a hint of concern as he quickly returned to his work.

There had been ‘chatter’ all week on the Gymbaroo forums that something ‘big’ was planned for this session. We had caught phrases like ‘tube of terror’, ‘the strangler’, ‘tubenado’ and ‘tube the noob’. The previous afternoon Valdis had also briefly looked up from his Kandy Krush Saga and grunted something rather cryptic at us while Milo was scaling Grandma’s Cottage; “I hope Milo isn’t afraid of the dark”. I looked up quickly for an explanation but his head was already down again, only the coiffed badger could be seen.

We had dismissed it at the time as the ravings of a brain over-stimulated by animated Kandy but now, standing in the gym room for the second last time together, it was soberingly clear

Snaking out before us was the longest, most intimidating tunnel Milo or I had ever seen; an ominous deep red in colour it was at least twice as long as any Milo had ever attempted. It curled left and right, into valleys and up over yellow foam triangles that looked like immense pieces of cheese discarded by a giant mouse. We peered into it together, and we could not see the exit.

Milo went through the motions during the stretching, dancing, massaging, odd rhyming, upside-downing. Milo predictably crushed a limp-wristed opposition in the wheelbarrow but I could tell he derived no pleasure from this. His mind was on other things.

Uncomfortably soon we heard the words “free time in the gym now”. The usual exuberance was absent. None of the babies moved toward the gymnasium. Several feigned a renewed interest in the bucket of assorted plastic ducks, trying to convince their parents they wanted to explore it further, one crawled back to the pile of pantyhose filled with rattly balls and pretended it was the greatest toy he had yet encountered. One of the smaller kids simply began to cry.

One by one the babies were scooped up by their parents and taken into the gym, deposited here and there to shimmy unsteadily along beams, bounce listlessly on the mini-tramp, pull at the robo-turtle’s leg and recline in the sheepskin lined plastic shell. Milo and I took up a position alongside the rolling wedge which offered a good vantage point of the demon tunnel’s gaping mouth.

Milly, a plucky, smiley baby who has always competed well and is near the head of the class in terms of walking progress, was deposited directly at the cavern’s entrance. Milly’s mother then took a tambourine to the exit and attempted to coax her through. Her voice sounded like a distant echo and the tambourine a tinny whisper. Milly’s smile slipped away for the first time in weeks as she edged into the darkness and out of view.

All baby eyes were on Milly, breath collectively held. The tunnel vibrated slightly to indicate Milly’s process, which was slow and stuttering. After what felt a baby lifetime Milly re-emerged from the entrance, wide-eyed and unsmiling. Milly’s mother arrived swiftly and took her to the horizontal ladder to recuperate.

One by one we watched babies confront this challenge, many could not even be coaxed to begin the journey, even when encouraged by the tambourine with streamers attached. Those that did venture inside lasted only moments before scampering back to freedom. Lennox had been notable in his absence at the mouth of this fiendish tube, executing impressive routines on the lower level apparatus around the room.

Eventually Milo burst out of my arms, through the short wooden culvert which marked the entrance to the beast and disappeared out of view. I scurried alongside the tunnel as it bulged and shook with Milo’s progress, attempting to beat him to the exit. He took the corners swiftly and moved up and down the hills and valleys as if he were back at Valdis’ gym, clawing his way over the Plain of Pyramids. I heard him growling and yelping with determination as he plunged through the dark.

I traversed the tunnel and slid onto my stomach, desperate to peer into the abyss and locate my son. All was silent. The tunnel was still.

Just as I was considering whether I could squeeze my shoulders into the tunnel, and how embarrassing it would be to have the Gymbaroo panel cut me out of it, Milo’s smiling face popped around the corner and he ploughed toward me with his jaunty crawling style. I waved the dodecahedron at Milo to encourage him the last few metres but all of a sudden he paused.

It was then I noticed Lennox at my left shoulder, crawling past me with his eyes on Milo and one hand on the dodecahedron. Lennox, at great pace, covered the metres between them swiftly and they met for the first time, face to face, in the red tinged darkness of the devil’s throat.

The two great rivals then awkwardly shuffled around each other as if they were square dancing, aligned themselves and crawled happily out together, chatting in conflicting languages that neither understood.

Lennox’s father and I scooped up our respective champions and chatted comfortably about the difficulties of executing Swim School alone, the complexities of managing Gymbaroo expectations and how easy it is to not shave for days at a time as a stay-at-home dad.

The parachute and farewell song drifted past us, Milo grinning and satisfied at his ability to overcome his apprehension of the tunnel, and of Lennox. Perhaps these two great rivals now have the foundation of a great friendship, as they both prepare for their graduation to the ‘Fairy Penguins’ in the coming weeks. Or perhaps they were simply caught in a moment. Time will tell.

So we finish the story where we began, two satisfied lads eating slow cooked lamb shank together, and dreaming of the future.

• Total length of devil’s throat (m) – 6
• Number of Gymbaroo sessions remaining in Part One – 1
• Pairs of jean shorts fashioned out of worn-out jeans – 0
• Days since last shave – 6

Today we saw what surely must be the hipsterist dad in the Inner West, which (to loosely quote the Big Lebowski) would place him high in the runnin’ for hipsterist worldwide.

He was of course riding a bicycle, single speed at least but I think a fixie, beard with accentuated moustache, flanny, leather waistcoat, some form of checked kerchief, a hat which looked as if he could be in the French Foreign Legion during the week but could equally return to Paris on the weekend to paint surrealist artworks without needing to change his headwear, no helmet, leather sandles, no socks, tight black jeans. He was riding one-handed with his other hand holding a leash at the end of which was a dog which I presume was a rescue dog, salvaged from the horrors of ‘Big Business’. The dog was ugly, due to its deliberately impure breeding, but in all the right places such that it was oddly handsome and quite appealing; somewhat like Owen Wilson. The dog was also sporting a checked kerchief.

Attached to the stylish bicycle was a baby chariot of some sort, but not like ours which is all German and solid and safe. This one looked dangerous and exciting as if the dad had fashioned it himself out of an old tent during the smithing workshop he gives once a week behind the old railway yard. He rode with impunity at a leisurely pace in the middle of the road. He was cool.

Milo and I gazed at them enviously as they passed, Milo peering out of our very solid and roadworthy Uppababy Alta, which accords to all Australian safety standards. Milo didn’t even have his moustache onesie on and I was wearing both a sensible shoe and hat. We sighed and continued on our way, vowing to build something out of wire coat-hangers that evening or at least install a bee colony on our balcony.

Milo is currently showing signs that he wishes to move to a one sleep a day routine. I am resisting. One sleep a day would greatly impinge on our lifestyle and many daytime commitments; Gymbaroo, Swim School, long lunches in the park. I am not sure how long we can fight the tide but I have only three weeks to go on this full-time adventure so I am sure with careful planning and well-timed walks we can achieve it.

After our customary morning stroll Milo did not sleep today until 1000, which meant of course he did not wake until almost 1200. Inspired by hipster dad I prepared fresh foraged ‘pick n mix’ couscous fingers for lunch. In stark contrast to the previous failed crispy experiment Milo was quite interested in these uber treats and ate with enthusiasm.

Milo has this week become fascinated by the scrolling numbers in lifts. Whenever we approach a lift he giggles with excitement then points with his little claw-fisted pointing style at the numbers in anticipation of them changing. When they do he bobs around in his pram, or in your arms, hooting and grinning. We always count the numbers as they change which makes us feel like exceptional parents, using the natural environment to enrich our child’s mind at every opportunity, as if we are in an episode of Sesame Street. In reality he just enjoys the little red lights, a lot.

Unblinking fascination in the lift

Milo had his afternoon nap in the car as we went visiting my cousins who are in town. This was a rare and brave manoeuvre as we would not be home until after sunset at which time Milo must surely turn into a pumpkin. We needn’t have been concerned. Milo was delighted by the new faces, new books to pull off shelves, contraband cookie fed to him by my fiendish cousin, and even some music with rude words in it.

Milo remained awake in the car on the way home and we arrived home at precisely the same time as Kuepps. Milo, who was already overstimulated from his lift journey, beside himself at the unexpected pleasure of encountering his mum in the corridor.

Last night we finished Season One of the West Wing. My father and brother last weekend opined that perhaps it is a little obnoxious to be 15 years behind on a television series and then get upset at people who want to talk about it around you. I concede they might have a point but even so I will offer no spoilers except to say we are still in shock.

Postscript for today: As our readership has exploded beyond my mum and her Bridge group I have decided to change the names of some of our key characters. Valdis is ubiquitous and so will remain, forever, Valdis, but other changes have been made. Don’t be confused.

• Centimetres of gap between sandal and trouser on hipster dad – 7
• Number of contraband choc-chips smuggled into Milo’s mouth by my cousin – 3
• Hours spent cutting old flannelette pyjamas into neck kerchiefs for sale at the markets – 0
• Hours spent cataloguing existing bee species on our balcony for apiary preparation – 0.5

Milo’s version of self-settling is currently a protracted, noisy, violent thrash-fest for which he demands an attentive audience. We call it ‘free-flopping’ and, so long as you are not in a hurry, it is hilarious.

I have thought in detail about how to adequately describe free-flopping; my best attempt is as follows. It is a combination of an inelegant green sea-turtle on the beach, labouring its way toward the water with its four fins working inefficiently in unison, a 9kg salmon that has just been brought on deck, bouncing and flipping in a completely unpredictable and potentially dangerous fashion, and Elaine Benes dancing.

Milo is no longer interested in being bounced or rocked to sleep in any way, he is also not pleased about falling asleep alone in his cot, so we are currently stranded in some kind of ‘self-settling halfway house’ in which Milo requires a parent lying next to him on the spare bed, playing no active role, while he violently ‘free-flops’ his way into a peaceful slumber.

This protracted process routinely takes between 15 and 45 minutes and involves Milo poking himself in the forehead and eyes with his schnuller, pulling your ears and nose with his little pincer fingers, pulling his ears and nose, slapping himself on the top of his head, aggressively trying to eat the cushions that are lined up to stop him inadvertently bashing his head into the wall, kicking you in the face, head-butting you in the chin, tossing his schnuller onto the ground whilst grinning at you, kneeling on all fours before spontaneously falling face-first onto the mattress, clapping and, at all times, desperately trying to leap off the bed with no regard for his own personal safety. It is difficult not to giggle.

Throughout this process it appears completely improbable that it might ever lead to Milo being asleep. But it does. At some point Milo’s sleeping subconscious wins the battle against his vibrant and energetic conscious mind and he falls asleep wherever he happens to be at that moment. For Kuepps it is regularly with Milo lying on his back horizontally across her stomach, his head dangling over one side and his arms and legs splayed as if in the midst of a star jump. For me it is quite often with Milo upside-down, his nose touching my knees and his feet in my face.

At this moment you have reached a critical phase of the free-flopping process. There are no guidelines as to when to attempt the cot-transfer but, go too early and the process will almost certainly begin anew.

Like delicately levering up a pancake with a spatula, you squeeze your hands underneath his hips and neck and gently prise him off the mattress. At this point he is usually dangling, head lolling around and his limbs flopping as if he is a ventriloquist’s marionette, done for the night. Hopefully you have maintained contact with his schnuller throughout the free-flopping sequence, although this is sometimes very difficult to achieve.

All that then remains is to lower him gently into the cot, stick the schnuller back into his mouth and dive quickly but silently, face down into the corner of his room and hold your breath for 20-30 seconds while you listen to see if his last gasp thrashing (which will always occur) will lead to sleep or free-flopping phase 2 for the night.

Once you are confident the child is truly asleep you very carefully get to your feet, millimetre by millimetre ease the door handle down then slip out, hoping desperately the cats are not directly on the other side of the door waiting to dart into his room and pounce on his face or meow in their enthusiastic, insistent way which may bring you down at the very last hurdle.

Over the weekend we obtained a potentially vital piece of information, there is a day-time training gym for Aspiring Gymbaroo Professionals (AGPs) in our neighbourhood. Lennox is bang in trouble.

After Milo’s morning nap I loaded him up with tuna, brown rice and super-purified kale paste and we went out in search of this secret gym, reportedly located in a disused aluminium smelter and operated by a Latvian man named Valdis. Valdis’ surname is lost to history, as is his precise age. Felix, the sponge monkey at our Gymbaroo, claims Valdis was a Commandant in the Latvian National Partisans, fighting the Soviet occupiers in post-war Latvia. Valdis’ family farm was collectivised when he was a young man but he remained on the property, using the many now dormant fertiliser silos as secret training gyms for other young Partisans. Some say these silos are the birth-place of Gymbaroo. The activities, which were in essence combat and fitness training, were disguised by mindless songs, tambourine and maraca throwing, remote-control wheel-barrowing, ‘slobber or toss’ games and rhymes about Jack and Jill, in case they were interrupted by patrolling Soviet soldiers. Valdis survived the occupation, made his way to Australia on an illegal Patagonian Toothfish trawler and, as the story goes, set up the very first Gymbaroo, somewhere in the Eastern Suburbs of Sydney.

Having met Valdis today, this is a story I believe.

As per Felix’s instructions we strode bravely through a sprawling industrial estate; past overturned fixies, covering our noses to protect from the richly aroma’d smoke billowing from the local artisan roasters, picking our way over discarded pallets, soon destined to be up-cycled into wall gardens and coffee tables. There, behind the pop-up Bratwurst, Jaeger-Schnitzel and cold-drip coffee wagon we first saw him. A mountain of a man; ageless, a head of impossibly thick black and white streaked hair as if a coiffured badger was curled up asleep on his head, hands like loaves of rye bread, a gnarled face like an obscenely overgrown walnut, skin, scorched by the elements to a dark brown as if the toaster dial had been turned up for a frozen bagel and then forgotten so the next piece of fresh bread is slowly crisped to the point you know that no amount of scraping with a knife over the bin will ever render it edible. But you try anyway.

Valdis appeared to know we were coming. “Valdis?” I asked, half choking the word. He simply nodded and ushered us inside, quickly.

Valdis is a man of few words, but what he says, in his deep gravelly voice, you listen to; “No outside food, this is a nut free zone. Socks only or your feet will get stuck on the slippery dips. AGPs under three only allowed in Kandy-Land”. We turned out our pockets to show we were not smuggling in any tree nuts, or boiled eggs, or shell-fish, paid our fee and as we went to move into the gym Valdis had one more utterance for us “hey, Milo… good luck.” Milo and I smiled at Valdis and I am sure I saw the faintest of affectionate glimmers in his eye.

Save for “Gonna fly now” by Bill Conti which blared on a loop over the tinny post-war PA system, the gym was silent. We saw some familiar faces clambering, bouncing and rolling but inside Valdis’ gym outside relationships count for nought, we are Valdis’ people. We spoke to no-one.

Buoyed by the sense of occasion Milo went straight to work; clambering up Kandy Kastle with ease, shooting down the Whistling Slide, toppling over and under the padded tubes in the Corridor of Courage, padding his way up and over Grandma’s Cottage only to be faced by the tortuous hills and valleys of the Plain of Pyramids. Milo completed this circuit several times, did some free-work on the tubes and then clambered over to me and up on to my lap. He was done for the day.

Tube work

We loaded up the pram and headed back out into the elements. As we left Valdis gave us a small nod, no words but this was affirmation enough, then pulled the heavy roller door shut behind us. Milo fell asleep almost immediately in the pram so we wandered the streets for an hour while he rested.

After our afternoon snack I potted a pink daisy in an old steel bucket which I had previously painted powder blue, which is about the manliest thing you can do.

• Fastest time up Kandy Kastle – 14 seconds
• Number of steps to reach the pinnacle of Grandma’s Cottage – 7
• Litres of home-brewed hooch made from Vegemite – 0
• Think pieces submitted to the local paper on the steady decline in quality of Dunlop Volleys – 0

Running low on nappy wipes is terrifying. You feel like you are aboard the bus with Keanu Reeves in Speed 1 (not Jason Patric on the very slow-moving cruise ship in Speed 2); motoring at 51 miles/hr, hoping desperately no impediments will rise up in front of you, like an unfinished motorway or a pram filled with cans, praying that Dennis Hopper won’t realise Keanu simply looped the camera footage in the bus and that he is actually underneath unloading passengers right now.

No, it’s really not much like that actually. It’s far more like you are aboard a normal bus, without Keanu Reeves, but you only dipped a 1-2 section bus ticket (pre-Opal card days) and you are fully aware you have travelled well beyond those 2 sections. You have a heavy feeling in your stomach, looking feverishly at faces every time the bus stops, looking for an undercover ticket inspector. But you are committed. You could have bought more wipes but you didn’t. Now all you can do is wait, and hope, and ready yourself for the worst.

Last night we were down to 4 wipes. We both thought there was a reserve stash upstairs, where the surplus beers used to live. To our horror we realised late in the evening it was the reserve we had been using all day. The reserve, reserve actually; none in the travel bag either. Four.

I am a wipe-heavy nappy changer. I wield them like Chevy Chase in the Three Amigos, gargling his water in the desert, pouring it all over his face and onto the sand while Ned Nederlander and Lucky Day look on, parched and desperate. With 4, and some focus, I could manage up to a category 3 event. Kuepps, who is more miserly, could manage a category 4 I believe, if she knew from the outset she only had 4 to work with. However, if faced with a category 5 or a 5+ (AKA ‘Exploosion’) with such a limited supply we would be lost. I defy anybody to manage such a heinous event with just 4 wipes. It is impossible. Faced with the very real prospect of a 3am group shower, neither of us slept well.

But we were not punished. Like dipping 1-2 sections in Manly and stepping off the bus incident free at Wynyard Station, we had rolled the dice and not rolled whatever it is that you are trying to avoid rolling when playing Craps at the casino.

So the first order of business for Milo and I was to stroll up to the supermarket to remedy this situation immediately. When we got home Milo was thirsty so I offered him his ‘sippy cup’. The transition from bottle to sippy cup is supposed to offer hydration independence, but Milo appears disinterested or confused about how this is supposed to work. Rather, he has decided to transition directly to a cup as his preferred vessel. This, of course, is disastrous. Firstly, he always dips his chin down which means the fulcrum of the cup is well below his mouth; we are working against gravity before we begin. Secondly, he has convinced himself that chewing the cup is the most effective way to smooth the passage of water from cup to throat. Of course this is not the case. And thirdly, he seems only interested in performing this flawed guzzling. chewing style when sitting in my lap, preferably while the cup is hovering over my groin.

So after I changed my trousers Milo very willingly accepted my offer of a nap which lasted almost two hours. When he awoke we quickly prepared ourselves for departure as today was Milo’s first visit to the aquarium.

We were at first a little stumped by city road works but eventually found a park, purchased our annual pass and we were in. Milo was immediately intrigued by the low light and spiraling colours, but the tanks in the first few rooms are high and small and he could not really observe the action. After a short walk however Milo came face to face with an enormous, rather sedentary Barramundi. Milo’s eyes widened, he moved his head back and forth in short jerky motions between my face and the Barramundi’s, all the while clinging firmly to my wrist and making short disbelieving gaspy noises. Once a little courage had been mustered Milo started to paw at the glass and, using his pointy little index finger, attempted to touch the Barramundi on the nose. The gentle gaspy noises had begun to evolve to Milo’s patented throaty growly noises. However, at this point Milo’s curiosity and apprehension were still in the ascendancy and his utterances were rather restrained.

Any restraint Milo had shown evaporated when we entered the penguin room. Penguins dashing back and forth, breaching the water, pecking each other and chirping was more than he could handle. Milo tried to burst out of his pram seat belt while growling and giggling, again his eyes darting back and forth between me and the penguins as if to say “dad, are you seeing this??” They were like the birds he has seen on our balcony and the cats all wrapped up into one marvelous animal. He kicked his legs and waved his arms above his head while thrusting to be released from his pram until I rolled him out of the penguin room and into the Dugong and shark tunnel.

Well, these enormous aquatic beasts were almost more than Milo could handle. He babbled excitedly to himself whilst pointing at everything he could see. His finger was raised above his head more frequently than had Aleem Dar’s been during the first morning’s play at Trent Bridge not 12 hours before.

Milo’s best Aleem Dar

This base level of frenzied excitement did not ease and probably hit a crescendo in the Great Barrier Reef section where Milo could shimmy right up against the glass and stand face to face with these flitting, colourful, mystery beasts, his finger moving in a frenzy trying to track every creature.

Nose-to-nose

My spirit soared and my chest swelled at this wonderful moment of discovery we were sharing as father and son. As I was soaring and swelling an Italian tourist let me know that my son had just picked up a button off the ground and popped it into his mouth. A button of known origin is of choking size and therefore probably something to remove from your infant’s mouth, a button of unknown origin even more so. I thanked my friendly dad ally and quickly removed the button from Milo’s mouth. This man was very generous, noting that his 2 and 4 year old girls still find things on the ground and stick them into their mouths immediately; but it was comforting to know that even in a moment of such shared bliss, parenting embarrassment is likely to be just around the corner.

We were now satisfied with our aquatic adventure so headed back to the car. Milo fell straight to sleep to dream of bubbles and Barramundi so we drove around aimlessly for almost an hour before arriving home.

We both couldn’t wait to tell mum about our adventure which we did as soon as she was in the door. We all ate dinner together and promptly headed to bed to dream of penguins and Italian tourists.

• Number of Dugongs growled at – 2
• Number of nappy wipes now on hand – 240
• Litres of homemade, pot-set yoghurt produced – 0
• Centimetres of woolen scarf knitted – 0

We are back; and I mean “we” in the truest Richard Williams tennis coaching sense of the word. After a week of pretty serious introspection, and even some aborted conversations about quitting to take up ‘Baby Rhymetime’ at the local library, we were, on Sunday evening, handed a gift from the Gymbaroo Gods. Milo has learned how to clap.

In Gymbaroo terms clapping is an ‘intangible’. It doesn’t feature on any event list, there are no certificates awarded for it. It is the Gymbaroo version of the AFL ‘hard-ball-get’, the most esoteric of all sporting statistical categories. It is the immensely vigorous Patty Mills whipping his towel on the Spurs bench. It is the subjective style point awarded in figure skating; judges can’t explain why one ‘synchronised twizzle’ they see is worth 5.5 and another 5.75. They just know. It is MJ’s tongue, Usain Bolt’s index finger or Vladimir Putin’s bare chest on horseback. It is a game changer; and Milo now has it.

After each activity the children and parents are encouraged to clap. This is a regular occurrence and might happen up to 30 or 40 times a session. It is immediately obvious which babies can’t do it. They look blankly ahead, their little hands balled up into fists as their parents repeatedly try to force their arms apart and then together as if they are wielding a tiny set of bolt cutters. Invariably they give up and start clapping themselves as their babies slip sideways off their laps, still clasping their little clenched stumps together. We know. I have been that clapping parent with the embarrassed half-smile and the slumping child, those stumps have been Milo’s. But not today.

The first event, as ever, was the ‘Welcome to Gymbaroo’ song; “Hello everyone, hello everyone… something, something”. Milo didn’t even wait until the second hello before he was clapping, grinning and doing his little hip thrusty dance. He kneels upright, keeps his back straight and does a hop-thrust manoeuvre in the forwards direction, whilst growling and clapping. His progress was acknowledged immediately by the panel; “well, Milo has learned something new this week”. Yes he has. We both tucked our chins in a little and repeatedly nodded almost imperceptibly as we cast a slow, smug, sweeping gaze around the room. That’s when we noticed, no Lennox.

Lennox’s talent is obvious to anyone with an even superficial appreciation of Gymbaroo. But if he has a weakness, an impediment that may quash his future professional aspirations, it is commitment. Although it seems unlikely there always remains the potential that his talent will go unrealised, his career will fizzle out like the ‘next big thing of golf’ Long John Daly, or the perennial NBA disappointment Michael Olowokandi, the ‘Kandi Man’. “Don’t be the Kandi Man Milo, don’t be the Kandi Man”, I told my son. He was clapping manically and didn’t hear me. It is hard to explain to him now that clapping won’t always be enough, so I let him enjoy the moment.

Next up was ‘remote control wheelbarrow’. With his confidence up Milo scorched the competition. He wheelbarrowed his way to the centre without a deviation and then, when the remote control was within arm’s reach, he paused, turned and wheelbarrowed casually back to our spot and sat down. Class.

There was a new event in today’s session which I call ‘slobber or toss’. Essentially we sit the babies in a circle and then fill said circle with balls of all sizes and textures. The babies are then supposed to propel the balls back and forth to each other via whatever means they can manage; feet, knees, hands, faces, usually faces. In reality the babies grasp any ball within arm’s reach and immediately jam it into their mouths; any propelling is completely inadvertent. The toss to slobber ratio dictates the overall winner, a higher ratio is desirable. I would suggest with a ratio of 3:8 today, Milo’s performance had him in the top third.

The gym session today was also very positive. After some gentle warm-ups on the horizontal ladder Milo headed straight for the high difficulty corner, clambering up the down slides, and down the up tunnels. He balked once more at the trapeze but as the chief panelist pointed out it was a bit cold today, not ideal trapeze conditions.

 

Horizontal ladder

Milo clapped enthusiastically throughout the mindless but catchy farewell song “farewell Gymbaroo, farewell Gymbaroo… something, something” which we sang with gusto and then vowed privately to never sing aloud again. We broke that vow three times during the afternoon.

We utilised the ‘keep Milo awake with a cracker’ technique in the car and made it home in time for some reasonable ‘power ball’ leftover eating and then a well-earned afternoon nap.

Milo happy with his work. Have you ever noticed Jordan wears long pants in his logo?

The evening before ‘family fun day’ is always enjoyable and this was no exception. Milo settled well before Jed Bartlet both amused and informed us.

• Average toss to slobber ratio in today’s Gymbaroo session – 1:16
• Powerballs consumed (father and son) – 6
• Minutes spent researching best ‘apple slinky’ machine – 30
• Hours spent contributing to ‘fire ant awareness campaign’ – 0

Some weird things are happening with our child this week. It is as if the lamb cutlet unblocked a highway in his brain between the ‘I want that’ district and the ‘wait, I know how to get that’ quarter.

He has this week most definitely realised that he is not a passive object, unable to control his environment. He has options and influence, and he is beginning to wield them, effectively.

Example; last evening Kuepps was changing Milo. As is well documented by now this requires more than 100% of an average adult human’s attention to execute successfully. Kuepps had just completed the task when she glanced at the bottle of moisturiser clutched in Milo’s hands, she had been using it as a tool of distraction (the ‘tool du jour’  for me is clipping one of his pegs onto my bottom lip and waving my head side to side like a tiny albino elephant. The pain is well worth it). Kuepps realised that Milo had managed to flip open the lid of the moisturiser bottle and was guzzling its contents. Cetaphil ran out of his mouth, down his cheeks and onto his neck.

Being a responsible, professional parent and adult Kuepps took the bottle from him and continued with her re-trousering. Well, Milo was utterly horrified by this act of cruel oppression and let out an enraged bellow, spraying a fine mist of moisturiser all over my wife. This quickly escalated into a dramatically protruded bottom lip and genuine little tears flowing down his cheeks. It is worth just clarifying that point; tears running down my child’s face because his mother would not allow him to drink moisturiser. Sometimes there are no good options; you choose the irritating over the dangerous.

Milo spent this morning chasing and attempting to eat Huckleberry, or at least suck on him vigorously. Huckleberry continues to be the very picture of restraint.

Best friends

We’ve now got cleaner Tuesday down. Milo awoke from his nap, coughing up Huckleberry hair, and we were out the door fully loaded; supplies enough to last us hours on the harsh, dusty road where anything can happen, and routinely does. To see us through this difficult time I had lovingly cooked us ‘pick ‘n’ mix vegetable crispies’ while Milo napped. I packed this treat into our backpack and couldn’t wait to delight Milo with this nutritious and tasty surprise.

With wide eyes and a gormless smile I offered Milo a morsel of crispy soon after our departure, while he sat in his pram. He opened his mouth a sliver and met the morsel with his tongue as it breached his lips, forcing it back through and out, tumbling over his chin and onto the ground. This tongue resistance was matched by the look of disdain on his face; he may as well have been shaking his head and saying “dad, what were you thinking? you’re an idiot” such was the palpable disappointment on his face.

Still enthused I tried again, another delicious scrap of health and taste offered up. This time the lips could not even muster enough interest to open. This did not dissuade me. I tried to twist and shimmy the snack through those pursed lips while Milo looked at me under hanging, disinterested lids; “really dad? this is pathetic”. Eventually he took pity on me and allowed his mouth to open less than a millimetre. My heart leapt; my home cooking efforts were worth it! I am such a great dad, by my own hands I have delivered to my child sustenance and deliciousness.

Milo did not even exert the effort to push the crispy out, he simply hung his mouth open and let it fall; firstly onto his shoulder, then his knee, then the ground. He watched its tumbling path then returned his eyes to mine briefly as his mouth slowly closed. He then turned his head languidly to the left and refused further eye contact.

Slightly hurt I forged on toward the supermarket, our ambitious goal for the morning. We stopped in for a takeaway coffee and bacon and egg roll en route. While we waited Milo spied the crispy inside its tupperware and reached for it. Like a poorly treated puppy I forgave him immediately; I was overjoyed. I quickly asked the barista whether we could dine-in instead and took a seat. I offered Milo another morsel which he took from me and placed in his mouth. On this third occasion he appeared at least to consider his position on my culinary efforts before gagging, removing the semi-chewed item from his mouth with his hand, rolling it around in his fingers and then smearing it onto the lining of his pram seat. But now we were trapped. I had commenced eating my bacon and egg panini (not roll) and had yolk all over my hands.

The panini was an extremely high quality example of the genre, but I inhaled it as quickly as possible, watching my child’s displeasure grow. Sometimes I think I should keep a list of the cafes and delicious menu items I have eaten at express pace so that I may one day return alone to enjoy them as an adult. Then I think “don’t be a yutz. your alternate list would be ‘menu items I have never tasted and do not know about because I am at work, working.'”

Eventually we made it to the supermarket, maxed out the best-in-class storage basket of the Uppababy Alta, then headed on to the Discount Chemist Warehouse for bulk purchasing of formula, nappies, and because we had travelled all that way, toilet paper. As our storage capacity had already been exhausted I had to awkwardly push the pram with an enormous, military grade box of nappies under one arm, and a matching army surplus pallet of toilet paper under the other. We thus acknowledged to the bearded and tatooed fashionistas of King Street that yes, the current focus of my life is at least 40% centred on faeces.

Things I like: spoon and maraca. Things I don’t like: dad’s ‘pick n mix vegie crispies’

Our reunion with Kuepps this evening was outside the train station, Milo rugged up like an urban snowman, hooting and giggling for his mum as she picked her way through the throng of commuters. Dinner was a carefully prepared infant friendly dish known as ‘power balls’, meatballs specially designed to be overfloweth with health; for the whole family to enjoy. Milo continued his eating funk; he did not overfloweth with enthusiasm. We’ll see how ‘power balls’ perform as leftovers tomorrow.

• Ratio of time; Crispy preparation to Milo consumption – 600:1
• mLs of moisturiser consumed (estimate) – 20
• Hours spent removing graffiti from the walls of our local high school – 0
• Hours spent experimenting with hybrid pollination of capsicum species on our balcony – 0

Until quite recently I thought the ‘babycino’ was a mythical food concept; like the turducken, cronut or haggis, a dish invented to amuse or horrify but certainly not to prepare or eat. In the many hours we have now spent in cafes in our area during prime ‘toddler’ hours I can confirm both their existence and their prevalence.

We have seen them ordered with pink marshmallows, without pink marshmallows, small, large, medium, extra frothy; but we are still not sure as to what is actually inside those little child, or afternoon yuppie piccolo, sized cups. The lid is always on.

Today we heard a sentence I thought I would never hear; “sit down or you won’t get your babycino”, a mother to her pink-faced, misbehaving toddler. I discretely gasped at the sheer modernity of this phrase but then withdrew my gasp when I saw the little girl immediately de-pink, desist with her arm windmilling and sit obediently. She then received her magical infant ‘cup of Joe’ (sans marshmallow on this occasion) and sat babbling happily about something, presumably ‘that local sporting team and its perpetual under-performance’ or ‘them crooked politicians’.

It made me wonder whether the solitary purpose of the babycino is to generate a desirable item for the infant that can be whipped away at any time, thus creating a means of control; somewhat akin to foreign aid under a cynical government.

Fabricated and arbitrary boundaries, this is a parenting concept that I have long been interested in, and one that I wish to investigate further. ‘Babycino parenting’ as I will now call it, in my view, has merit. We could, for example, forbid Milo from ever wearing orange trousers. One day, years from now as a teenager, he will head out in a sensible chino to his friend Beatrice’s house. Beatrice and he will laugh out loud at Milo’s simple, naive parents as Milo quickly ducks to the bathroom to change out of the chinos his grandma gave him following her visit to the Birkenhead Point outlet stores, and into the orange velour number that Beatrice purchased for him at Marrickville Supre earlier in the week. Meanwhile, neither Beatrice nor Milo is considering how to source crack cocaine.

Or, only adults are allowed to wear Legionnaire Caps. Again, after railing against this heinous happiness impediment throughout adolescence, Milo heads to the skate park around 15. He now has a part-time job, selling organic beetroot at the market, so he has money, and has purchased his own Legionnaire Cap online. Upon arriving at the skate park Milo triumphantly pulls down the back flap which had been rolled up and hidden underneath his helmet as he left the house, smirking at his resourcefulness and his parents’ ignorance. An older boy, Dylan, sidles up to Milo and tells him he is looking for a bagman to help out on a job he and Joaquin are pulling on the weekend, cash payment. Milo barely hears him, so delighted in the freedom he feels as his flap flitters in the breeze. He rolls away from Dylan into the half-pipe, and onward to his position as Chief Justice of the Australian High Court.

My house was awash with arbitrary parenting when we were growing up. We, the children, ate cheap mayonnaise while my father had a special jar of ‘Whole Egg’ which sat on the shelf above ours, taunting us. In what I describe as an ‘accidentally Kosher’ boundary, we were not allowed meat and cheese on the same sandwich, just to keep us on our toes. Also, no bubble, chewing or gum of any kind. My mum would seize the gum out of my rugby league trading card packets and eat that putrid, pink, plank of synthesized imitation gum in front of me, just to let me know she meant business.

And didn’t my brother and I enjoy chewing contraband grape flavoured Hubba Bubba behind the bike racks while the other kids smoked weed out of modified Orchy juice bottles? And don’t I, to this day, revel in slathering whole egg mayonnaise all over my ham and cheese toasties?

Right, so that’s Babycino Parenting™ then, consider it trademarked.

Over the weekend Milo really struggled with two new teeth pushing their way through his top gum, numbers 5 and 6. To demonstrate to him the overwhelming upside of having teeth, on Saturday night we barbecued for him his first lamb cutlet. Not surprisingly a great success.

As you can see below there is nothing learned about grasping the natural handle that a cutlet offers, and tearing the meat asunder with reckless abandon. It is primal instinct.

The upside of teeth

Today was a beautiful mid-winter day in Sydney so we headed to the park for most of the afternoon. This is parenting at its best. I rolled out a picnic rug, wound Milo up and let him go. Milo utilised his new express paced, head down, one knee up, bellowing crawling style to cover large distances. With nothing but cigarette butts to worry about I let him crawl far into the distance, chasing other people’s dogs and eventually a pair of pigeons which stayed just out of his reach for at least 10 minutes.

Free-range Milo (note Horcrux still in left hand)

The hunt begins

By the time Kuepps returned home Milo had only just woken from his afternoon nap, but before long he was looking tired again, such was his exertion in pursuit of the pigeons. We all had dinner together and were soon ready for bed.

• Number of babycinos ordered – 0
• Ham and cheese sandwiches eaten – 2
• Minutes spent researching local ice sculpting schools – 0
• Hours spent engaged in the ancient art of topiary – 0

As it turns out Milo’s white plastic spoon is his ‘transitional object’, an object used by a child usually between the ages of 6 months and a year to help counteract the separation anxiety that comes from increasing mobility and awareness. In short Milo’s favourite toy, his white plastic spoon, is the personification of his mum.

If I understand the academic perspective on this, and I am confident that I have it 100% right, the white plastic spoon is akin to Kuepps’ Horcrux. It is a powerful object in which a fragment of Kuepps’ soul has been hidden, presumably to lay the platform for immortality. As all readers will be aware there are only two other previous documented historical figures who have successfully jammed bits of their soul into physical objects; Herpo the Foul and the late, great Lord Voldemort. Auspicious company.

While Voldemort split his soul into 7 Horcruxes (Horcrux? Horcri?) to stretch the books out a little I believe Kuepps’ soul may be distributed between a plastic spoon and a wooden peg, perhaps in a 70/30 split. Having made this startling discovery I have immediately moved to a regime of strictly hand washing the spoon, no dishwasher with its high temperatures and harsh chemicals, and only pegging clothes to dry inside our apartment. I dare not think what might happen if a stiff breeze arose and the peg was carried up with a billowy shirt and over the balustrade, lost forever.

Thursday was the ‘Family Fun Day’ of my dreams. We skipped Swim School because Milo and I had a date at the Sydney Opera House for a performance of ‘Kids at the House’. We all travelled in, met no less than two grandmas (Oma and Lali) and a grandfather (Opa) for lunch overlooking the harbour before Milo and I dashed up the Opera House steps for our cultural engagement.

Kuepps asked me afterward what the performance was like, and I found it difficult to answer. Essentially a guy sat on a stool and waited for the doorbell to ring, which it did regularly. Each time he went to the door he retrieved a box of some kind which invariably had some sort of mundane object in it; string, baking paper, ribbon, that sort of thing. He then spent 3 or 4 minutes playing with each item in a repetitive and prosaic manner (eg. placing the paper on his head and allowing it to fall to the ground whilst repeating the word “whoops”). This went on for about 20 minutes.

Milo, along with the other assembled culturally savvy children, was mesmerized. I am confident this was the first time in Milo’s life he has sat in one place for 20 minutes. He was also almost completely silent, which doesn’t even usually occur when he is asleep. Milo kept one hand on my knee, one hand on his spoon and ventured out a foot at a time toward the stage, before returning to my lap. At all times his eyes were locked fixedly upon the rather languid and mundane activity occurring on stage.

This is where we learned about the Horcrux.

Sitting next to us was a university academic, expert in childhood development, who had played a role in devising the performance, which I think was one half entertainment and one half research. We were the live baby testing. The academic was fascinated by Milo’s spoon and asked whether he also had a comfort blanket of some kind, or something else soft. When I answered it was a spoon only, or occasionally a peg, she explained the concept of the Horcrux including the history of Herpo the Foul. She further explained that Milo’s well-being and Kuepps’ earthly life depended on the safe maintenance of this object. At least that’s what I think she said; I was captivated by the man on stage scrunching and un-scrunching a roll of aluminium foil.

The academic did tell me, as Milo stabbed away at her leather-bound diary with his spoon, that he was the first child she had ever encountered with a plastic spoon ‘transitional object’ and that she thought he was a “cool dude”. Academic confirmation of my existing suspicions.

At the conclusion of the performance Milo and I dashed off to reunite with our family and we then boarded a ferry to Manly with Kuepps and my mum. Milo seemed captivated by the water and determined to plunge into it, a desire we did not accede to.

At the other end we met our cooking and blogging friend and her little boy, to debrief on the slow cooked lamb of the previous Friday, to stroll along the beach and to bark at seagulls. Milo, quite exhausted from all the foil scrunching and the ocean-going fell quickly into a peaceful sleep in his pram.

We marvelled at the dolphins, sand and backpackers that beachside Sydney has to offer then reboarded the ferry to take us home to the grimy but honest Inner-West.

Milo enjoying the nice train station view

After the vigorous activities of Thursday, Friday was a day to relax. Kuepps worked from home so I could visit the physio in the morning. When I returned home I witnessed a seasoned professional in action; Kuepps with Milo asleep in the Ergo carrier while she simultaneously commanded a teleconference and kept one eye on her Horcrux, which sat unattended on the stairs.

Once I got over the feelings of redundancy Milo and I satisfied our Friday Bunnings ritual which was targeted at the Milo Urban Garden Project (MUGP) and before long it was time for the evening activities. Our dreams of a Friday evening West Wing fiesta were dashed by the youngest member of our family who wanted either: a) to be part of the action, or b) for there to be no action. There was no action.

• Hours spent pressure washing the terrace – 0
• Hours spent devising strategy for ‘Settlers of Catan’ in order to beat my little brother – 0
• Minutes spent combining mine and Kuepps’ faces on morphthing.com to determine who Milo most looks like – 0
• Hours spent dividing and re-potting Bromeliads for the MUGP – 1.5

Milo’s first performance at his new Gymbaroo was strong. But you’re only as good as your last performance and a week is a long time in Gymbaroo (insert additional sporting cliches). Today we returned.

Milo appeared relaxed all morning. Kuepps has been working hard this week so headed into work a little later than usual, giving me the opportunity to gather my energies for Gymbaroo. Milo drifted peacefully to sleep just after 0900 and I needed to rouse him at 1140 as we had run out of time; this was a relaxed boy, none of the nerves we saw last week.

If I am honest, I did not quite share his relaxed demeanour. I attempted to navigate without the use of electronic maps and got us a little lost, rookie mistake. We arrived slightly late just as the ‘Welcome to Gymbaroo’ song was beginning, Milo seemed calm. What we noticed immediately was the significantly larger group than what we encountered last week. We squeezed our way in between a new boy named Oscar and Milo’s co-conspirator from last week Oliver. We then quickly scanned the new faces and about half way around our arc we saw him; the Swami of Swim School, the Putin of the Pool, the Doyen of Dunking. Lennox.

Milo seemed unfazed, but I knew the stakes had risen. We arrived last week presuming we were Lebron, looking for our wingmen (or ladies). But perhaps in truth we were only vying to be Wade, or God forbid Bosh or, deary me, ‘the Birdman’.

Watching Lennox crawl around in the middle of the mat with impunity during the ‘Jack and Jill’ warm-up it was hard not to be impressed. He is good; and he knows it.

The first activity was of course ‘wheelbarrow to get the remote control’, which readers may recall Milo triumphed in last week. Now, during the week I have consulted Wikipedia, Wisden and the Grays Sports Almanac and I am confident no baby has ever won this event two weeks in a row. I didn’t tell Milo of my findings to avoid undue pressure, but I knew he was on the precipice of greatness.

The remote control was tossed onto the mat and Milo started well. In fact, the Gymbaroo instructor acknowledged Milo’s early form specifically saying “Milo is going to show us how it is done”. Well, Milo had a healthy lead and had only to continue on his forward trajectory to achieve greatness. Instead he turned left toward a little baby called Amelia, and the chance was lost. The stickler in me would point out the remote control really wasn’t placed directly in the middle of the mat, it greatly favoured those on the Western side, but in truth it wouldn’t have mattered. Lyndie, another new face, grabbed the remote, and the ascendancy. Milo continued happily toward Amelia and they sort of butted their heads together before returning to their respective parent’s laps.

Milo performed well in the ‘wash the laundry, dry the laundry’ game but always seemed to be whooshing when he should have been shooshing. He flipped elegantly in the ‘incey wincey spider sequence’ but it was low profile, and therefore low reward.

Soon we headed into the gym. Milo went straight for some high difficulty apparatus, brushing away my urgings to warm up appropriately; the spider web climbing thingy with the bells attached to it, the hangy tube which was elevated off the ground today for additional risk, the ladder laying on top of the slide with the plastic bumblebee at the top, and then the long red inclined tube with a nasty 12% gradient dip toward the end.

Spider-web thing

The ‘cruising’ beam

We had watched several babies bravely climb to the top of ‘The Tube’, only to peer into its mouth and retreat; to the large plastic bowl covered in sheep’s wool, to the pile of mini-bean bags, to the tepid springless trampoline, or some just to their mothers.

Milo, inspired by a Dodecahedron placed atop the tube, scaled the mighty staircase that lead to its entrance and soon sat gazing into the abyss, odd plastic geometrically challenging toy in his hand. After taking a breath he rolled the Dodecahedron into the tube and plunged in after it. I frantically dashed around to the other entrance to meet him triumphantly as he cruised out safely in his jaunty style. We embraced and our eyes darted around the room. Nobody had seen.

Milo, unfazed, moved quickly over to the ‘trapeze’ which was in the highest difficulty category today. Due to the high risk involved the Gymbaroo instructor was there to supervise. Part of me felt as if this was our last chance for redemption today.

The instructor explained that Milo needed to grasp onto the cross bar, I would need to let him go and she would then swing him back and forth while supporting his wrists. Milo’s little hands remained clenched and his body instinctively twisted around toward me, away from this potential danger. It was clear today was not our day. “Don’t worry” soothed the instructor “the trapeze will be here again next week”. “Next week… next week”. The words rang in our ears, and we knew all that we had left was to return to the mat and prepare for the goodbye song.

We had not been paying Lennox’s performance in the gym too much notice, we are always of the view that if Milo takes care of his work the results will follow. Lennox looked confident back at the mat however and once again strolled out into the middle just as the parachute game began. Milo, perhaps astutely, decided to finish his day in a reserved fashion and chose to remain on the outside of the parachute. With the larger than usual mass of babies the interior of the parachute became clogged very quickly; babies dashing back and forth, reaching for the parachute as it bobbed up and down, toppling onto each other.

Lennox could be spotted easily, sitting in the middle of this mayhem, calm for a while but soon he too realised his predicament. His exit routes were blocked, his balance under threat and gradually he became distressed. This distress eventually precipitated his father picking his way into the middle of the mat and retrieving him, a clear black mark on a Gymbaroo performance. This event was not lost on the Gymbaroo panel, and perhaps there is still hope that Milo can one day claw himself back toward the upper echelons of this elite Gymbaroo gathering.

The drive home was peaceful, Milo munching happily on a cracker, and soon we were back at the living room table to debrief over sandwiches and pasta. After an hour or so of lunching together Milo had a short play with his pegs and then willingly headed downstairs with me for a rejuvenating afternoon nap.

Kuepps arrived home before we awoke and this surprise lifted Milo’s spirits immeasurably. He giggled and beamed at his mum and did not stop smiling for the rest of the evening. Oma arrived home from Germany this evening so Milo was allowed to stay up late, reading books in German and eating broccoli before eventually flapping and flailing himself to a well earned sleep.

• Number of recorded back-to-back remote control wheelbarrow victories – 0
• Number of pegs discovered in Huckleberry’s lair – 7
• Hours volunteering at local library referencing books in the Dewey Decimal System – 0
• Hours volunteering for the ‘Urban Bee Society’ – 0

The white spoon’s reign as toy of choice has been long and memorable but it would appear that it is under threat, from a wooden peg. In fact, many wooden pegs.

About a week ago the peg started showing up clutched in Milo’s hand. Usually in the left, with the spoon in the right. Since then at least one peg has joined us at meal times, bath times, most journeys we take and even some nap times.

Pegs with lunch

The appeal seems to be the sheer number of them. I secrete the box of pegs somewhere in the living room so Milo doesn’t usually happen upon it until mid-morning. When his crawling and rummaging does lead him to the booty the result is always one of great enthusiasm. He uses his pincers to open the tin and release the pegs which flow out like hundreds of Agent Smiths fighting Neo in the Matrix Reloaded, right before the trilogy really starts to head downhill.

Milo chases them around the carpet, waving them at the cats, tossing them down the stairs, placing them on shelves above his eye line and then retrieving them, posting them into Elefun’s ears, scattering them all around the house. What’s left Huckleberry tends to drag down to his lair, not to be found for days.

The pegs occasionally bite him, usually on the fingers. Milo indignantly shakes his hand until the peg springs off, and then continues on his way. Given the amount of time they spend each day in his mouth it is amazing he has not yet accidentally clipped one to his tongue. If that should happen I suspect his indignation may be more acute, perhaps tipping the balance back in favour of white spoon.

Today I experimented for the first time with the game “peg echidna” which we did not invent; we have borrowed it from a friend of ours, a visionary parent named Sarah. Essentially one clips pegs to one’s child’s clothing. The child then has a terrific time finding and removing these pegs. This may not work for children of all dispositions but it certainly appealed to mine. Milo giggled and crawled around in circles locating and then removing the pegs one by one, which mostly ended up in his mouth.

Peg Echidna

Last night, at around 3am I think we witnessed Milo’s first proper tantrum. He woke, as he often does at this time, so I went in to scoop him up and bring him into our bed. When I arrived he had his schnuller in his mouth but had somehow managed to purloin a second. He does this quite regularly and we are not sure where he gets them from; recently we moved his cot to do a little painting and uncovered a stash of four sitting peacefully in one corner underneath his mattress.

He was sucking on the two intermittently, one always held firmly in his free hand. Foolishly I prised the spare out of his hand and tossed it back into the cot. Well, what had been a reasonably content boy seconds before transformed into a frenzied, bellowing, red-faced fiend, such was the heinous nature of what I had done. In the half-light he looked a little like Kuato from Total Recall. I didn’t adapt my strategy nearly fast enough however and thought his malaise would pass quickly. It didn’t. He drank his bottle in an aggressive spiteful fashion and as soon as he was done the bellowing recommenced. Eventually I concluded that his displeasure was related to nothing more deep-seated than the theft of his second schnuller, so dashed back into his room to retrieve it for him. Milo popped it back into his mouth, lay down in the middle of our bed and promptly went to sleep, the second clutched in his little hand.

Milo and I woke up this morning bleary eyed, face-to-face at around 0645, Kuepps was on her way out the door. We started slowly; breakfasting, shooing away Myna birds, pooing. Mikhail Lomonosov’s law of mass conservation was on full display in our home today. The anti-skinnying regime is having flow-on effects, and perhaps soon I will once again have space for my extra beers in the cupboard. Each nappy change, with Milo’s current extreme wrigglyness, takes about 15 minutes, so before long it was time for a nap and we had achieved very little.

Upon Milo’s reawakening we promptly headed to a nearby cafe to meet with a nanny friend of ours to help with our grand planning for when I return to work in September. The coffee was cut short due to more nappy urgency so we headed upstairs to once more fulfill my fatherly duties. I uncovered a below average offering, no challenge whatsoever, and quickly made the arrangements.

As has been documented many times Milo is not easy to re-nappy, or to dress. As soon as he is trouserless he is off, using his forehead as a fulcrum to quickly spin and then dart away at top speed. On this occasion I was keen to debrief with Kuepps on the conversation I had just had, was confident Milo was safe trouserless for a few minutes due to the nappy activity we had just remedied, so just let him dash off. Which of course he did, straight over to the sliding door where he clambered to his feet and started talking to himself while bobbing up and down (with a peg in one hand). Less than a minute later I looked up again… and of course the worst had happened.

One’s brain moves quickly in such a scenario. Many counter-theories are formulated and discounted within milliseconds, trying to convince you that what your eyes are seeing can be explained by… something else. A trick of the light perhaps, a small ant-mound that has sprung up in the living room, a smallish round creature that has made its way in somehow, perhaps an Armadillo all coiled up? In this time I had already started moving quickly toward Milo, as the theories were debunked one by one. Milo, sensing a heightened energy in the room, sprang to life. He quickly returned to his knees from his standing position and dashed off to the right, giggling, with the trousers of his onesie billowing out behind him like a cape.

By the time I arrived significant damage had already been done. I scooped him up one-handed, attempted to stem the flow of new trouble, thought briefly about how this situation could be resolved without a shower, and then conceded defeat. We were both stripped in a jiffy and in the shower; fortunately the cats were locked up in the laundry or the scene could well have escalated out of hand. Milo did not initially enjoy the shower but reasonably soon saw the funny side of it.

Once cleansed I re-nappied Milo, plonked him in front of Elefun and began the clean up. There is something deeply humbling about cleaning poo off the carpet in the nude.

After this excitement we had lunch, loaded up the pram and headed to the shops for groceries and then to the garden centre for plants for Milo’s ‘sensory garden’, which develops apace. I do not even know what a ‘sensory garden’ is so I am going to discontinue that term; it will henceforth be known as ‘Milo’s Urban Garden Project’. Nothing says urban childhood like astro-turf between the toes.

Predictably Milo was asleep reasonably promptly in the pram, remaining in this state for just over an hour. We arrived home about 1530hrs.

Kuepps had a work function and would not return until around 2130hrs so we watched some IT Crowd, took our time over the evening bath, read some books and Milo fell asleep without opposition around 1930hrs. I even managed an episode of Game of Thrones.

• Number of Milo outfits utilised today – 3
• Milo’s Urban Garden Project % complete – 70
• Hours spent sifting and shredding old bank statements – 0
• Hours spent preparing home-made stock for future use in soups and casseroles – 0