All snow is good snow. Right? You betcha!

Lake Mountain is just a little over an hour outside of the city centre and the snowfall has been gorgeous. Melbourne has had an extended, cold, ski season this year (due to Global Warming, The Ozone Layer, Barack Obama and/or Our Own Hung Parliament) so we traipsed up the mountain for a frolic or two. Praps, three. Ten. Ten frolics, tops. Plus a whizzy. Ya gotta have a whizzy!

Spike hit the slopes, grabbed a handful of snow and piffed the biggest snowball he could manage. Morrison looked on with suspicion… suspicion bordering on contempt. He would not be having any of this ’snow’ carry on. Just direct him to the chips and he’ll forget this whole incident ever happened.

Spike on the other hand threw himself on a sled (Daddy “it’s not a toboggan, a toboggan is at least a metre long and blah blah blah [insert actual snow talk]“) and whizzed up and down the mountain (Daddy – “It’s not a mountain. It’s a hill if anything. Mountains are X metres high and have altitude [insert more hillist comments]“) at great speeds without regard for anyone’s safety, least of all his own.

He was retrieved from a spectacular spill off the sled (with his brother which only cemented Mo’s deep hatred of all things snow), from between the legs of other people and on one spectacular ‘final’ backward run – from underneath a snow making machine. Each time, with a bigger grin on his face.

Frozen toes nonwithstanding he is ready to go back to the snow, every second of the day. He knows where his gloves are and he’s pretty sure Mo Mo will like it more, this time.

Way to be optimistic Spike!

Spike’s Frozen Mother xoxo

The What Ever You Say, Adding The Words Poo or Bum Makes It The Funniest Thing – Ever! a locatable region of genomic sequence, corresponding to a unit of inheritance. I blame his father’s side of the family. My side is more about Falling Over Is Hilarious! (because it is). Needless to say, the overnight triggerable onslaught of the poo related answers to benign questions has struck this house, with full force.

Literally, an overnight thing. Monday morning he woke up and when asked what he’d like for breakfast, he considered his options carefully, looked up with those big green eyes and said matter-of-factly, “A poo sandwich, please.” Then dissolved into a pool of maniacal giggling. “Ah yes, a poo sandwich. Anything else to go with that?”
“You’ve got poo in your hair.” [insert more mania]

I was a…. what’s the opposite of proud?

So, we’ve been playing the “what’s for lunch? is it poo?!” game for a few weeks now. Until this conversation transpired.

Me: What do you want for lunch, Spike?
Spike: [careful consideration - it's all in the timing"] A poo sandwich! Bwahahahahaha!
M.: Ok, then!

Preparation of a braised steak sandwich, something he’s had before.

M: There you go buddy, a poo sandwich!
S: [long smileless inspection. a slight retch] I don’t like it.
M: A poo sandwich? How can you not like a poo sandwich!?
S: I just don’t. No [dry retch] no! I don’t like it!

Even after being assured it wasn’t realllly a poo sanga he wouldn’t touch it. And he did dry retch quite a bit. Especially when it became apparent Mo, DOES like a poo foccacia. I will say, this incident hasn’t stemmed the poo sandwich tide but it is now followed by, “not really, Mo will have it!”

Is IS all about the comedy in this house and as you can see, his delivery will take some perfecting.

Til then, we fervently hope you all have poo in your hair! bwahahahahahahaha

Spike’s Equally Hilarious Mother xo

Spike: “I was born in the street.”

S: “I know!”

And we thought that whole, “where do babies come from” thing was going to be awkward.

Spike’s Informed Mother xo

Boys!

xox

Yankee Doodle stuck a fluffer in his hat and yelled at macaroni…

Papa teached it to me.”

“I’ll have to thank Papa, won’t I?”

“Yes.

Again?”

Ooooh, Yankee Doodle went to town….

Pavarotti’s Mumma xxxx

I haven’t ordered the business cards yet.

But, I’m thinking about it.

Because it does seem to be a foregone conclusion at this stage.

Over night, he has suddenly started building elaborate, architecturally interesting, modernist buildings.

Towers. Car spaces. A lovely lounge room, here. A big kitchen there. A bridge (why not?!) and this is where Thomas can park!

I don’t think it’s solely because of all the Grand Designs I’ve crammed down his throat “Oh look Mumma, it’s the bewtifool house show to watch!” or the Architectural Digest that we read together each night.

It’s probably more likely he is just – gifted.

Yes, Gifted. I’m sure that’s it.

Our little Frank Lloyd Spike starts kinder on Tuesday. It seems wasteful really. Can’t we just set up his Architectural Design Office and begin? Mumma’s got an itchin’ for a new abode and I REALLY like the colourful, multi level number he knocked up before his afternoon nap today.

The Gifted Child’s Mother xxxx

You open your pantry and find this.

That is a sign there are boys living in your house.

A boys Mom xxxx

“Yes baby,” is the only answer.

Then you film it.

losta love, Mumma xxxx

“Say $8.”
“$8!”
[A bang of the gavel]
“Soooold!”

“Mum, say 12 dollars, fifty.”
“12 buck fiddy!”
[A bang of the gavel]
“Sooooold!”

I don’t know what I’m buying but he’s the busiest and pushiest auctioneer I’ve encountered.

“Mum, say $20.”
“$20.”
“No wait, can I have a moustache?”
“Of course.”
[choose appropriate moustache.]

“Ok, now say, $40 dollars.”
“Things are getting expensive.”
“Just say it please. Quickly, before it gets sold.”
“”$40, no, $45!”
“SOOOOOOOOLD!”

heh!

And this pic has nothing to do with today, but shows his more normal side. Just hanging out with Parkie. Ain’t she a peach? (You may notice the absence of lip-fuzz)

Happy Movember everyone.

Spike’s Mum and ‘Tache wrangler xxoo