The baby. THE BABY. He came into the world kicking, screaming, and royally pissed off. Nothing much has changed. Around these parts, he is affectionately known as "The Mongrel". He's into EVERYTHING, has to know what's happening with everybody. I call him my little FBI Agent.
It's remarkable how different he is to Maxie, Max is so vague and dreamy.(Like me). Rocco is his father incarnate - right down to his Little Big Blockhead. He pulls himself up to standing now, and is doing the Commando Crawl everywhere. Lucky we have a sunken living room with two big steps - I guess he'll eventually learn, though. Our entire house is so baby un-friendly it's ridiculous. We bought him a big playpen, but he hates it and tries to push it around the room.
The baby has no teeth, yet chews his food. OMG his food - he's sending me broke. Three square meals a day, since the age of four months. He is the baby who thinks he's an adult. He's hilarious. I was holding him, and went up to Dave saying, "Omg we have a bay-bee!" Dave stepped backwards, saying "Don't, hon. You're freaking me out."
The baby's first few months on the planet are seared into my soul like a red-hot branding iron. I don't mean that in a good way, either. But, I gave time time, things have evolved. We have all changed, Tim came back to live with us, Rocco is bigger ... the dynamics of our family are always on the move. This is good. My sister Linda just rang as I was uploading these pics, I told her I was looking at photos taken on the day of Rocco's birth and I wasn't even spun out! I even managed to find a photo of Dave where he didn't look like he was going to pass out from the pain of having all the tumours pressing so hard into his abdomen. We both had matching hospital bracelets. He got to hold Rocco for a while, and then his friend came to pick him up and drive him straight down to the big hospital. I soon went into shock, as they had not given me enough painkillers after my c-section. And so the horror began.
I can't do much lately, I am behind in every single thing in my life. And I honestly don't give a shit. Dave and I are going away tomorrow, and not a moment too soon. I need a break from here, I need to stare out the window for five minutes straight and go to some random place in my head, uninterrupted. I need to get away from my children, so that I can miss them. I need to miss them and appreciate what I have.
My sensitive Max has been upset lately, having "daydreams" that his family will die in bushfires. I've had to veto the nightly news, so now he is allowed to watch the Simpsons on the big TV instead. He can't believe his luck. I told him that if there was ever a fire anywhere close to here, I would scoop him up and drive far, far away. Last night, we all sat eating our T-Bones, talking about the one item we would take if a bushfire came up here. "My lego." "My phone". "My car." .....
I said, "Well, the most important things in life aren't things." Dave rolled his eyes and Tim groaned, but I knew they agreed with me. Max knew straight away. "The answer is US. Our FAMILY." Even the baby agreed, sitting quietly (FOR ONCE), gnawing on his bone. Like a freakin' Caveman Midget.