Hmmmm...

Okay, so we've now established that the Prawn has a deep an enduring phobia of doctors.

Strangely, none of them have ever done anything heinous to her so far like stick something up her butt or anything. If this were the case, I could totally understand the unrestrained screamfest that accompanies every visit, but so far, none of the doctors she's ever seen has done anything worse than attempt to listen to her heart or look in her ear, both of which are near impossible when the subject in question is wailing like a banshee and squirming like an angry squid. The nurse, however, who, every time we see her, gives the Prawn a jab....she has no fear of whatsoever. Go figure.

We have a really lovely GP who actually gave us a diagnosis at first of hand/foot/mouth, but who, when consulted today with the Prawn's multitide of spots, was like, "WHOA! Sorry about that. That's DEFINITELY chicken pox." He probably couldn't get a good enough look due to the extreme wigglage of my offspring.

So, great for the Prawn. She gets chicken pox over and done with. I don't have to worry about me conceivably getting knocked up again some time in the future (ha!) and having to leave the house if she comes down with them. I also don't have to worry about her getting them (or me getting them) right before my brother-in-law's wedding. But at the moment, I have to scrupulously check for dots and have the doctor on speed dial should they appear. I'm guessing that since I was exposed so many times as a child and didn't contract them, that I probably have an immunity, but the Universe has been vomiting mouseparts on my bedspread for some time now and I'm not holding my breath.

Fuck My Hat

The Prawn has chicken pox.

This would not normally be a problem.

But I've never had them.

I'm at itchcon 1.

Fan Girl

During Wimbledon, we had the telly on pretty much from the moment we came home until 9 or so when the tennis finished. I'm not a huge tennis fan, but I like watching Wimbledon. It's lovely background noise; quiet punctuated with applause.

During the final, we were rooting for Roger Federer to beat the record of 6 victories in a row, so Mr. DD taught the Prawn to say "Ro-JA!" (Her chanting of "Ro-JA" was also punctuated with exclamations of "WIN!" with accompanying arm lifts, that we taught her when she was only about 10 months old. )

Yesterday, while attempting to get her to eat at least a 3rd of her dinner, Mr. DD was quizzing her on words she knew.

"Can you say "cow"?"

"gow!" she said with a mouthful of egg.

"Can you say "dog"?"

"dog!"

"Can you say "Roger"?"

Her eyes grew wide and her face shone with unadulterated glee.

"RO-JA!" she whispered rapturously, as if remembering some great lost love.

Ah, summer romance.

Hairy Problems

So, the march toward toddlerhood continues.

I've asked other parents if their children had gone through an insatiable grabbing phase during which ANY item, no matter how mundane or uninteresting, must be kept out of sight or reach lest an explosive episode occur. Surprisingly, a lot of them have said, "no", leaving me to think I may have a slightly compulsive child on my hands. Or a budding shoplifter.

Everything in our house has now gravitated to the middle of tables resulting in abstract piles of jewelry tools, mail and coffee cups appearing with startling regularity. The Prawn would have them all, if she could.

Strangely the most knotty problem of late has to do with her hair. (See what I did there?)

The Prawn had some good hair genes to draw on. Her father, damn him, has a long, luxurious mane of thick, strawberry blond locks. Sadly, her little genes determined that she would have hair the consistency of her mother's (the finest of the fine) combined with CURLS, which is a sure fire combo for the worst snarls in the history of the world, resulting in a 15 month old who uses more hair care products than me.

She has varying degrees of tolerance for barnet maintenance operations. It is only recently that she has submitted docilely to hats and hair clips, which has been a great relief. However, washing and conditioning is quite another thing altogether. Suffice to say that both of us need toweling off after her baths. And don't get me started on the hairdryer.

The obvious solution would be to cut her hair but since I rarely have enough luck to get her to stand still enough to eat a grape, my guess is that a trip to the hairdressers would require restraints if not sedation. Plus, I wouldn't do that to my hairdresser, who I would like to continue cutting MY hair.

Any suggestions out there for unmanageable toddler tresses?

Music Critic

Being the musos that we are, we spent last Saturday at the Hard Rock Calling festival in Hyde Park. We had toyed with the idea of taking the Prawn, but once we were there, we were down on our knees thanking the common sense gods that we'd left her with our friend The Barmaid. The line up included John Mayer, Sheryl Crow and Eric Clapton; all artists the Prawn has been listening to since birth, but the heat of the day and the enormity of the crowd would have made toddler wrangling a chore and a half.

We recorded a bit of the finale on our camera, although we found that someone else got a MUCH better video from where they were standing.



Upon returning home the next way, The Prawn toddled over to where Mr. DD was watching the playback on the camera. As John Mayer stepped up to play, she remarked, "GEETAH!" gleefully. She then looked more thoughtful, pointed, said "Babe!" and watched Mayer's solo rapturously. (I was so proud!) Eric Clapton was next up to the mic. The Prawn was less impressed and pushed the fast forward button.

Old Slowhand may be married to a 32 year old, but he's losing his touch with the younger set.