This will hurt me...

Here is Henry on his first birthday this time last year. As you can see by his t-shirt, we'd been out campaigning hard in the lead up to the Federal election. In fact, I put down Rudd's eventual victory to Henry's endorsement. You see, Henry was a committed social democrat at that point. He's since shifted somewhat. Before I put him to bed last night, Henry, Ezra and I fell into our habit of discussing the work of Søren Kierkegaard. Henry is something of a fan, Ezra less so and I have long exhibited a tendency to distance myself from the Existentialists, as a rule, because they are rubbish at telling humorous stories and are thus real downers when it come to dinner parties. "But father," Henry pleaded, "once you label me you negate me". "Nonsense," I say. He then started crapping on about something to do with fish, or sheep, and believing and unbelieving, and something about a cactus (or maybe it was synthesis?) Whatever. That's the th...

For a time there, Henry was convinced that game show host was the life destined for him. He had it all: full head of luscious hair, chubby cheeks, thirty mile smile, cynical outlook on life, a predilection for fast cars and even faster women, booze, coke, a strange fascination with glass coffee tables... An incident in a public toilet, a stint in rehab, a tour of the chat shows and a double spread in Hello magazine and voilà , Internet sensation!

One of my all time favourite Henry photos, and a good day all round. Here he is the day that he really started to put it all together and crawl about the place. Yes, he'd conquered Everest before being able to crawl forwards. It was quite the achievement.

Another one at around 8 months, and here is Henry relaxing atop Mount Everest. He has a wry grin, but that's because he got hungry half way up and ate three of the Sherpas. We're no longer welcome in Nepal or Tibet. Even the Dali Lama didn't see the funny side of it. You have to laugh though, the look on Tenzing's face!

Here's Henry at 8 months, posing with his mum. You really wouldn't believe the task I had to get them both looking vaguely normal at the same time. Henry looking simple; Jen looking good. Henry smiling brightly; Jen looking stoned. Henry spitting at Mormans; Jen scolding Henry. Out of thirty attempts, this was the only one that worked. It really was all too much .

Six months old here, and already auditioning for Playmate of the Year (he didn't win). Personally, I put it down to lack of adequate cleavage. [Happy Birthday Henry, by the way.]

Here is the little grin machine at five months. The title today is something that Dag Hammarskjöld said to Nikita Khrushchev . Sometimes Henry reminds me of Khrushchev, particularly when he's holding a shoe. Thankfully, sometimes Ezra reminds me of Hammarskjöld, which brings a bit of balance back into the household.

A little under four months and look at Henry show off that neck strength. Magnificent ! There is something a little odd about having children about the place, if anyone had of bragged to me about one's ability to lift their head, count to three or sleep through the night, I'd have repeated my [admittedly in poor taste] response to talk of the 'Special Olympics': "what's so special about it? I can do all of those things". Now though, it's not so uncommon to find me boasting about a particularly impressive burp, or wax lyrical about another human being informing me that they've done a poo. It's like a strange sort of brain damage, and I'm not sure if it a wholly good or bad thing.

Here is little Henrylicious at seven weeks old. As you can see, the lad has never been short of a feed. That said, he's been lucky and inherited his father's hunky legs, and can be still seen today causing men and women to swoon every time he pulls on the shorts.

Continuing the Henry theme, here is a montage of feet from when he was thirty six days old. FYI, Henry is in the middle. As of Sunday, he is rapidly nearing his mother.

Continuing the countdown to Henry's birthday, here is the pink little fellow at seventeen days old, relaxing after a feed in his mother's arms. Like a piglet fattened up for market, he's drunk on milk and high on life. Showcasing the folded hands of a Catholic schoolgirl, his manners distinguish him from the much more rugged Ezra, who still likes to get around fists raised.