This will hurt me...

Henry and I were doing our usual Saturday morning playgroup thing, and after a spot in the sandpit and a little splashing in some buckets full of water, I challenged him to a little duel. Essentially, we had a Liszt off . If you're not familiar with the term, it involves a little competitive tournament whereby willing contestants demand their opponents deliver their own interpretation of the work of the great Franz Liszt. Obviously, Henry and I are great fans for Herr Liszt, and often throw witty little Lisztisms (as we like to call them) back and forth when we're shooting the breeze. Yet it is the Liszt off that really counts. With the sort of temerity that renders most of my chess games brief, I threw Transcendental Etude No.5 ("Feux follets") at the recently turned two year old, figuring that his short wing span and much smaller fingers would render any comeback over before it began. How wrong I was. Bravely, he announced that it was his intention (the audacity )

Here is Geilston Bay on a sunny Saturday morning. The birds are cheeping, the pancakes are cooking, the babies are cooing and all is right with the world once again. I've left that little flare of light there at the left deliberately (like the toe yesterday), but am less sure of it's worth. I will concede that perhaps it spoils the photograph after all. The title is a Swedish proverb that I like and strikes me as terribly Swedish , in a good way.

She's just funny to me these days...

Here is a quick one of Ez from the other morning. I've left my toe in there are the bottom left for scale. Yes, it was quite deliberate, not at all an accident!

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.]

All right now, settle down people. Settle down. I know that it's difficult to control yourself in the face of such grace, beauty and (speaking frankly) such raw, unchecked sex appeal, but I figure that I'd tempt fate just this once and post a pic from a father/son shoot the other day. Move along now, nothing more to see...

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.

Sometimes when I am at work, I swear that I am stuck on Groundhog Day ...

I figure that with the global Henry love-in, it is only fair to give Ezra a run too. thirteen weeks old now, and he already has dozens under his spell. Henry finally had a crack at his name today. Fair enough it sounded like "Esch-ra", but he ran around the house shouting it for long enough to deduce that he is quite taken with his brother. So here is the youngest son basking in the glory when I got home from work yesterday (I managed to leave within twenty [!] minutes of my actual finish time), happy as ever. You'll note that knitted baby blanket that can be seen in many of these photos, Jen made that. I've promised (and have begun), a post dedicated to all of the stuff she's made for the bairns - with links to patterns - as soon as I get the time that such an event deserves. So stay tuned for that one.

Here we have some clouds. Not just any clouds of course, but very rare Tasmanian clouds . As any proud Tasmanian will tell you, we very rarely get clouds around these parts. We are quite lucky down here at the arse end of the word (thank you Paul Keating ), quirks of history, geography and weather have engendered character traits in Tasmanians that are quite profound in both their homogeny and uniqueness . In general, Tasmanians are very trustworthy ; we rarely (if ever) lie , exaggerate or worship false idols . We wash behind our ears every time, and brush our teeth not twice, but three times a day . We love our mothers dearly , and we respect our fathers deeply . Tasmanian men in particular are excellent lovers , kind to their wives and are exceptional fathers. Tasmanian women are a credit to their gender ; they smile at the appropriate moments, frown when required , do not talk back to their husbands and benevolent (yet firm ) with their children. Tasmanian children are see

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.

Lately I've been thinking quite a bit about work. More specifically, finding a line of work that I, well, am a little more enthused about. Très diplomatique Monsieur McCracken ! So I was testing out my skills as seagull papparazzo, and snared this little lady trying to evade capture. I got her just in time though. So, ideas about alternate careers, anyone have any? Anyone know of any jobs? I'm open to suggestion!

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.