A week is a long time...

Had a great kip last night, apart from 'yon parental unit' periodically waking me up to feed and stuff (Mum obviously didn't read the previous blog entry about 'stuff', but the carpet looks much cleaner now, after all that scrubbing). Mum and Dad mean well, but they don't seem to realise I can multi-task and don't need to have all those bright lights on to 'suck suck swallow' (I wish Dad'd remember the 3s are SO passé now - the new mantra is 'suck swallow breathe').
I learnt that one on Tues, when I went back to the Mercy to catch up with a few mates in the breast feeding clinic. They may be able to out-cry me, but Mum was proud of my loud "fluffies". Dad claims he went into the office while we were busy there (no big boys allowed, given all the boobs on display), but that doesn't sound a likely story to me.
People have been v kind, sending all sorts of clothes and stuff - particular faves include Sandra's giraffe top and my mate Lloyd (Pru's 3 month old)'s 'Far out, brussel sprout' t-shirt. Dad keeps on trying to squeeze me into 0000 flannettes - I think he's hoping they'll stretch, but considering I've re-bounded to birth-weight in 3 days and am quaffing as much 'boost juice' as Mum can produce, he's dreaming.
Haven't got any real plans for the weekend - thought I'd have a quiet one in on Fri night watching the footie, and maybe head over to Preston on Sat arvo. Mum keeps on talking about me getting a pony and Dad says there's a quadruped at Nonna's house which would do just as well. I have my doubts about this Harry the horse-substitute...