Beastie Baby

Thanks to Uncle Ric, I had a big grown up night out last night. I went to a quiz night and insisted I be scribe, which I thought would cleverly hide the fact that I wouldn't actually be answering any questions myself; however no one was more surprised then me when I managed to hold my own (I knew, for instance, that marmalade is Paddington Bear's favourite food, and that was one point the table wouldn't have got had I not been there). I think I might be finally ready to move on from the shock of child birth.

Anna spent the evening with her uncle and they had quite a little party. I found out later they'd played with toys, watched Foxtel, danced in the kitchen while dinner was cooking. Stayed up past bedtime. It must have been fun, because there were no tears (and no fretting about me, which is good in an ego-shattering kind of way).

When I arrived to pick her up, before I discovered how fun it had been, I could hear loud music blaring out into the night and I came over all funny and rushed up the stairs and barged inside, because I thought that Anna must be crying and Ric must have just turned up the music so he couldn't hear it and then got on with his life. Shame, shame, shame! Of course, my brother would never do something like that. Turns out that while they were cooking dinner and watching the Sports channel, Anna was boogie woogie-ing to the song rifts in between each segment, so when it was finally bed time Ric had an inspirational flash, whacked a CD in the player and let it rip. Apparently, it went down extremely well. She was not a fan of Nirvana but she loved the Beastie Boys, which blows all that womb-recognition stuff out of the water. If that was the case, she'd be drifting off to Paul Kelly and The Indigo Girls and Ben Harper and Beth Orton, not some crap misogynistic soft rock bad boy band.

Oh joy, now I can't wait until she's a teen.