A BlogSprog Turns Six

Too many late nights in a row, so too tired to write at length - but given the hour that's in it, I've just realised that we're already into Thursday, December 18th here, and that means it's little Ruairi's sixth birthday already.

Crikey. Six.

Late night twittering with one of my oldest online friends, Jeneane, she reminds me of the heady days (her words) of the BlogSprogs. This, in turn, leads me to discover that the BlogSprogs domain has lapsed, dammit - which is probably my fault.

I'm sorry, Ruairi darling (and Cameron, and Sawyer) - I let your first online home fall into disrepair. I'll fix that.

For those just joining us, BlogSprogs was something that, in its time, was something pretty new and exciting. Way back in 2002, I kicked off a group blog with two online friends (both of whom I've now managed to meet in person): Gary Turner and Tom Matrullo.

The whole point of the project - BlogSprogs - was to "blog our babies into being". Essentially, we kept a shared diary of our partners' progress to parturition - documenting our thoughts and feelings as our babies grew their steady way out into the world, and even blogging (or getting friends to proxy-blog) the news as soon as each of the three cuties was born - Cameron Turner on December 15th, Ruairi O'Connor Clarke on December 18th, and Sawyer Matrullo on December 24th.

Jeneane got all gushy about it when we kicked this thing off, with a series of terrific posts about the meaning she saw in this thing. Thanks Sis'. That was lovely.

Through the magic of the Internet Wayback Machine, you can still find chunks of the original BlogSprogs site, like pinky-blue lint in the tumble dryer filter of the Net.

Re-reading some of that old stuff now: I guess it was pretty cool. Gotta get it back up again. All the posts are still in the Blogger dashboard, I think.

Not now, though. Too sleepy.

For now, little man: I love you. You're a funny kid, Ruairi - asking Santa for a "box big enough to get in" for Christmas, constantly chattering away to yourself, always a smile and a cuddle for your old Dad, and a look that breaks my heart whenever I have to try to get mad at you. I just can't really get mad at you. Ever. Or your brother or sister, for that matter. But that's a secret - you're not supposed to know that I'm just acting.

Big year for you so far, Ruairi. Grade one. Reading and writing up a storm now. You'll be catching up to me soon, with all the pages you're covering with words and pictures. Not too soon, though - stay our baby boy a little longer, lovekin. My Small. Mommy's funny bunny. We love you, Ruairi. Sleep tight. Gotta build up your energy for big battles with your new light sabre tomorrow morning. Oops. Good job you're asleep.

[UPDATE, 10 mins later: Just as I hit publish, a certain bedroom door opened upstairs, and... pad pad pad pad... "Daaadddyyy".

I swear, the little monkey's psychic. He's "been here before" as my Mum would say. He must have heard me thinking about him.

Standing at the top of the stairs, crestfallen, he quietly announces he's "had an accident" in bed. Poor mite.

Then as my foot hits the bottom step to climb up and help him out of his wet PJs, his sleep-crumpled, fuzzy-headed little face breaks into a HUGE grin:

"I'm six now!"

Yes you are, Small. Yes you are.