So much to remember, not enough brain

One of my biggest mothering regrets is my failure to keep baby books. I meant to do it. I wanted to do it. But somehow...I had a baby. And then I had two...and then I had three....with nary a baby book in sight.

Being a self-confessed anal retent, I know that the only baby book that would have sufficed would have involved daily jottings. Not just the main milestones, occasional favourite words and a lock of hair. No sirree. My baby books would have contained descriptions of the cute, the funny, the downright disgusting. Tales of new words learned and the darling mispronounciations associated with them. Foods flung, foods consumed, foods demanded.

So it's probably a good thing for all concerned that I didn't keep proper baby journals. A stresshead / anal retent / teacher on maternity leave can only handle so many ulcers brought on by list-making and general over-zealousness.

If I was intelligent, I would have started this blog when I was preggers with Jack. I could have saved myself quite a bit of grief. It was just the minor issue of working full-time while up the duff, and then having three kids in under four years (did I mention doing a Masters by correspondence?) that put the kybosh on rational thinking. I'll let you know when that situation rectifies itself.

All jokes aside, I don't know a mother alive who has enough time read the newspaper, let alone maintain a running record of her sprog's daily achievements. Which is a shame, because the little blighters seem to do something funny or sweet or completely foul nearly every day, and there's no way I could remember it all without writing it down.

For example, the Mouse has become quite the kiss-blowing queen. She smacks her lips together, waves a palm off her lips, and says, "Ma!" whenever she is asked for a kiss, a thank you, or to say goodbye. It just about smooshes my heart in two watching Maisie say goodbye to Daddy every morning. He gets a "tuddle", and then kisses are flung in his general direction. As he backs out the front door, she runs to him, blowing kisses frantically, grabs another tuddle, and then watches him through the window next to the door. She knocks on the glass, squealing "Ai!" (Mouse-ish for "bye!") until he is out of sight. Way too cute. Definitely more adorable than washing her hair with yoghurt, which she did yesterday morning.

And Phoebalina, who can speak perfectly clearly but still insists on substituting the letter B into some words that start with D. Not all D words, mind you. Just certain ones. Phoebe loves 'bessert', especially if it comes straight after 'basarnya' (that's lasagne in Phoebalese). One cannot underestimate how much Phoebs loves both bessert and basarnya. She also loves dressing up in her ballet 'leotarb' and is currently obsessed with Snow White and the Seven Elves. Possibly because she thinks they're a short-cut to Santa?

We are now on the countdown to Phoebe's birthday. She asks me at least once a day if I have organised the Hello Kitty cake and the magic pony cake. And if she can invite so-and-so from kinder, and if she can have pink balloons. And how long is it until she is five, like Jack. Her birthday is in September. When she will be four.

Jack has turned into a 'big boy' in the six short months since starting school. He's all about Transformers and life savers...not the lollies, but the swords they use in Star Wars, you know? He loves school so much, that after our car accident the other day, I mentioned the possibility of going home instead of continuing on to school. Jack looked at me, horrified. "But Mummy," he said. "I might be the star helper today! I have to be there." Right then. Lucky the ambos didn't get in his way.

He still does some very sweet little-boy things though. Such as the other day, when Jack came to Christian and I with a baby doll wrapped tenderly in a bunny rug. Phoebe stood demurely behind him as they introduced their new baby to us. I asked if she was a good baby, and he sighed as he cuddled her and said, "Yes. But she cries sometimes at night, so Phoebe takes her into bed and feeds her." And Phoebe nodded her head and patted her 'baby' gently. Sob.

Isn't it a pity I never kept baby books? Even though it would have meant spending every spare moment scribbling down my children's every utterance, I could have remembered all of these gorgeous moments without fear of Alzheimer's. Ah well. Perhaps if I begin "teenager tomes" for the challenging years ahead, the milestones might make for interesting reading...or blackmail material, perhaps?