Every year on my children's birthdays, a small part of me is aware of the clock. I cannot help remembering certain times of the three days when my babies entered the world. Considering my exhaustion and the amount of drugs that were coursing through my blood, it's amazing how much of my children's births I remember in detail. I suppose I must have been paying attention.
On October 3rd, as the afternoon shadows grew longer, the back of my neck began to prickle. I was intensely aware of the birds chirping in the twilight, and the creeping darkness of the early spring evening. For you see, on October 3rd, 1927, my great-grandmother went into labour. By the time she was ready to go to the hospital late that night, she was in advanced labour with the only baby she would ever deliver alive.
When my great-grandparents arrived at the private hospital they had booked into months before, they were turned away - the inn was already bursting at the seams. So my great-grandmother laboured through the night at a public hospital that took pity on her, with only her midwife to help her. My great-grandmother was a tiny, fine-boned little woman - not built to deliver large babies.
When she gave birth to my grandmother on October 4th, 1927, she did it all by herself. Betty Valerie Royle, my beautiful Argie, weighed over ten pounds when she was born. Every year I think about my little great-grandmother, labouring to birth such a large baby, and what an amazing thing it was that they both survived. Even though there were other babies, none of them were carried to term.
Argie was born into a wealthy family, and grew up as the beloved only child. She was educated privately (which many considered a waste of money to spend on a girl in the 1930's), and worked her way through a degree at the University of Melbourne. She and my grandfather worked very hard for their young family had, providing not only everything their own children could possibly want, but their grandchildren as well.
On October 4th, 2012, Argie turned 85. This incredible woman has loved me unconditionally, from the day I was born. Considering what she means to us, and that turning 85 is no mean feat, I wanted to do something special for her birthday. So we decided to have a small dinner party for our Argie, and to make it a surprise.
Due to the fact that she was turning 85 years old, we didn't make it a huge surprise (Christian was a little concerned that jumping out from behind furniture and shouting "SURPRISE!!!" at her might put a dent in her life line). Had I known that she had never, in 85 years, had a surprise party, I might have made it a bigger affair. But I just set the table properly, with a table cloth and the placemats Argie embroidered by hand for her glory box, made a lemon cake (with one candle on top - 85 candles requires a permit, surely?), and strung bunting across the table.
It has long been a family in-joke that Argie is not fond of chocolate desserts - given the chance, she will tell you, "Everywhere you go, there's chocolate. Not for me. I don't like chocolate. But I love lemon. I always choose lemon." So a lemon cake it was for my girl, with lemon icing and cream in the middle. Phoebe was quite disappointed when I chose lemon-coloured sugar to sprinkle on top, rather than pink. I had to remind her more than once that the cake was not actually for her.
When Argie came into the room, supported by my brother and my mum, the look on her face was priceless. She has travelled the world many times, is extremely well-read and educated, and maintains all of her own affairs to this day. To all intents and purposes, my Argie has seen and experienced a lot, and I have never once seen her lost for words. When she entered our house and saw my children prancing around the party table, and realised that the shin-dig was for her, I think you could have knocked her over with a feather.
The one thing my grandmother has taught me in so many ways, is that family is the most important thing. Regardless of who you are, what you have, where you come from, what you have learned...if you have your family, you are indeed a rich person. I hope, seeing her great-grandchildren herbing around like mad things, that Argie feels like a queen.
Many times she has referred to herself, tongue in cheek, as the matriarch of the family. After we had eaten our birthday dinner, and sung Happy Birthday, she grabbed my hand and whispered her thanks. I reminded her that she had created this family, and that we were all there because of her. If I could, in some miniscule way, pay back her love by cooking her a meal and celebrating her birthday, then I would cook for as long as I could stay standing. I only hope that she could feel all the love in the room and recognise that it was there because of her. Not many people have the chance to celebrate 85 birthdays. Then again, not many people do as much good in their 85 years as my Argie has. She is an incredible woman, and we are blessed to call her ours. We love you, Argie. Happy birthday.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Saturday, October 6, 2012
September Spring Ding Part 2: Happiness Is...
Happiness is...
Waking up on the first day of the school holidays, knowing you don't have to be anywhere, at any time.
Mooching over your breakfast with your kids, in your jarmies, with literally no idea what the time is. Because it doesn't matter.
Finding the bottom of the laundry basket.
Getting all of your washing out on the line in the sun and wind...finding the bedroom floor for the first time in weeks...throwing open all the windows while you spring-clean the house from top to bottom.
Sitting in a patch of sunlight, reading a book, in the middle of the day.
Walking with no particular destination in mind with your toddler in the stroller, big kids skipping on either side, Daisy dog trotting along, with the September sunshine and a light breeze to accompany you.
Taking your child to a birthday party and realising that your child's friend lives so close, you can walk to the birthday party. And then walk back again, in the bright sunshiny day, to collect him.
Realising that since you now live in the long-awaited (indeed, almost mythical) house, the majority of your friends live within walking distance. And how simply delightful that thought is.
Watching your two-and-a-half year old dress herself in the mornings. These school holidays, the Mouse has attired herself in numerous eclectic ensembles, including my own personal favourite - the blouse-as-a-skirt, pants on the head, and gumboots. With a tiara. Classic.
Hearing your children shriek with laughter out the front of the house, and knowing that not only are they playing with the many neighbouring children in the cul-de-sac, but they are safe.
Seeing your brother, who lives so very, very far away, nestling the Mouse on his lap for a story. He has literally no idea how idolised he is, but in our house - Uncle Joshie is a legend.
Sitting on the floor while your youngest child 'does' your hair (managing to pull chunks of it out with her loving administrations), your middle child drapes you with bracelets and bangles and necklaces, and your eldest child tells you excitedly about his latest dinosaur discovery.
Going to a BBQ on Grand Final Day and not seeing more than fleeting glimpses of your spouse or offspring, since everybody is having far too much of a good time with their friends. It might seem like an exaggeration, but I promise you it's true - somehow, Jack and his mates drew their mummies together into a tight-knit little circle of sisterhood, and then when the daddies met, well...a house on fire doesn't even begin to describe it. And when these families get together...it seems like we're having far too much fun. Well, I am, anyway.
Grabbing fish and chips and having a picnic tea at the playground on a warm, gusty September evening, while the seagulls wheel overhead and the wind threatens to carry your tomato sauce away.
Dropping everything to go on a walk, as a family, to the local cafe, simply because it's there.
The sound of your children laughing so hard at absolutely nothing, that wetting of pants was had.
Falling asleep on the couch in the early afternoon, wrapped around your toddler, while the rain beats softly on the windows and Harry Potter vanquishes Voldemort on the telly again.
Watching your three children surround their baby cousin, smothering her with shrieks, toys and love. And seeing her return the adoration, ten-fold.
Having a working bee to fix the desolate wasteland left behind by the scoundrels we called developers, shoveling mulch until your glutes scream for forgiveness, getting to know your new neighbours over wheelbarrows and a sausage sizzle. Watching the rubble-strewn front area of your home (reminiscent of Beirut) become something much more pleasant to look at.
Being lucky enough to have friends who arrive with tools and smiles, ready to pitch in and help at your working bee. Raking a new garden bed alongside someone whose company quite simply, makes you happy, and whose friendship you're not quite sure what you've done to deserve.
The calm of an evening after a day in which children ran maniacally through dirt with scooters and bikes, inhaled sausages outdoors and wiped watermelon juice through their hair, and then were bathed and put into warm pyjamas before being tucked into clean sheets.
Not even thinking about the end of the school holidays. Not yet, anyway.
Waking up on the first day of the school holidays, knowing you don't have to be anywhere, at any time.
Mooching over your breakfast with your kids, in your jarmies, with literally no idea what the time is. Because it doesn't matter.
Finding the bottom of the laundry basket.
Getting all of your washing out on the line in the sun and wind...finding the bedroom floor for the first time in weeks...throwing open all the windows while you spring-clean the house from top to bottom.
Sitting in a patch of sunlight, reading a book, in the middle of the day.
Walking with no particular destination in mind with your toddler in the stroller, big kids skipping on either side, Daisy dog trotting along, with the September sunshine and a light breeze to accompany you.
Taking your child to a birthday party and realising that your child's friend lives so close, you can walk to the birthday party. And then walk back again, in the bright sunshiny day, to collect him.
Realising that since you now live in the long-awaited (indeed, almost mythical) house, the majority of your friends live within walking distance. And how simply delightful that thought is.
Watching your two-and-a-half year old dress herself in the mornings. These school holidays, the Mouse has attired herself in numerous eclectic ensembles, including my own personal favourite - the blouse-as-a-skirt, pants on the head, and gumboots. With a tiara. Classic.
Hearing your children shriek with laughter out the front of the house, and knowing that not only are they playing with the many neighbouring children in the cul-de-sac, but they are safe.
Seeing your brother, who lives so very, very far away, nestling the Mouse on his lap for a story. He has literally no idea how idolised he is, but in our house - Uncle Joshie is a legend.
Sitting on the floor while your youngest child 'does' your hair (managing to pull chunks of it out with her loving administrations), your middle child drapes you with bracelets and bangles and necklaces, and your eldest child tells you excitedly about his latest dinosaur discovery.
Going to a BBQ on Grand Final Day and not seeing more than fleeting glimpses of your spouse or offspring, since everybody is having far too much of a good time with their friends. It might seem like an exaggeration, but I promise you it's true - somehow, Jack and his mates drew their mummies together into a tight-knit little circle of sisterhood, and then when the daddies met, well...a house on fire doesn't even begin to describe it. And when these families get together...it seems like we're having far too much fun. Well, I am, anyway.
Grabbing fish and chips and having a picnic tea at the playground on a warm, gusty September evening, while the seagulls wheel overhead and the wind threatens to carry your tomato sauce away.
Dropping everything to go on a walk, as a family, to the local cafe, simply because it's there.
The sound of your children laughing so hard at absolutely nothing, that wetting of pants was had.
Falling asleep on the couch in the early afternoon, wrapped around your toddler, while the rain beats softly on the windows and Harry Potter vanquishes Voldemort on the telly again.
Watching your three children surround their baby cousin, smothering her with shrieks, toys and love. And seeing her return the adoration, ten-fold.
Having a working bee to fix the desolate wasteland left behind by the scoundrels we called developers, shoveling mulch until your glutes scream for forgiveness, getting to know your new neighbours over wheelbarrows and a sausage sizzle. Watching the rubble-strewn front area of your home (reminiscent of Beirut) become something much more pleasant to look at.
Being lucky enough to have friends who arrive with tools and smiles, ready to pitch in and help at your working bee. Raking a new garden bed alongside someone whose company quite simply, makes you happy, and whose friendship you're not quite sure what you've done to deserve.
The calm of an evening after a day in which children ran maniacally through dirt with scooters and bikes, inhaled sausages outdoors and wiped watermelon juice through their hair, and then were bathed and put into warm pyjamas before being tucked into clean sheets.
Not even thinking about the end of the school holidays. Not yet, anyway.
Friday, October 5, 2012
September Spring Ding Part 1: Ikea is Swedish for 'Pottering'
It's a fascinating phenomenon, Ikea.
Seriously. Think about it - they send out one catalogue every year, and it's like receiving a gift in the letterbox. People go to Ikea for a day out - it's not a shop, it's a destination. I know people who practically lust after the organisational storage solutions that Ikea has to offer. Not to mention the furniture, the fabrics, the kitchen ware...oh. Well. I'm sure it's not just me.
Since we moved into our new home in the middle of a school term, and the last holidays were a write-off, Christian and I have not really had the chance to organise some of the finishing touches. The windows next to our front door were still bare (making me feel like I was living in a goldfish bowl), the laundry needed shelves, and quite frankly, I was sure there were storage solutions that were just begging for me to come and visit.
As far as I was concerned, Ikea was a no-brainer. Christian on the other hand, wasn't convinced. But he 'let' me go, anyway. I couldn't understand his reticence - even if you needed absolutely nothing at all, why would you pass up a day at Ikea? That's just stupid talk.
So our three cherubs joined us in meandering through the arrowed pathways of our nearest Ikea store, and while I soaked up the uncluttered, sensibly-organised atmosphere, I pondered. So many people wander through Ikea every single day, and yet our homes are still cluttered (to varying degrees, of course). Why is this so? Do we need Ikea to curb the growing untidyness within our homes...or, do we need the clutter in our homes in order to have an excuse to visit the wonderful world of Ikea?
Hmmmm. Swedish storage philosophy at its' finest.
Why do people spend so much time (and money) and Allen-key-energy at Ikea? Why is there so much pleasure to be gained from obtaining matching Billy bookcases and a couple of Expedit shelves?
The answer? Pottering.
I think the delight gained by the purchase of a new shelf, or a set of woven nesting baskets, or a kitchen tidy, is universal amongst the tribes that wander the halls of the Swedish wonderland. And enough of a reason in itself to visit the great emporium of organisation.
By going to Ikea and obtaining storage solutions and furniture and cushions and curtains and all the other wonderful, practical items you can buy there, people then take them home and potter around the house. They clean and sort, set up new places to keep things tidy...it's sort of like the human version of feathering the nest, only with Swedish practicality. It's all about making the home you have the most beautiful, functional, comfortable home it can be. The only problem is, there's usually a helluva lot ofcrap stuff to hide away in the lovely storage solutions...which means more trips to Ikea.
So what did my trip to Ikea entail on that bright, late September day? I was most restrained, I can assure you. I did indeed get some lovely new curtains for the windows at the front door, and not only did they cost me $10, but I hemmed them myself (I know!). The curtain rail was $2. So far, so awesome, right?
I got a set of shelves for the laundry that have turned a completely useless cupboard into something of beauty. Well, it hides all the laundry crap behind a cupboard door now. Which is great.
We bought a storage solution for Phoebe's clothes (since our previous storage solution of stacking them on the floor wasn't working out so well for us...it was great for Bella, apparently, because it was a new place for her to pee, but I wasn't so keen on that arrangement) which could be used in a different way down the track when she is older. Coolness.
And we probably don't need to mention to my husband that the few storage boxes I picked up to keep the toys at bay were so effective that I now have a surplus of storage boxes...meh. I'm just prepared for Christmas, right?
Did I go crazy? No sirree. Did I desperately want the squashy pink armchair that would dwarf my loungeroom? Yes indeedy. But I didn't buy it. I was very well-behaved. I stuck to my list of 'necessities' (apart from the extra storage boxes...ssshhhhh.) Because, you see, by being a good girl and only buying what I went for (mostly), I have now sorted our home into a much more comfortable, organised space. On a very small budget, my home is beginning to look quite lovely, if I do say so myself. I've very much enjoyed my pottering about during these holidays. It's quite therapeutic, sorting and tidying the house. And I can now see exactly what I need to buy on my next trip toheaven Ikea. Excellent.
Seriously. Think about it - they send out one catalogue every year, and it's like receiving a gift in the letterbox. People go to Ikea for a day out - it's not a shop, it's a destination. I know people who practically lust after the organisational storage solutions that Ikea has to offer. Not to mention the furniture, the fabrics, the kitchen ware...oh. Well. I'm sure it's not just me.
Since we moved into our new home in the middle of a school term, and the last holidays were a write-off, Christian and I have not really had the chance to organise some of the finishing touches. The windows next to our front door were still bare (making me feel like I was living in a goldfish bowl), the laundry needed shelves, and quite frankly, I was sure there were storage solutions that were just begging for me to come and visit.
As far as I was concerned, Ikea was a no-brainer. Christian on the other hand, wasn't convinced. But he 'let' me go, anyway. I couldn't understand his reticence - even if you needed absolutely nothing at all, why would you pass up a day at Ikea? That's just stupid talk.
So our three cherubs joined us in meandering through the arrowed pathways of our nearest Ikea store, and while I soaked up the uncluttered, sensibly-organised atmosphere, I pondered. So many people wander through Ikea every single day, and yet our homes are still cluttered (to varying degrees, of course). Why is this so? Do we need Ikea to curb the growing untidyness within our homes...or, do we need the clutter in our homes in order to have an excuse to visit the wonderful world of Ikea?
Hmmmm. Swedish storage philosophy at its' finest.
Why do people spend so much time (and money) and Allen-key-energy at Ikea? Why is there so much pleasure to be gained from obtaining matching Billy bookcases and a couple of Expedit shelves?
The answer? Pottering.
I think the delight gained by the purchase of a new shelf, or a set of woven nesting baskets, or a kitchen tidy, is universal amongst the tribes that wander the halls of the Swedish wonderland. And enough of a reason in itself to visit the great emporium of organisation.
By going to Ikea and obtaining storage solutions and furniture and cushions and curtains and all the other wonderful, practical items you can buy there, people then take them home and potter around the house. They clean and sort, set up new places to keep things tidy...it's sort of like the human version of feathering the nest, only with Swedish practicality. It's all about making the home you have the most beautiful, functional, comfortable home it can be. The only problem is, there's usually a helluva lot of
So what did my trip to Ikea entail on that bright, late September day? I was most restrained, I can assure you. I did indeed get some lovely new curtains for the windows at the front door, and not only did they cost me $10, but I hemmed them myself (I know!). The curtain rail was $2. So far, so awesome, right?
I got a set of shelves for the laundry that have turned a completely useless cupboard into something of beauty. Well, it hides all the laundry crap behind a cupboard door now. Which is great.
We bought a storage solution for Phoebe's clothes (since our previous storage solution of stacking them on the floor wasn't working out so well for us...it was great for Bella, apparently, because it was a new place for her to pee, but I wasn't so keen on that arrangement) which could be used in a different way down the track when she is older. Coolness.
And we probably don't need to mention to my husband that the few storage boxes I picked up to keep the toys at bay were so effective that I now have a surplus of storage boxes...meh. I'm just prepared for Christmas, right?
Did I go crazy? No sirree. Did I desperately want the squashy pink armchair that would dwarf my loungeroom? Yes indeedy. But I didn't buy it. I was very well-behaved. I stuck to my list of 'necessities' (apart from the extra storage boxes...ssshhhhh.) Because, you see, by being a good girl and only buying what I went for (mostly), I have now sorted our home into a much more comfortable, organised space. On a very small budget, my home is beginning to look quite lovely, if I do say so myself. I've very much enjoyed my pottering about during these holidays. It's quite therapeutic, sorting and tidying the house. And I can now see exactly what I need to buy on my next trip to
Monday, September 17, 2012
The amazing Phoebalina Ballerina is five!
When you were a tiny embryo in my belly, you amazed me. I was so sick, I actually lost six kilos in the first trimester. My bump, when it appeared, was quite small (at least to begin with!). You kicked gently, and only sporadically (but with enthusiastic fervour when I was trying to rest). So, so different to my first pregnancy with your brother, who kicked all day, every day, grew to an impressive size and thus made me grow to an even more impressive size!
On the day you were born, you amazed me. You screamed so long, and so loudly, in your first 30 minutes that the nurses laughed and wondered aloud what we had gotten ourselves into. But it seems we caught you in a fit of pique, because after that first squalling half hour, you stopped crying. You nestled, skin to skin, on my chest, and slept for the rest of the day. You were all dark eyes, dark hair, and serious expression, and I couldn't for the life of me work out where you had come from. We toyed with naming you 'Emily', but how could we, when you were so obviously a Phoebe. Bright and shining, a little ray of sunshine.
When you were five days old, you amazed me. You slept right through the furore of the visiting midwife, telling your mama that she was starving you. You were calm and serene as long as no one was trying to feed you. But then...oh my. How you protested. We drip-fed milk through your pursed little rosebud lips, watching every ounce of weight you lost. But then, at a few weeks old, you woke up and happily took a bottle. Eventually your skinny limbs chubbed out into gorgeous rolls of fat, and your stern little face was wreathed in smiles.
When you were seven months old, you amazed me. When the beautiful, kind ladies in the nursery of your childcare centre took you from my arms, and held you to the window to wave goodbye on my first day back at work, you only cried briefly. I, on the other hand, bawled long and loud before presenting my red-faced self to my new class of Year 8 students. Never was there such a reluctant working mother as I. As much as it pained me to acknowledge it, you thrived at daycare. Not all children do. With hindsight, I can see what an incredible thing it was that you did, being so settled.
When you were one, you amazed me. You were so in love with your big brother, you would follow him around the house. No matter what he was doing, you wanted to do it too. You were completely content being near 'Dack'. You ate whatever he ate. You watched whichever Wiggles DVD he chose. You played Lego and Thomas and cars. (The only line you drew was at dinosaurs, of which you were terrified. And understandably so, the way your brother growled when he chased you).
When you were two years and three months old, you amazed me. You came into the hospital to meet your new baby sister with as much aplomb as the Queen herself. You cooed to 'Maisie Mais', stroked her tiny head, and held her gravely. Not once did you ever show any inkling of jealousy; not once did you complain. You were, and continue to be, a wonderful big sister. Maisie Mouse is a very lucky little girl.
When you were three, you amazed me. By this time, you had watched Mummy get taken away in an ambulance; watched Daddy talk to the police about the 'bad men' who got into our house in the middle of the night; had moved out of our lovely family home in Pakenham into Grandma and Grandpa's house; watched Daddy get taken away to the hospital. You simply rolled with the punches, and kept on smiling. Oh sure, you were by this stage the world's slowest dinner eater (an official title, no less), and you still had absolutely no hair to speak of, but by most accounts, you were very placid, happy little girl, despite all that you had seen.
When you were four, you amazed me. Somehow, you had developed a wicked sense of humour. You could count to thirty (well...twenty-nine, twenty-ten anyway), could write your own name (backwards, and mirrored!) and had set a new Guinness World Record in drawing flowers and rainbows. Still the world's slowest eater, you had begun to grow some blonde hair on that fuzzy head. You took up ballet, which you 'indored' from the very first lesson. Although it was rather excruciating to watch at the time, the DVD of you during your class' tap number, mouth wide open and finger pulling at your bottom lip, is very endearing. At the very least, it will be invaluable at your 21st.
When you were four and a half, you amazed me. You began going to kinder full-time, due to my job. You took to it like the proverbial duck; the only wrinkle on the horizon of your happiness was counting the days until you began big school. You happily trotted off to kinder every single day, especially if I allowed you to wear a pretty skirt. I asked your teachers who your special friends were when I was writing the list for your birthday party; since you talked about so many different kids, I had no idea who to ask. Apparently, you play with anyone and everyone. And when the group of girls in Kinder 2 are gathered around the drawing table, chattering like galahs, you are the quiet one, only speaking when absolutely necessary. That I would pay money to see.
Today, when you turned five, you amazed me. You came into my bed early for a cuddle, and waited patiently until everyone was awake. I think you truly enjoyed your birthday breakfast with the whole family, even though after carefully choosing crumpets and jam for your special day, you ate only a quarter of one crumpet before declaring that you were full. You proudly wore one of your new birthday dresses to kinder, teamed with a birthday princess tiara and hot pink nail polish. The thing that made you happiest today was taking balloons and stickers to share with your friends at kinder. Of that, I was so proud. You had a ginormous fairy birthday cake, and were sung to (again!) by your teachers and friends, but the thing you loved most today was painting and playing outside. You were absolutely delighted by the babycino I surprised you with after school, and ate it oh-so-slowly, as though it was a treat to be savoured.
Every day of your existence, in some small way, you have amazed me. Whether it is the sheer force of your love; the might of your will (some might even call it stubbornness); the wispyness of your vague recollections of events; your continued shunning of most meats and vegetables maintained in the face of a stunning appetite for sweet things; or your ever-present insistence at putting your shoes on the wrong feet...every single day you make me look at you in wonder. Even though the dark eyes, dark hair and serious expression were replaced with blonde hair, blue eyes and merry-eyed jollies, I still wonder where you came from. How can someone so clever, and so daffy, and so insightful, and so forgetful, and so incredibly wonderful, be mine? How am I so lucky?
Every single day you amaze me, Phoebe Anna Louise, and every single day I am reminded of the gift that I have been given, being your mum. Happy fifth birthday, my darling. I love you more than words can say, plus fifty-million-one-hundred-ten, and eight.
On the day you were born, you amazed me. You screamed so long, and so loudly, in your first 30 minutes that the nurses laughed and wondered aloud what we had gotten ourselves into. But it seems we caught you in a fit of pique, because after that first squalling half hour, you stopped crying. You nestled, skin to skin, on my chest, and slept for the rest of the day. You were all dark eyes, dark hair, and serious expression, and I couldn't for the life of me work out where you had come from. We toyed with naming you 'Emily', but how could we, when you were so obviously a Phoebe. Bright and shining, a little ray of sunshine.
When you were five days old, you amazed me. You slept right through the furore of the visiting midwife, telling your mama that she was starving you. You were calm and serene as long as no one was trying to feed you. But then...oh my. How you protested. We drip-fed milk through your pursed little rosebud lips, watching every ounce of weight you lost. But then, at a few weeks old, you woke up and happily took a bottle. Eventually your skinny limbs chubbed out into gorgeous rolls of fat, and your stern little face was wreathed in smiles.
When you were seven months old, you amazed me. When the beautiful, kind ladies in the nursery of your childcare centre took you from my arms, and held you to the window to wave goodbye on my first day back at work, you only cried briefly. I, on the other hand, bawled long and loud before presenting my red-faced self to my new class of Year 8 students. Never was there such a reluctant working mother as I. As much as it pained me to acknowledge it, you thrived at daycare. Not all children do. With hindsight, I can see what an incredible thing it was that you did, being so settled.
When you were one, you amazed me. You were so in love with your big brother, you would follow him around the house. No matter what he was doing, you wanted to do it too. You were completely content being near 'Dack'. You ate whatever he ate. You watched whichever Wiggles DVD he chose. You played Lego and Thomas and cars. (The only line you drew was at dinosaurs, of which you were terrified. And understandably so, the way your brother growled when he chased you).
When you were two years and three months old, you amazed me. You came into the hospital to meet your new baby sister with as much aplomb as the Queen herself. You cooed to 'Maisie Mais', stroked her tiny head, and held her gravely. Not once did you ever show any inkling of jealousy; not once did you complain. You were, and continue to be, a wonderful big sister. Maisie Mouse is a very lucky little girl.
When you were three, you amazed me. By this time, you had watched Mummy get taken away in an ambulance; watched Daddy talk to the police about the 'bad men' who got into our house in the middle of the night; had moved out of our lovely family home in Pakenham into Grandma and Grandpa's house; watched Daddy get taken away to the hospital. You simply rolled with the punches, and kept on smiling. Oh sure, you were by this stage the world's slowest dinner eater (an official title, no less), and you still had absolutely no hair to speak of, but by most accounts, you were very placid, happy little girl, despite all that you had seen.
When you were four, you amazed me. Somehow, you had developed a wicked sense of humour. You could count to thirty (well...twenty-nine, twenty-ten anyway), could write your own name (backwards, and mirrored!) and had set a new Guinness World Record in drawing flowers and rainbows. Still the world's slowest eater, you had begun to grow some blonde hair on that fuzzy head. You took up ballet, which you 'indored' from the very first lesson. Although it was rather excruciating to watch at the time, the DVD of you during your class' tap number, mouth wide open and finger pulling at your bottom lip, is very endearing. At the very least, it will be invaluable at your 21st.
When you were four and a half, you amazed me. You began going to kinder full-time, due to my job. You took to it like the proverbial duck; the only wrinkle on the horizon of your happiness was counting the days until you began big school. You happily trotted off to kinder every single day, especially if I allowed you to wear a pretty skirt. I asked your teachers who your special friends were when I was writing the list for your birthday party; since you talked about so many different kids, I had no idea who to ask. Apparently, you play with anyone and everyone. And when the group of girls in Kinder 2 are gathered around the drawing table, chattering like galahs, you are the quiet one, only speaking when absolutely necessary. That I would pay money to see.
Today, when you turned five, you amazed me. You came into my bed early for a cuddle, and waited patiently until everyone was awake. I think you truly enjoyed your birthday breakfast with the whole family, even though after carefully choosing crumpets and jam for your special day, you ate only a quarter of one crumpet before declaring that you were full. You proudly wore one of your new birthday dresses to kinder, teamed with a birthday princess tiara and hot pink nail polish. The thing that made you happiest today was taking balloons and stickers to share with your friends at kinder. Of that, I was so proud. You had a ginormous fairy birthday cake, and were sung to (again!) by your teachers and friends, but the thing you loved most today was painting and playing outside. You were absolutely delighted by the babycino I surprised you with after school, and ate it oh-so-slowly, as though it was a treat to be savoured.
Every day of your existence, in some small way, you have amazed me. Whether it is the sheer force of your love; the might of your will (some might even call it stubbornness); the wispyness of your vague recollections of events; your continued shunning of most meats and vegetables maintained in the face of a stunning appetite for sweet things; or your ever-present insistence at putting your shoes on the wrong feet...every single day you make me look at you in wonder. Even though the dark eyes, dark hair and serious expression were replaced with blonde hair, blue eyes and merry-eyed jollies, I still wonder where you came from. How can someone so clever, and so daffy, and so insightful, and so forgetful, and so incredibly wonderful, be mine? How am I so lucky?
Every single day you amaze me, Phoebe Anna Louise, and every single day I am reminded of the gift that I have been given, being your mum. Happy fifth birthday, my darling. I love you more than words can say, plus fifty-million-one-hundred-ten, and eight.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
The Festival Of Phoebe
This weekend has officially been re-named "The Festival of Phoebe" (which apparently tickles the birthday girl's funny bone). Last night, she was softly telling me about her favourite parts of the day. Apparently she love love loved the party food, and playing 'parcel parcel'. And playing Pin The Flower On The Fairy. And the cake. Thank heavens for that.
She adored having 'Happy Birthday' sung to her, and wondered, "Mumma, if you sang Happy Birthday to me today, 'cos I'm five, does that mean when you sing it to me on Monday that I'm six?" I just laughed at her. She had a hearty giggle too.
My middle baby, my eldest daughter, my little freckled princess, is absolutely desperate to grow up. She has been waiting to turn five since her fourth birthday, and more than once I have heard my own mother's voice coming out of my mouth, telling my girl not to wish her life away. She has been such a delectable four year old, just as she was an edible three year old, a delightful two year old, a divine one year old, and the most perfect baby.
Oh sure, she has her moments. She has a temper that flares rarely, but is a terrible thing to behold. She can be shy in one breath (and usually at the wrong moment), and then much too bold with the next. But she is incredibly affectionate - I think, on average, she tells me around a thousand times a day that she "indores" me. She is kind and sweet, and far too clever for her own good. She is happiest when life is simple and predictable, especially if her day involves going to kinder. She calls the weekends, 'keep days', because they're the days when "Mummy keeps me". I think my heart broke a little bit over that one.
I really wanted to make this birthday party special, (or as special as I could, given my inability to stretch time so I could organise it properly!) because I knew a tiny part of her would remember it. I also wanted her to know how much I indore her...and that even though Mummy is at work all day, every day, I am still always thinking of her.
However, I think this proves once and for all what a terrible mother I am...all my middle child wanted for her birthday party lunch were Cheezles and Twisties (and even those she didn't know the real names of), and "ordigal". Which, for the uninitiated, is cordial. Uh huh.
So Phoebe got her cheesey treats, and her ordigal, plus a few other things that were baked with a good helping of mother'sguilt love...
(Sarah, this is for you!)
Sweets for my sweet...
Sugar for my honey...
And the cake that was meant to be a Donna Hay replica and turned into a "Oh-My-Lordy-The-Party-Is-Today!" cake...
The Mouse...
The Pirate...
And the beautiful, fairy-princess birthday girl...
Complete with icing on her nose!
In the morning, we will wish you a happy fifth birthday, Fairy Phoebe. Until then, you are still my little four year old, and I can pretend that you are not growing up faster than is decent. I indore you more than anything, plus 80-9-500 (her words, not mine - that's the biggest number she knows) :)
She adored having 'Happy Birthday' sung to her, and wondered, "Mumma, if you sang Happy Birthday to me today, 'cos I'm five, does that mean when you sing it to me on Monday that I'm six?" I just laughed at her. She had a hearty giggle too.
My middle baby, my eldest daughter, my little freckled princess, is absolutely desperate to grow up. She has been waiting to turn five since her fourth birthday, and more than once I have heard my own mother's voice coming out of my mouth, telling my girl not to wish her life away. She has been such a delectable four year old, just as she was an edible three year old, a delightful two year old, a divine one year old, and the most perfect baby.
Oh sure, she has her moments. She has a temper that flares rarely, but is a terrible thing to behold. She can be shy in one breath (and usually at the wrong moment), and then much too bold with the next. But she is incredibly affectionate - I think, on average, she tells me around a thousand times a day that she "indores" me. She is kind and sweet, and far too clever for her own good. She is happiest when life is simple and predictable, especially if her day involves going to kinder. She calls the weekends, 'keep days', because they're the days when "Mummy keeps me". I think my heart broke a little bit over that one.
I really wanted to make this birthday party special, (or as special as I could, given my inability to stretch time so I could organise it properly!) because I knew a tiny part of her would remember it. I also wanted her to know how much I indore her...and that even though Mummy is at work all day, every day, I am still always thinking of her.
However, I think this proves once and for all what a terrible mother I am...all my middle child wanted for her birthday party lunch were Cheezles and Twisties (and even those she didn't know the real names of), and "ordigal". Which, for the uninitiated, is cordial. Uh huh.
So Phoebe got her cheesey treats, and her ordigal, plus a few other things that were baked with a good helping of mother's
(Sarah, this is for you!)
Sweets for my sweet...
Sugar for my honey...
And the cake that was meant to be a Donna Hay replica and turned into a "Oh-My-Lordy-The-Party-Is-Today!" cake...
The Mouse...
The Pirate...
And the beautiful, fairy-princess birthday girl...
Complete with icing on her nose!
Saturday, September 15, 2012
A fairy exploded in my house
My house looks like a fairy walked in, threw up, and then exploded.
That's right, peeps. Today we held Phoebe's fifth birthday party. And just quietly, I think it went well. I'm too tired to be chuffed, but let's just say I'm fairly sure everyone left happy. Oh, and the almost-birthday girl is fast asleep in bed, shedding glitter and tiara-like debris all over her pillow.
I must admit, I was a little nervous about this party. Apart from being the first party in which the guests stayed without their parents, I barely had time to prepare for it. Apart from raiding the $2 shop last Saturday (with a revolting Mouse in tow), I had not really planned anything for today's shin-dig other than "buy pink food". Which, I'm sure you'll agree, was an excellent place to start but probably needed a bit of fleshing out.
So after work last night, I hit Woolworths with a blush-coloured vengeance. After the kids were asleep, we hung streamers and bunting and balloons and Chinese lanterns...put flowers in vases and willed my inner-Martha-Stewart to come forth...made tiny teacups out of marshmallows and musk lifesavers...threw a batch of cupcakes and two large pink cakes into the oven (which mercifully is ENORMOUS - can you tell I loves my new oven??)...hulled strawberries and made pink heart-shaped jelly and cleaned the bathroom...and then fell in a heap.
Luckily, the Mouse heard me go to bed and decided to help me stay awake by choosing that exact moment to become afraid of the dark. Which meant that she screamed blue murder unless all the lights in the house were on. Which in turn meant that no one else could sleep (not to mention the fact she kept calling out from her bedroom, "Is dark, Mummy! Too scary, Mummy! No lights, Mummy! See you inna mornin, Mummy!")
And when she finally fell into an exhausted sleep (still talking, though), we warily closed our red eyes...only to be woken at 2:45am. Jack had woken up at about 2, dressed himself, and was playing (loudly) in his room, waiting for us to 'get up'. He was convinced it was morning, and that we were, in fact, quite lazy. It took some convincing to get him back into his pyjamas and into bed. Entertaining? Uh, yeah. Restful? Nope.
So anyway, the kids dragged us from our fitful dreaming around 6am by kicking the shite out of 30 balloons waiting on the loungeroom floor. Apparently it was squealingly good fun.
While my beloved took the biggies to ballet, Mouse and I got the house in order and threw pink food (artfully) onto the pink tablecloth, with pink plates and napkins and cups and straws and flowers. And some more pink. And some purple.
Thank the heavens above for our next-door neighbour (heretofore known as Aunty Danielle, m'kay?), who was so excited about Phoebe's birthday that she took care of the pass-the-parcel and a shedload of prizes for me. She arrived with an armload of balloons and presents, took over the face painting duties, and was basically a godsend.
Around lunchtime I realised I hadn't iced Phoebalina's birthday cake. I actually enjoy decorating cakes, especially if there's one the kids have asked for on their birthdays. Phoebe has for months had her eye on a Donna Hay delicacy, and had asked me to replicate it. Problem was, I couldn't find the decorative butterflies I needed for the top anywhere, not for any price...so I made them out of icing. To say I was up to my armpits in icing is no exaggeration, my friends.
Eventually, the table was groaning with pink food and a cake that I will admit I was quite proud of. Considering it's thrown-togetherness, it looked pretty good. It was a layered strawberry cake, with fresh raspberries in the middle, icing that graduated from a soft pink at the bottom to a creamy white at the top, and handmade butterflies dancing around the number 5 candle sitting in pride of place on top. Phoebs was happy with it, at any rate.
Phoebe's little girlie friends all arrived in their fairy outfits, and for two hours we played party games and doled out pink sugar (and sausage rolls - they're protein, right?) The actual party was a bit of a blur - all I can tell you is that I played lots of musical games with eight little fairies (and one pirate) and there were lots of prizes and fairy dust. They were the most well-behaved group of little girls I've ever seen, but even still we didn't stop for a minute! (Who needs a gym when you can host a five year old's birthday party...)
Phoebe pranced around in her fairy dress, waving her wand and beaming at everyone with a face that was emblazoned with butterfly glittery-ness. She played beautifully with her friends and was clearly enjoying the moment she'd waited twelve months for. Somehow, even though she has not yet turned five, she seemed more grown-up. I'm not sure exactly why. But even the freckles across her nose and cheeks seemed to stand out a little more...which, combined with her long legs and infectious giggle, seem to emphasise how big my girl is becoming. I still can't put my finger on it. All I know is, today I could not see much of my little baby in Phoebe-the-big-girl. Then again, I could see a helluva lot of fairy.
By the time the family arrived to sing Happy Birthday (was I smart, or stupid, to space the kinder friends and family into two smaller shin-digs?? Hmmm?? I think I was smart. Right then.), we had been partying for several hours. It was nice for Phoebs to see her grandparents, aunties and uncles (and Argie, and Dasha of course!) in a more relaxed way. I'm glad she could spend time with her friends, and then her family, without feeling overwhelmed or rushed. It just made for a very long afternoon!
But what was great, was that we had a drink and a bit of cake (Mummy had a wine, do you blame me??), Asha tried to eat the toy duck inside the plastic sphere (which we all egged her on to do - no one is innocent here), and before tired turned ugly, it was over. Oh, and we discovered that Asha is terrified (and I do mean, the poor kid got the trembles) of balloons. Which was awesome, considering the house was decked out in about a million of the things.
So now, the balloons are still round and shiny; the bunting hangs gaily, flapping slightly under the breeze of the heating; the streamers festooning the house are still bright and festive. But the cake is all gone...there is icing ground into the carpet...twisties under the table...a brand-spanking-new Barbie sits on the couch, wondering where everyone went. My three little bandits ran their sugar-highs out - Phoebs crashed first, most spectacularly. I think she was asleep before the glitter settled on her pillowcase. Jack struggled valiantly to stay up, finding reasons to blow his nose and inform us of random facts before he succumbed to slumber. And a special mention must go to the Mouse, who not only removed her fairy costume and hair-tie at the party and did a nudey/nappy run complete with snotty nose and wild-child hair, but she stayed pumping until only five minutes ago. Gotta love that pink sugar.
And the fact remains that after all the shopping and cooking and cleaning and balloon-blowing and eating and dancing and prize-giving and squealing and present-giving and hugging and thanking and cleaning and hysterical sugar-induced mania, my baby is turning five on Monday. Which is amazing and wonderful and heart-clenchingly bittersweet. And it is normal, I suppose, to feel that way, when a fairy is walking around, holding your heart in her hands. Especially a sweet little fairy with freckles sprinkled on her nose.
That's right, peeps. Today we held Phoebe's fifth birthday party. And just quietly, I think it went well. I'm too tired to be chuffed, but let's just say I'm fairly sure everyone left happy. Oh, and the almost-birthday girl is fast asleep in bed, shedding glitter and tiara-like debris all over her pillow.
I must admit, I was a little nervous about this party. Apart from being the first party in which the guests stayed without their parents, I barely had time to prepare for it. Apart from raiding the $2 shop last Saturday (with a revolting Mouse in tow), I had not really planned anything for today's shin-dig other than "buy pink food". Which, I'm sure you'll agree, was an excellent place to start but probably needed a bit of fleshing out.
So after work last night, I hit Woolworths with a blush-coloured vengeance. After the kids were asleep, we hung streamers and bunting and balloons and Chinese lanterns...put flowers in vases and willed my inner-Martha-Stewart to come forth...made tiny teacups out of marshmallows and musk lifesavers...threw a batch of cupcakes and two large pink cakes into the oven (which mercifully is ENORMOUS - can you tell I loves my new oven??)...hulled strawberries and made pink heart-shaped jelly and cleaned the bathroom...and then fell in a heap.
Luckily, the Mouse heard me go to bed and decided to help me stay awake by choosing that exact moment to become afraid of the dark. Which meant that she screamed blue murder unless all the lights in the house were on. Which in turn meant that no one else could sleep (not to mention the fact she kept calling out from her bedroom, "Is dark, Mummy! Too scary, Mummy! No lights, Mummy! See you inna mornin, Mummy!")
And when she finally fell into an exhausted sleep (still talking, though), we warily closed our red eyes...only to be woken at 2:45am. Jack had woken up at about 2, dressed himself, and was playing (loudly) in his room, waiting for us to 'get up'. He was convinced it was morning, and that we were, in fact, quite lazy. It took some convincing to get him back into his pyjamas and into bed. Entertaining? Uh, yeah. Restful? Nope.
So anyway, the kids dragged us from our fitful dreaming around 6am by kicking the shite out of 30 balloons waiting on the loungeroom floor. Apparently it was squealingly good fun.
While my beloved took the biggies to ballet, Mouse and I got the house in order and threw pink food (artfully) onto the pink tablecloth, with pink plates and napkins and cups and straws and flowers. And some more pink. And some purple.
Thank the heavens above for our next-door neighbour (heretofore known as Aunty Danielle, m'kay?), who was so excited about Phoebe's birthday that she took care of the pass-the-parcel and a shedload of prizes for me. She arrived with an armload of balloons and presents, took over the face painting duties, and was basically a godsend.
Around lunchtime I realised I hadn't iced Phoebalina's birthday cake. I actually enjoy decorating cakes, especially if there's one the kids have asked for on their birthdays. Phoebe has for months had her eye on a Donna Hay delicacy, and had asked me to replicate it. Problem was, I couldn't find the decorative butterflies I needed for the top anywhere, not for any price...so I made them out of icing. To say I was up to my armpits in icing is no exaggeration, my friends.
Eventually, the table was groaning with pink food and a cake that I will admit I was quite proud of. Considering it's thrown-togetherness, it looked pretty good. It was a layered strawberry cake, with fresh raspberries in the middle, icing that graduated from a soft pink at the bottom to a creamy white at the top, and handmade butterflies dancing around the number 5 candle sitting in pride of place on top. Phoebs was happy with it, at any rate.
Phoebe's little girlie friends all arrived in their fairy outfits, and for two hours we played party games and doled out pink sugar (and sausage rolls - they're protein, right?) The actual party was a bit of a blur - all I can tell you is that I played lots of musical games with eight little fairies (and one pirate) and there were lots of prizes and fairy dust. They were the most well-behaved group of little girls I've ever seen, but even still we didn't stop for a minute! (Who needs a gym when you can host a five year old's birthday party...)
Phoebe pranced around in her fairy dress, waving her wand and beaming at everyone with a face that was emblazoned with butterfly glittery-ness. She played beautifully with her friends and was clearly enjoying the moment she'd waited twelve months for. Somehow, even though she has not yet turned five, she seemed more grown-up. I'm not sure exactly why. But even the freckles across her nose and cheeks seemed to stand out a little more...which, combined with her long legs and infectious giggle, seem to emphasise how big my girl is becoming. I still can't put my finger on it. All I know is, today I could not see much of my little baby in Phoebe-the-big-girl. Then again, I could see a helluva lot of fairy.
By the time the family arrived to sing Happy Birthday (was I smart, or stupid, to space the kinder friends and family into two smaller shin-digs?? Hmmm?? I think I was smart. Right then.), we had been partying for several hours. It was nice for Phoebs to see her grandparents, aunties and uncles (and Argie, and Dasha of course!) in a more relaxed way. I'm glad she could spend time with her friends, and then her family, without feeling overwhelmed or rushed. It just made for a very long afternoon!
But what was great, was that we had a drink and a bit of cake (Mummy had a wine, do you blame me??), Asha tried to eat the toy duck inside the plastic sphere (which we all egged her on to do - no one is innocent here), and before tired turned ugly, it was over. Oh, and we discovered that Asha is terrified (and I do mean, the poor kid got the trembles) of balloons. Which was awesome, considering the house was decked out in about a million of the things.
So now, the balloons are still round and shiny; the bunting hangs gaily, flapping slightly under the breeze of the heating; the streamers festooning the house are still bright and festive. But the cake is all gone...there is icing ground into the carpet...twisties under the table...a brand-spanking-new Barbie sits on the couch, wondering where everyone went. My three little bandits ran their sugar-highs out - Phoebs crashed first, most spectacularly. I think she was asleep before the glitter settled on her pillowcase. Jack struggled valiantly to stay up, finding reasons to blow his nose and inform us of random facts before he succumbed to slumber. And a special mention must go to the Mouse, who not only removed her fairy costume and hair-tie at the party and did a nudey/nappy run complete with snotty nose and wild-child hair, but she stayed pumping until only five minutes ago. Gotta love that pink sugar.
And the fact remains that after all the shopping and cooking and cleaning and balloon-blowing and eating and dancing and prize-giving and squealing and present-giving and hugging and thanking and cleaning and hysterical sugar-induced mania, my baby is turning five on Monday. Which is amazing and wonderful and heart-clenchingly bittersweet. And it is normal, I suppose, to feel that way, when a fairy is walking around, holding your heart in her hands. Especially a sweet little fairy with freckles sprinkled on her nose.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Walking On Sunshine
These days, it seems everyone is nostalgic for the 80's. I mean, obviously the music will never go out of style - after all, who could surpass Blondie, Duran Duran, or Madonna in her first incarnation? Personally, I have always thought that there was only two categories of music - "80's", and "Other", for the obvious reason that anyone with an inkling of rhythm in their veins would understand. Try this: choose one (and only one) song from the 80's as your bestest and most favourite. You can't, can you? It's impossible. Because it's all good. ALL good, I tells ya.
Anyway, any time I hop on Facebook, someone or other will have posted something about being a child during the 80's. How we didn't have Playstations, Wiis, or DS's. How mobile phones were unheard of, and only really, really rich people had weird recording thingys called Beta recorders that you could tape 'Young Talent Time' on from the telly on a Sunday night. How we played outside with our bikes and our friends, with our imaginations. How we could be outside all day, roaming the neighbourhood, only coming inside when your own mother's voice was heard heralding dinner. How we built cubbies; made slip 'n' slides; ran under the sprinkler. How you could buy an enormous bag of mixed lollies at the milkbar for 20c. How we scraped our skin off climbing trees; how we got bindies in our bare feet running on the grass; how we grew strong, healthy and resilient running around all day.
Obviously, as it is with any era, the children of the 80's gaze back now with rose-coloured glasses on. I mean, come on - bindies hurt like buggery, and Beta was terrible. Let's be honest.
But I will admit freely that one of my greatest wishes upon becoming a parent, was that my children could experience an 80's-style childhood like my own. Now, clearly, my kids are still too little to roam the neighbourhood on their own, climbing trees and doing all that crazy barefoot jazz, and when they are old enough...well, I'll probably be a little more restrictive than the typical 80's parent. Not because I don't trust my kids or want to wrap them in cotton wool, but let's face it - the world has lost a lot of innocence since then. If our children have fewer freedoms now, it's for very good reasons. Regardless, what I have always wanted for my own children are good friends who live close enough to play often after school; places to play outside whether it's sunny or windy or freezing cold; and imaginations to fuel games so incredible, they are still remembered into adulthood.
Since Christian was playing golf with some mates this morning, I was in charge of the ballet run. Which basically meant that I charged over to Somerville with two little dancers and a screaming banshee in the back seat, dragged the argumentative, wilful banshee through the shops during Phoebe's ballet lesson, spent a great part of Jack's ballet lesson trying to find the banshee's abandoned shoes in Target while Phoebe trailed dutifully behind, herded two tired dancers and one sobbing banshee back home, made a batch of cupcakes and a potato salad (while the ballerina 'forgot' to take off her undies before she went to the toilet and the banshee and Jack chased each other around the house) and then moved them en masse to my beautiful friend Renee's house.
It wasn't a lovely morning (Thank you, Captain Obvious). It was so bad, in fact, that I mentally prepared myself for an afternoon of horror. We had been invited to a barbie after the 'boys' finished their round of golf, and I fully expected to arrive with revolting children who would fight, scream, and then fall asleep. Or something of that nature.
A few weeks ago, Renee organised this get-together for a few families that met last year at school when our boys were all in the one class. The dads took off to whack golf balls this morning, before the mums and kids joined them back at Renee and Darren's place. I had been looking forward to it all week, particularly as I have not seen the girls at all this term while teaching full-time. But faced with my kids and their feral behaviour this morning, I nearly baled. Pathetic, yes, but true. Don't shake your head at me - you'd do the exact same thing.
So anyway, we arrived, Renee and I popped the first bottle of bubbly, the kids melted into the backyard, the other girls and their kids arrived and platters of nibblies turned into another bottle of bubbly and meat on the barbie...and before I knew it, I had stepped back into the halcyon days of my own childhood. In the kitchen (the nucleus of any rockin party) were the mummies, friends I made only 18 months ago but whom I could not be without. We cackled and told stories and filled each others' glasses. We helped each others' children and dished out sausages and juice. The daddies moved between the BBQ outside and the warmer kitchen indoors, joshing each other about their golf scores and wrangling the boys when necessary. Little Miss Chelsie and the now-not-screaming-like-a-banshee-Mouse were scooped up, not only by their own dads, but by the others too.
And around us, careened our offspring - eight boys and three girls - playing, running, light-sabering, trampolining, ball-throwing, sand-pit-digging, sliding, pot-plant-discovering - all without any need of parental interference.
These eleven kids, the eldest only in Grade Two, played so beautifully together it was almost stuff of legend. I'm fairly sure the girls and I will sit in our rocking chairs at the nursing home, reminiscing... "Do you remember the day all of our kids played without fighting or anyone getting hurt or breaking something or having a temper tantrum? It was a BBQ at Renee's house..." Most likely, someone will butt in and say, "That never happened! You're losing your mind, Mabel" And I'll reply, "Who's Mabel...??" Huh. I might possibly have gone off track there somewhat...
What I'm trying to say (before the Alzheimer's sets in) is that today was the realisation of a dream I have held for my children since they were a twinkle in my eye. The music (80's, of course!) was pumping, the kids were free and happy, and the mummies and daddies laughed so hard our faces hurt. It was exactly as I recall my childhood when my parents would have their friends over - all the grown-ups were relaxed and having a good time, the kids pretty much ran for five hours solid (and ate more sausages than is decent, but no one was counting), and it was just fun. Plain and simple. I'm not sure whether my early fantasy for my children involved my friends and I taking photos of each other "from a height" so that our chins and wrinkles were diminished, but geez it was hilarious.
Today I realised: This is why we moved here. This is why we waited so long for our house, and put up with so much to be here. This is what we wanted for our kids. The bonus is, that in wishing for a nice, safe place to raise our family, and for mates nearby for our kids, Christian and I have landed ourselves in an amazing group of friends. And it is a wonderful place to be.
Anyway, any time I hop on Facebook, someone or other will have posted something about being a child during the 80's. How we didn't have Playstations, Wiis, or DS's. How mobile phones were unheard of, and only really, really rich people had weird recording thingys called Beta recorders that you could tape 'Young Talent Time' on from the telly on a Sunday night. How we played outside with our bikes and our friends, with our imaginations. How we could be outside all day, roaming the neighbourhood, only coming inside when your own mother's voice was heard heralding dinner. How we built cubbies; made slip 'n' slides; ran under the sprinkler. How you could buy an enormous bag of mixed lollies at the milkbar for 20c. How we scraped our skin off climbing trees; how we got bindies in our bare feet running on the grass; how we grew strong, healthy and resilient running around all day.
Obviously, as it is with any era, the children of the 80's gaze back now with rose-coloured glasses on. I mean, come on - bindies hurt like buggery, and Beta was terrible. Let's be honest.
But I will admit freely that one of my greatest wishes upon becoming a parent, was that my children could experience an 80's-style childhood like my own. Now, clearly, my kids are still too little to roam the neighbourhood on their own, climbing trees and doing all that crazy barefoot jazz, and when they are old enough...well, I'll probably be a little more restrictive than the typical 80's parent. Not because I don't trust my kids or want to wrap them in cotton wool, but let's face it - the world has lost a lot of innocence since then. If our children have fewer freedoms now, it's for very good reasons. Regardless, what I have always wanted for my own children are good friends who live close enough to play often after school; places to play outside whether it's sunny or windy or freezing cold; and imaginations to fuel games so incredible, they are still remembered into adulthood.
Since Christian was playing golf with some mates this morning, I was in charge of the ballet run. Which basically meant that I charged over to Somerville with two little dancers and a screaming banshee in the back seat, dragged the argumentative, wilful banshee through the shops during Phoebe's ballet lesson, spent a great part of Jack's ballet lesson trying to find the banshee's abandoned shoes in Target while Phoebe trailed dutifully behind, herded two tired dancers and one sobbing banshee back home, made a batch of cupcakes and a potato salad (while the ballerina 'forgot' to take off her undies before she went to the toilet and the banshee and Jack chased each other around the house) and then moved them en masse to my beautiful friend Renee's house.
It wasn't a lovely morning (Thank you, Captain Obvious). It was so bad, in fact, that I mentally prepared myself for an afternoon of horror. We had been invited to a barbie after the 'boys' finished their round of golf, and I fully expected to arrive with revolting children who would fight, scream, and then fall asleep. Or something of that nature.
A few weeks ago, Renee organised this get-together for a few families that met last year at school when our boys were all in the one class. The dads took off to whack golf balls this morning, before the mums and kids joined them back at Renee and Darren's place. I had been looking forward to it all week, particularly as I have not seen the girls at all this term while teaching full-time. But faced with my kids and their feral behaviour this morning, I nearly baled. Pathetic, yes, but true. Don't shake your head at me - you'd do the exact same thing.
So anyway, we arrived, Renee and I popped the first bottle of bubbly, the kids melted into the backyard, the other girls and their kids arrived and platters of nibblies turned into another bottle of bubbly and meat on the barbie...and before I knew it, I had stepped back into the halcyon days of my own childhood. In the kitchen (the nucleus of any rockin party) were the mummies, friends I made only 18 months ago but whom I could not be without. We cackled and told stories and filled each others' glasses. We helped each others' children and dished out sausages and juice. The daddies moved between the BBQ outside and the warmer kitchen indoors, joshing each other about their golf scores and wrangling the boys when necessary. Little Miss Chelsie and the now-not-screaming-like-a-banshee-Mouse were scooped up, not only by their own dads, but by the others too.
And around us, careened our offspring - eight boys and three girls - playing, running, light-sabering, trampolining, ball-throwing, sand-pit-digging, sliding, pot-plant-discovering - all without any need of parental interference.
These eleven kids, the eldest only in Grade Two, played so beautifully together it was almost stuff of legend. I'm fairly sure the girls and I will sit in our rocking chairs at the nursing home, reminiscing... "Do you remember the day all of our kids played without fighting or anyone getting hurt or breaking something or having a temper tantrum? It was a BBQ at Renee's house..." Most likely, someone will butt in and say, "That never happened! You're losing your mind, Mabel" And I'll reply, "Who's Mabel...??" Huh. I might possibly have gone off track there somewhat...
What I'm trying to say (before the Alzheimer's sets in) is that today was the realisation of a dream I have held for my children since they were a twinkle in my eye. The music (80's, of course!) was pumping, the kids were free and happy, and the mummies and daddies laughed so hard our faces hurt. It was exactly as I recall my childhood when my parents would have their friends over - all the grown-ups were relaxed and having a good time, the kids pretty much ran for five hours solid (and ate more sausages than is decent, but no one was counting), and it was just fun. Plain and simple. I'm not sure whether my early fantasy for my children involved my friends and I taking photos of each other "from a height" so that our chins and wrinkles were diminished, but geez it was hilarious.
Today I realised: This is why we moved here. This is why we waited so long for our house, and put up with so much to be here. This is what we wanted for our kids. The bonus is, that in wishing for a nice, safe place to raise our family, and for mates nearby for our kids, Christian and I have landed ourselves in an amazing group of friends. And it is a wonderful place to be.
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