Naughty, Nasty Nostalgia

It's a funny beast, Nostalgia.

It creeps up on you without warning and smacks you on the cheek, then runs away laughing, looking for it's next victim.

Even when you're expecting it, looking out for it, lying in wait for it...it still manages to sneak up on you every time.

During those endless days of high school, when you cannot think beyond the end of the year, let alone the end of Year 12, you never realise that one day it will all be behind you. That you might actually look back with fondness on the days of questionable fashion trends, dodgy haircuts, laughable crushes and the daily trauma of teenage embarrassment seems impossible (and let's be honest here, no one remembers who taught them Year 9 Science after a decade. I know. I'm a Science teacher).

And yet, the end of Year 12 is all about sentimentality and pledging friendships forever (and obviously, exams...pfft) because old Nostalgia has paid a visit. Pinged you with it's arrow, so to speak. You wouldn't have picked it, would you?

If you went to uni, you probably had a few years like me - autumnal days spent cruising around campus, a bit of library time, a few lectures and tutes here and there....and a whole lotta socialising. Is it a day ending with Y? It is?? Well then, get thy derriere to thy pub and drink merrily! Tis fun to be had!

It's no wonder Nostalgia comes roaring around with the memory of uni days. Sometimes, my lack of a social life is so dire I'd almost run away with Nostalgia if it came around to the house mentioning time spent at PA's in Carlton, or Naughton's...even a trip to Lygon Street just for cake would be welcome. And nostalgic.

Currently, I'm nostalgic for newborns. It's been long enough that I've forgotten the eyeball-searing reality of sleep deprivation. I am not drowning in a sea of vomitty Wondersuits and muslins. My nipples do not cry with pain because they know another feed is around the corner. Colic is no longer the cause of angst-ridden evening hours in our house (now, it's just me. I'm the cause).

I have quite a few preggy bellies in my life at the moment, and every one of them has me green with envy. How I would love to rub a firm, roundy tummy under my tshirt while tiny feet and hands pummel me from the inside. I would even love the surprising and slightly unpleasant sensation of a foetal full-body stretch, whereby the feet lodge under the ribs, and the head wedges itself waaaaaaay down low. What I would give for the exciting promise of a new, snuggly, mewing newborn, with it's newborn-smelling head and little clenched fists. Me, with my now-defunct uterus. Oh Nostalgia, you're a mean bugger.

Nostalgia would have been having a field day with me lately. The kids and I have found a nice little groove with the school run, and getting the washing done, and walking the dogs in the sunshine every afternoon. A normal day for us involves spreading toys all over the house with happy girly games while Mummy tidies the mess in the kitchen. By the time we do a load of washing, make and clean up lunch, and have nap time, it's school pick-up time. Sounds fairly humdrum? I'm telling you - it's a feast for Nostalgia.

You see, the girls and I have had yet another "normal" day. We spent the morning at my cleaning job (me scrubbing, huffing and puffing; the girls strewing My Little Ponies all over the house and watching Dora); trundled demurely through the supermarket, allowing Phoebalina to pay the lady for the newspaper and a stamp; posted a letter in the big red box (very exciting!); met Daddy for lunch (we ended up having a car picnic because by the time we got there, both girls were asleep in their car seats); took Archie and Daisy for a walk (tied to either side of the pram) in the glorious, freezing, sunshiny day, and collected our favourite son and brother from school at home time.

Just an ordinary day that would usually be swallowed up into so many other similar days in the memory bank. I know that when Nostalgia taps me on the shoulder about this period in my life, I'll remember days spent playing, walking the pram in the sunshine, my two little girlies sharing games involving many blankets on the floor and dollies being mothered to bits. The shame of it is, that even when Nostalgia comes sniffing around in two or three years when the Mouse is heading off to school, there are details I won't remember clearly.

Such as Phoebe's incessant chatter and the rambling songs she makes up as we drive along. And the way Maisie leans in when I say, "I love you", replies, "I you" in a breathy, husky little voice, plants a gentle kiss on my nose and leans her cheek on mine, saying "Ahhh". How Phoebe was so thrilled to post a letter today, all by herself. The sound of Maisie miaowing whenever she spies a cat, anywhere (real or otherwise!). How every animal other than a cat makes a "woo woo" noise like a dog (even penguins). The fact that Phoebe's hair is a soft mass of curls at the nape of her neck, more fine than fairy floss, and the Mouse's is dead straight on top and curly curls at the mullet. That if you ask Maisie where her nose is, or any other facial feature, she will point to her face and say, "Ize!" as though she is the cleverest creature on the planet.

I hope, when Nostalgia comes creeping through my front door in a few years, that these are some of the memories he brings. No matter what, I know he won't be kind. Nostalgia will leave out the broken nights, the prolonged toilet training, the tantrums in the supermarket. He won't remind me of changing wet beds twice in one night, or trying to convince an 18 month old that she won't die if Mummy puts her down to go to the toilet.

No.

Nostalgia, being the mean old fella that he is, will bring me the best of my children's years of being small. Memories that make me ache for miniature fingers and toes; for seeing the sheer delight on a toddler's face when given a plate of strawberries; for the sensation of chubby little arms wrapped around my neck, coupled with secrets whispered in Mummy's ear.

Nostalgia will make me weep for years gone. He will give nary a thought to those around me who will suffer the sniffling of the ugly crier. And he will make me forget, momentarily at least, that with every lost moment of babyhood, there is an equally wonderful moment of childhood, or parenthood, just waiting to happen.