The Unblocking

When he was born, he was his mumma’s little chubby piece of boyish perfection. She loved every roll, every dimple. He was everything she had dreamed of, and everything she hadn’t known to dream of. He fed and slept, fed and cuddled, fed and learned to smile. And they were happy.

He had colic and reflux, like many babies. He teethed, and got coughs and colds, and bumped his knees. When he cried, his mumma held him in her arms and warmed the hurt away with her love. And soon he stopped crying, and was happy again.

When he was a toddler, his sister was born. Like her brother, she was her mumma’s dream come true. The two of them grew and did all the normal things. When they laughed, their mumma basked in the sound. When they cried, her arms circled them until the hurt was gone.

Another baby sister came. Perfection, again.

What a lucky family they were.

Whenever something scary, or new, or strange happened, the mumma and the daddy wrapped their love around the three babies to keep them safe. And they were happy.

Then one day, someone so very bad came along he literally took their breath away.

He also took away Grandpa.

The whole world changed. Days blurred. Police came and went. There were visitors, and journalists, and people, all of them asking “why?”

The mumma and the daddy stood in the centre of the maelstrom, stunned. And did the only thing they knew how to do – they hugged their babies.

And those babies – oh my. Their grief was bigger than they were. It made them do things like throw temper tantrums, and stop eating, and say things like, “I hope I die in my sleep so I can go to heaven and be with Grandpa.”

The mumma and the daddy heard this and it broke them in two. But they kept on keeping on, feeding their babies and tucking them in at night, and most importantly, enfolding them with love.

And the only way the mumma and the daddy were able to keep on keeping on was because they too, were encircled in love. They were wrapped in ever-widening circles of arms from friends and the community, and even people they’d never met. People who sent messages and food and flowers and hugs, all of them simply sending love. And all of it helped put strength into the arms of the mumma and daddy.

**********

Life without Grandpa is different. There’s a shadow where there used to be light. But his belly laugh resonates in his grandchildren. And his kindness shines from their eyes. Without Grandpa’s selfless act, the family would be without their Grandma too. No one can ever repay that.

There is not a minute in the day when we do not think of Grandpa, and the act that took him from us. It is something we have to learn to live with. Our family will never be free of that hurt. But we are so very lucky to have each other, and so many caring people around us. It is my hope that instead of living in the shadows of grief, perhaps one day we might be able to help another family through their trauma, as we are being helped through ours.

But it is in honour of Grandpa that we will continue to strive to be happy. That we will keep each other safe, just as he did. That we will hug each other and kiss goodnight, and laugh loud and often. And remember just how lucky we are.

To Phoebe, on her sixth birthday

To my Phoebe, on your sixth birthday,

Being your mumma is, quite simply, amazing. With you, life is musical, magical, exuberant.

You are three-quarters the way through your first year at school. You are so enthusiastic about your teacher and going to school every day that you literally hum with happiness every morning. Only once this year did I insist that you were too sick to go to school, and made you stay tucked up on the couch. You cried, insistent that your teacher would wonder where you were, and that you would miss out on something "important".

You colour-in, and draw, and write constantly. I am forever finding notes written in your beautiful, scrawly script, love letters to Daddy and Mummy and Maisie (Jack usually receives instructions). I have never seen anyone colour for hours with so much joy. If contentment could be measured in butterflies and rainbows...our lives would be utterly content.

You have finally (finally!) grown hair long enough to be braided, and one of the nicest things anyone can do for you is comment on your long hair. It is thick and wavy, and every morning when I brush it, it is full of knots. But as long as you let me do your hair, I will have to do it exactly like yours - in a "flat" - for your little sister. The Mouse might be bossy and a right little madam at times, but in her eyes, Beebee is queen.

You never stop singing. More often than not, you pootle around warbling made-up songs but you're also quite partial to a bit of 80's. If I have encouraged you in that direction...well. I could have done worse, right? You adore your ballet lessons and I love watching you prance and twirl, especially in your fairy dress-ups. You are very tall for your age - everybody comments on your height -and in your ballet troupe, you stand out. Graceful and giggly in ballet shoes, smiling and stompy in tap shoes...often it's the goofy grin that sets you apart from the others.

You have been talking about turning six for several months now. Certainly, I was asked to calculate how many 'sleeps' until your birthday about 126 sleeps ago. This year, it was all about mermaids - we made clay mermaids (and dinosaurs for the boys) at your birthday party, and ate mermaid birthday cake. When you unwrapped a mermaid story book and a copy of "The Little Mermaid' on DVD this morning, the look on your face was gorgeous. The only thing that didn't have mermaids on it was your new bike, which we surprised you with on Sunday. Since then, you have lapped the driveway a thousand times, grinning broadly under your helmet and wobbling determinedly on your training wheels. Only the unceasing rain yesterday and today stopped you. Even when we got home from school today, you rode through the puddles until your birthday dinner was ready.

This afternoon I picked you up at school, just as someone was wishing you a happy birthday. "Mumma!", you exclaimed. "Today I am six, and when I wake up in the morning I'll still be six!" Yes, my darling, you will be. Every day you grow older, and recently I stopped wishing you were a baby again and learned to appreciate the little girl you are right now. Just because you have long, lanky legs and a gap-toothed grin, even though you barely fit on my lap and are big enough now to butter your own toast, despite the fact that you think you are quite grown-up and can read your own birthday cards...you're still my little girl. And how lucky am I to be the mumma of such an amazing little girl?

Your Argie, and your grandpa would be incredibly proud of you today. They both loved your sweetness, your spunk, your quick wit. They both revelled in your hugs and kisses. They could both see your sharp Maths brain, sometimes so fast it's scary. Since your fifth birthday, they have both gone to live in the rainbow. But their love for you is still everywhere, and I know that today, both of them would have been with you as you shared your birthday with your classmates. Both of them would have laughed, watching you decorate your own cake with Jack and Maisie tonight. Both of them would have been singing to you when you blew your number 6 candle out.

Today you are six, my Phoebalina Ballerina. You are kind, funny, caring and fun. You are sweet, fiery, crazy and intensely loyal. You hang off Pa's legs for more hugs. You play the clown to get Narnie's attention. You adore your brother and sister, and can be quite the stirrer. You are clever and happy and strong, and life without you is unimaginable. I cannot even begin to describe how big my heart had to grow, just to encompass the love I have for you.

Happy sixth birthday, my beautiful girl.
With love always,
Your Mumma xxx

Taking the sunshine when it comes

I'm here.

I'm in the background, behind the scenes. I have been for a while.

I have so much to say, and no idea how to say it.

So, for now, all I will say is this. My little family is broken. I am trying so very hard to fix it.

Today, being Father's Day, illustrated everything that is right and good in my family. I hope to build on that.

I watched my children today with their Daddy. They showered him in love and smiles, because they would expect nothing less. It was a beautiful day, spent trawling the city in the sunshine. We let them run in circles and eat lollies. The Mouse kept wishing her Daddy a "happy Muvvers day". The kids were happy, most of the time, which made a big change from real life.

I watched my children tonight with their Pa. They kicked the footy, shrieked, laughed, and ate sausages. They got blue playdough everywhere. They played with their little cousin, and teased their uncle, and asked Aunty Miffy a thousand questions. They ate every single bit of fruit that Narnie cut up for them, and asked for more. I haven't heard Jack laugh that hard in ages. About 7 weeks, to be precise. It was so nice. Being normal.

My Dad - he is, and always has been, my mate. Put us together in front of Fawlty Towers, and we're a lost cause. I have always been so aware of how lucky I am to have a brilliant Dad. Tonight, I was reminded how lucky my kids are that they have such a wonderful Pa. The way he made them giggle and chase the footy tonight - it was exactly what I have needed to see and hear for weeks.

Seeing my happy little tribe this evening, you would have been forgiven for not realising something was amiss. You wouldn't know that my kids couldn't wish their Grandpa a happy Father's Day. You wouldn't see the grief in my husband's eyes, the fatherless father putting on a brave face for his babies. Thank heavens for the family we do have, and for their ability to surround us and our kids with love, to smooth out the edges on quite a long, emotional day.

My little family is broken. But the pieces that we are gluing back together are quite beautiful. Even when we are put back together, the cracks will still be visible. But with my whole family wrapping their arms around us, we will hold together. I'm sure of it.

A letter to my Narnie

Dear Narnie,

I have so many memories of you. I remember sleeping on a mattress on the floor, next to your bed. I would tell you when you were 'snorting', probably disrupting your sleep several times a night.

I remember building cubbies out of blankets and chairs in your loungeroom, so that you literally had no living space for days on end.

I remember being terrified of your grandfather clock; of hiding in your magic pantry with the light that went on when you opened the door; of the enormous chest freezer that always had Eskimo Pies in it.

I remember being given an old margarine tub and a spoon, and spending hours in your beautiful forest of a garden, making 'perf'. I remember feeding the maggies on your deck. I remember being taken up to the Cross on the Mount, and finding Little Red Riding Hood's house.

I remember feeding the horses with you on crisp winter mornings, and freezing autumn nights, when the mice would leap from the bags of chaff in the shed. You were never afraid, or flinched from the task. I was always glad you were the one scooping your hands into the golden chaff, piling the buckets high for Joker and Willy's dinner. I can still remember the sweet scent of the lucerne we fed the horses when they got older, and needed more nourishment.

I know when my Mum was small, you had several beautiful cats, but when I was growing up there was always an adored and adoring Aussie terrier by your side. You would put their Good-o's on the carpet in the morning after they'd been outside, and when they'd been polished off, your little dog would sit patiently by Pa's chair until a corner of toast was offered. First Pixie and Hemingway, then Pepper, and then finally Joffa - all were enclosed in your circle of love. Even when the Ash Wednesday fires threatened your home, and you took refuge in the local pub with the rest of the town, you smuggled your dogs in with you rather than leave them in the ute. Thank goodness you did.

You had an aviary of canaries that enthralled me as a little girl. You used to go and talk to them while you fed them. It was the simple pleasure of their singing that you loved, so I loved it too. My one-and-only beloved Tweety came from you - the only "male" canary to ever lay eggs. But boy, could Tweety sing.

I remember crying at the end of every school holiday, when Mum and Dad would come to take me home. You would always break off a sprig of forget-me-not from the little patch at the top of your driveway and hand it to me, telling me that if I took it, I wouldn't forget you.

How could I? Even as a tiny girl, I knew we were old friends. You called us kindred spirits, and understood me like no one else. You were wise when I needed advice; brave when I needed courage; enthusiastic when I needed spirit, calm when I needed settling, and endlessly, endlessly, loving.

Over the years, you have given me so much. You told me stories of your parents and grandparents, instilling the family history in me. You gave me a thirst for knowledge; a desire to travel; the hope to be just like you when I grew up. It was you who embraced my education and my friends when I needed to change schools and came to live with you and Pa during Year 12. It was you who drove me to aspire to be a student at the University of Melbourne, just like you. It was you who lit the fire of curiosity and bravery that made me shed my fears and travel the world when I was 22. It was you who built the family who has shaped me, and showed me every day that love is all you need.

You were there when I was born, when I grew, when I left home to see the world, when I returned. You were there when I became a teacher, just like you. You were there when I met Christian; when we got engaged; you danced at my wedding. You cradled Jack, and Phoebe, and then Maisie when they were born, and the look on your face each time was priceless.

For as long as I can remember, you have been there. There is not a family occasion that I can recall when you weren't there, smiling and enjoying the chaos. After all, you raised four babies of your own who went on to marry and have babies. In the last seven years, your great-grandchildren have swelled the ranks. The family you and Pa created is large, loud and loving. We support each other, celebrate each other, and surround each other when needed, all because of you.

Over the last few years your body has become more frail but your spirit never wavered. Only two weeks ago, my aunty 'outed' me and told you about my lessons in pole-dancing. I underestimated you by hiding from you, thinking a lady such as you would be shocked. You were delighted, and laughed until your eyes sparkled. Somehow, you managed to be mischievous, down-to-earth, practical, exuberant, naughty and extremely respectable, all at once.

Yesterday, you breathed your last breath, and walked hand-in-hand with Pa away from this earthly life. I haven't yet allowed myself to think about life without you, because it is something far too painful to imagine. Your wisdom, your stories, your gentle hands, your loving eyes, I have taken for granted, I know. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a grandmother reach the amazing age of 85. Fewer still enjoy a relationship with someone as remarkable as you. You were, and are, one in a million.

Everywhere I look, there you are. In a photo on the shelf. In the cookbook you gave to me last Tuesday. In the dinner you taught me to make. In Phoebe's smile. There are tangible bits of you everywhere I look. But it was my children's response to me yesterday that proved that you are in all of us, and that your love will always be there.

When Christian and I gathered the children onto our laps to tell them you had gone to heaven to be with Pa Fred, they cried. But their tears stopped instantly when my own sobs grew, and it was their actions that showed what their Argie had taught them - that love is all you need. Jack immediately turned, put his teddy in my arms and gave me a box of tissues. The Mouse went and got a book to read to me ("Dora Loves Boots", just in case you were interested), "to feel you better, Mumma". And Phoebe drew me a picture to cheer me up. All three forgot their own grief in their attempts to 'feel me better', which is something that you would have done.

They miss you terribly already. How could they not, when you have been such an integral part of their lives since they were born? It is Jack who turned 'Narnie G' into your last nickname, Argie. It is Phoebe who carries your artistic blood in her veins. It is Maisie who refuses to wear any jumper that wasn't "kitted" by Argie. It is Asha, their beloved cousin, who looks most like you. My children already understand that one of their jobs, as they grow up, is to keep you alive in Asha's memory. I think they are proud of that responsibility.

As for me, it will be a long time before I can speak of you without sobbing. Losing your kindred spirit is not an easy thing to do. I am fortunate that there are so many of us in this enormous family, and so many wonderful stories of you to tell, that at some point my tears will be mingled with laughter. The only thing that eases my grief is the thought of you and Pa, together again. You have missed him so terribly, and borne your own grief for him so well, that I can only be happy that the two of you are in each other's arms again. The love in our family is not an amazing thing, considering the love that this family came from.

And so my darling, my Narnie, I will say good night. Not goodbye - never goodbye - but good night. Sweet dreams. See you in the spring.

Your Sal-pal xxx

Happy Mothering Day

I am so grateful for my stretch marks.

Because they delineate every kick, every roll, every stretch and every bout of intestinal-pummeling that my babies enjoyed while growing round and fat in my belly. And not every woman I know is lucky enough to have mama-stretch marks.

I am so very lucky, knowing that my sleep is never guaranteed. That a huge proportion of my day is spent comforting hurts, breaking up squabbles, and helping a frustrated three-year-old put her princess dress on without appearing to help.

Because even during the night, I am the one they want. When they are hurt, distressed, angry, upset, bewildered...no matter what the problem, I am the one they rely on to fix it. They have not yet realised that I do not have magical powers, and there are problems I cannot fix. At this time, I am still Mummy, who can kiss it and make it better. And there will come a day when I shall yearn for a frustrated three-year-old. Just as many of my friends do.

When they are happy, oh my. When my children are happy (which is most of the time), I am the one who basks in their sunshine. I am the one they run to, to show new tricks and ballet steps. I am the one they insist on telling the stories of their day. I am the lucky, lucky one to be deluged in hugs and kisses, even if my absence has been for a trip to Woolworths without them. It is never lost on me, how blessed I am that they are mine.

I am so fortunate to have nappies and baby wipes stuffed in every bag; to never, ever have enough food in the cupboard; to have a floor that is perpetually covered in jigsaw pieces and random bits of Iron Man.

Because being a Mum is all I ever wanted to do. And I was so, so lucky that it happened for me. I don't want to let go of nappies in a hurry. It distresses me enough that the Mouse won't sit in her pram. I love the fact that Jack is growing so fast he eats me out of house and home. I fed him with my body until he had jowls that reached his shoulders. Now, all I can do is pile his bowl high with Weetbix and be joyful that he still has such a wonderful appetite. And even though Phoebe is still the slowest eater in the world, we have some lovely conversations while she is (not) eating. Her five-year-old self is, quite simply, freckled exquisiteness. If I could bottle her sweetness right now, I would. Because I cannot quite believe my luck that she is sitting there, taking an hour to eat her lunch. And she is all mine.

One day, my house will stay tidy when I clean it. There won't be hobby horses left strewn on the stairs, or Barbie lying naked in the hall; there won't be stray shoes and Lego and dolly tea-parties left underneath the groaning clothes-horse. I know how fortunate I am to have such a messy house.

The thing is, no matter how tired or messy or shouty I get, I am always aware of how fleeting this time is. How my children will be grown-up in the blink of an eye. And how I am forever grateful to be blessed with them, regardless of how many tiny bits of toys I stand on with bare feet, or how many poos I clean off the carpet (yes, true - but that's another story). I am already smiling at the knowledge that my sleep will be interrupted tonight by little footsteps running into my room. I know this, because it is raining. And the Mouse will, without fail, come into me at around 2am to tell me it is "rainding" and that she doesn't like it. And I will need to carry her back to bed, and cuddle her to sleep. This is something that will exhaust me, and no doubt frustrate me at 2am. But it is me she wants and needs, and it is me she will get. Because I want her, one day, to be a grown-up girl who knows her Mummy has always been there for her, no matter what. And that being her Mummy is the most amazing thing I could ever have hoped for.

And I am eternally grateful to my own mother, who not only went through all of this with my brother and sister and I, but is still here and smiling (and grandmothering my own kids!). Not all of my friends have their mums, for many and varied reasons. I nearly lost mine. I think about this every day, and on Mothers Day...I know how lucky I am. So very, very lucky.

Happy Mothers Day to all the mothers out there; all the grandmothers, the aunties, the mums-to-be, the should-be mothers, the adoptive mums, the foster mums, the stand-in mums, the teachers who love their students as their own, the childcarers who pour love into every child who passes them and the women who love the children in their lives regardless of whether they belong to each other or not. Mothers Day can be both very lovely, and very bittersweet. For me, it's a day to commemorate the loving women in our lives. Everyone has those. So Happy Mothering Day, one and all. Regardless of your stretch mark status :)

Seven is a lucky number

I’m fairly sure that it wasn’t baby brain that wiped my memory. I mean, obviously I can’t be completely certain. Whatever the reason, I seem to have absolutely no recollection of my life when I was not a mum.

It’s almost as though my life has been neatly divided into two stages – Before Kids (BK) and With Kids (WK). If I think about BK now, according to my brain I was a Mummy-In-Waiting. Even before they were born, I felt it in my bones that my children would come. And I was one of the very lucky ones, because they did.

When Jack was born, seven years ago today, he made me a mum. In many ways, he made me what I felt I was always meant to be.

It was for the love of Jack that made me want Phoebe, and then Maisie. Had my broken insides not been an issue, I would have kept going.

Jack is seven years old today. It is all at once so, so big, and still enough little to make me want to keep him close to my belly.

As with every birthday, our boy has been counting the sleeps until he was no longer six, but a ‘grown up’ of seven.  All of a sudden, he has grown long, gangly arms and legs, freckles upon freckles, and has been losing teeth with abandon. Considering how difficult it was to get those teeth in the first place, I wasn’t too happy about them falling out. And quite frankly, the size of the tombstones growing in their place scares me more than a little bit.

I can still glimpse the shadow of my cheeky toddler in his beautiful blue eyes. I can still hear my little boy in his high, sweet voice. I still catch my breath when he wraps his arms around my neck, his hug fierce with love.

But my baby is not a baby anymore, and turning seven suits him. Jack has spent the entire school holidays riding his bike and his skateboard, wearing a helmet with huge red spikes all over it. He is Star Wars obsessed, and spends hours in an imaginary world zooming Luke and Darth Vader around while making the noises out loud, completely unselfconscious. He still loves his dancing and ballet, and has become the proud member of a troupe that competes in competitions and exams. But this has been tempered by his adoration of the Bombers, and all things footy-related, the boy in him obvious as he whoops and hollers “Yes!!!!” when the Essendon boys kick a goal.

Jack actually received his birthday present two weeks early, just in time for the beginning of the school holidays, and it was this present that showed me just how grown up he has become. For Jack’s seventh birthday, he became the proud master of a cavalier puppy who he named Toby. He actually wanted to name his puppy Michael initially, which made me snort because I had this vision of standing in the dog park calling, “Michael!! Come!” A day or so later, he changed his mind and preferred the name Jonathan. Again, I couldn’t quite picture a small puppy with such a formal name…even if the opportunities for comic relief would have been numerous. In the end, we talked about names together and agreed that Toby would be an awesome name for Jack’s puppy.

So Toby came to us two weeks ago, an eight-week-old brown and white little bundle of energy with curly, floppy ears and a growl that sounds like purring. Jack simply worships him; he plays and wrestles with Toby; feeds him and takes him outside for wees; cleans up his messes and gets up with him in the early mornings. Of course, I get up to Toby in the night, and play with him at 11pm when he gets the puppy maddies but he’s so gorgeous it’s not a hardship.

Seeing Jack with his puppy, giggling and rolling on the floor, it makes my heart burst. Just as it did when the Mouse sang “Happy Dirt Day Princess” to her big brother this morning, as only she can. Or when Phoebe carefully chose a birthday card with lots of doggies on it, because Jack loves dogs.

I fell in love with Jack long before I clapped eyes on his big blue eyes and tufty newborn hair; long before his gummy smiles and backwards commando-crawling; long before his wild blonde toddler curls and obsession with Thomas the Tank; long before this leggy, lanky, gap-toothed, goofy, dinosaur-loving, ever-performing seven year old landed his bony bottom in my lap.

Today it is seven years since my heart was turned inside-out with love for this boy, who made me a mum. Seven years of joy, seven years of hugs and kisses and squeezy cuddles, seven years of ridiculous love. Happy, happy, happy seventh birthday my Jack.  I hope you never get too big to throw your arms around my neck.

Phoebe O'Toole is Going To School

It was a lovely morning today when the girls and I dropped Jack off at school. He threw kisses at us as he ran up the footpath to the school gate, never once looking back as his enormous Grade One feet thundered along.

We drove home for a morning of fairy dress-ups and play-doh, bathing baby dolls (in Daddy's study, of course) and spreading Barbie paraphernalia all around. The girls perched up on stools at the kitchen bench and 'helped' me make chocolate chip cookies. They were quite sceptical at the length of time it took the biscuits to bake, and then cool enough to be tasted. I think they thought they were being duped, because they both kept checking on the oven trays.

We had a picnic of ham sandwiches and peaches on the floor. We did some drawing, and some more play-doh. The girls skimmed around the driveway on their scooters while I rearranged the garage, hoping for just a little more usuable space. Obviously, they both wanted the same scooter. The pink one. We had to work out a system of taking turns so that the squabbling was diminished, somewhat. The poor old blue scooter got scorned.

When it was nearing 3 o'clock, we trooped back to school to collect Jack. The girls trotted happily around me as we visited Mrs. Hunter and the Grade 3's to say hello. They played in the sunshine outside Jack's classroom until he ambled out, and then smothered him with impatiently-borne hugs and kisses.

He chased Maisie around the asphalt, just as he used to do to Phoebs when she was little. I stopped him, before she lost half the skin on her face like Phoebe did. I shepherded the kids back to the car with promises of snacks and quiet time for tired, sweaty boys, and snacks and ballet time for hyperactive girls.

Friday afternoon, after school, just as it has always been.

Except.

Today was identical to so many other days I have enjoyed at home with my two girls, except for one very significant detail. It was my last day at home with Phoebe before she starts Prep.

To see your child all dressed in their school uniform, so proud and so eager to get out into the grown-up world, is a moment of true emotional upheaval. You know this moment is coming - there can be no surprises when this little buddy of yours has been counting the sleeps for over six months - but it just seems to rush up and slap you.

For some reason, seeing your five year old dressed in a too-big school uniform removes all vestiges of how big they are, and firmly plonks the baby they used to be, right there in front of you.

This moment in time, when they take an enormous step away from you and begin their life without holding your hand...it's what you have worked towards and expected since they first burst noisily and magically into your world. Every thing you have taught them, every little skill you have celebrated and sweated over...from learning to walk, to feeding themselves, to doing up their own buttons...they have learned all of this from you, so that they might be able to learn so many other things for themselves away from you.

It might not seem like much, but every single day spent with your children teaches them something new. It might be how to speak on the phone (goodness knows, the Mouse knows how to be imperious to prospective telemarketers) or walk to the shops ("I get my baby and go shops, ok? Hi Mum, I back! Here da carrots"), but it's all important to them. When our babies go to school, all of the teeny tiny little lessons we've given them come to the surface. It's just so hard to trust that you've taught them enough, and that they'll know what to do without their little hand clasped firmly in yours.

I suppose in a way, the 'baby' years - the years of day sleeps and toilet training and throwing uneaten lunches away and wiping down food-smeared high chairs and hanging out load after load of washing; the years of toys strewn all over the carpet and rescuing the cat and knowing the words of every single God-forsaken song on every Wiggles DVD in your TV cabinet - seem endless.

If you are a stay-at-home mum, a working full-time mum, or somewhere in between, when you spend every day at home doing the exact same things, you take it for granted that that's what you'll be doing for a very long time.

And then one day, you wake up and it HAS been a very long time. And it's over.

It's the time warp of childhood. Five years that appeared to be of normal length suddenly got swallowed by a worm hole.

So today was my last day at home with my sunny, funny, easy-going, stubborn, question-asking, slowest eater in the world. She insisted on wearing her school uniform at home. All day. She had me put pig tails in her hair with her proper school elastics and hair clips. She practised writing her name, over and over (backwards, mirrored). She made 'chocolates' with the brown play-doh, and 'bikkies' with the orange. She played so beautifully with her little sister, and it broke my heart to think that neither of them realised the significance of today.

Then again, perhaps it's good that they didn't.

I have enjoyed so many of these days with my biggest girl. But I have also wasted too many of them, even though logically I knew they couldn't go on forever. I guess I was simply assuming that the long, long years of babyhood would stretch as long as I needed them to. All too soon, my round-faced, baldy baby ("I never cried, did I Mum?") has grown into the sweetest little girl simply bursting to go to school. And on Monday, that's what she'll do.

All I can do is hope that in all my days at home with her (as patchy as they were, given my shifting work patterns), I filled her pockets with enough kisses and cuddles to get her through the school day without me. I hope that even when she's sitting on Mrs. Heron's carpet, she knows how much I love her. I hope that no matter Phoebe is learning, she knows that I am thinking about her, and waiting to hear about her day.

I will not cry on Monday. (I have to face my new class of Grade 3's on Monday, and it just wouldn't do to present them with the Ugly Crier now, would it?) No, I will not cry for my grown-up baby when she trots through her classroom door for the first time. She deserves better than that. I will smile and be happy for my baby girl who will absolutely devour school life. And I will put my trust in her, that all the years spent reading and singing and dancing and play-dohing and drawing and tidying up and squabbling and scootering and kissing it better and playgrounding have taught her enough to go out into the world of Big School. Even if those years turned out to be much too short indeed.

How a movie put me into hospital

So I bet you're dying to hear how going to a movie landed me in hospital?

Let me explain.

This date, January 24, seems to be a significant one on our calendar. You'll see what I mean.

First of all, it would appear that our Huggies-free era may be in its' infancy. After nearly seven years of nappies on various bottoms (rarely mine), the potty-resistant Mouse made her first steps towards big-girl undies today. My Mum was looking after Jack and the Mouse, and she took them down to the beach early this morning to get a paddle in before the sun reached its' zenith. Apparently, at some point the Mouse was coerced by Narnie into having a go on the potty. Narnie must have some magical powers, cos Mummy has had Z.E.R.O. success with Toilet Training The Third Child ( heretofore known as TTTTC) So there you have notable January 24 fact number one :)

Right now, I'm in bed with Phoebalina, Ernie, and a whole lotta tissues, watching the tennis. If my girl weren't so miserable, it'd be lovely. But the reason why Jack and the Mouse were with Narnie today is that my middle baby went to hospital and had her adenoids removed. That nasty old general anaesthetic has knocked her for six. She is pale, a bit weepy and all bent out of shape. I couldn't be more proud.

Phoebs has dealt with snozz-related issues since she was born, and we've been waiting for this surgery for six months. I was so relieved that we were squeezed in by the specialist with enough time to recover for school. I was also delighted that any anxiety Phoebe had about her "nostrils" being removed was mostly alleviated by a new pink Dora nightie to wear to hospital.

We were at Frankston hospital at 7 this morning, and she was discharged about 4pm. Phoebs spent time playing in the toy room of the paediatric ward (I drank about 50 cups of air coffee), spoke to anaesthetists and nurses and doctors, and wore her hospital gown with aplomb. She wasn't too impressed with the hairnets required for the operating theatre, but quietly drew a picture while waiting for her turn. Every single person who cared for my daughter today was quite simply brilliant. They spoke kindly, made jokes to make her laugh, allayed her fears and kept her comfortable. And in return, my little girl was a very grown-up, quite tiny-looking-in-the-hospital-bed, five year old who was very brave (and quite stylish too).

It was our first time to have a child in hospital under a general anaesthetic, having surgery. So as far as notable fact for January 24 number two goes, I couldn't be more delighted that it's over. As far as I'm concerned, Phoebe's healthy new life starts today. Nothing will stop her now!!

Which brings me to the explanation of how going to a movie landed me in hospital. For you see, ten years ago, on January 24, 2003, I went to see 'Chicago' at Rosebud Cinema. I remember that I had a drink at the pub beforehand, and that it was about 42 degrees that day. And it was on that January 24 that I realised that the man I was talking to was really, really funny. And clever. And just...nice. Not the revelation I expected while talking to someone I'd known for quite some time, but then again, on that January 24 I worked out pretty quickly that I didn't really know this guy at all. And I really, really wanted to.

So, January 24, 2003 to January 24, 2013. One rather lovely bloke took me to a movie, and it turned into ten years, a sprawling, gap-toothed 6 year old, a growing-up-too-fast 3 year old...and a snoring 5 year old lady lying next to me in the bed, with a purring old-man pussy cat between us for comfort. I reckon that movie ticket was worth every cent.

Three candles for Maisie Mouse

To our littlest big girl, Maisie Mouse,

Today is your third birthday. You have danced endlessly, laughed with your whole belly, delighted in your Barbie birthday cake, been annoyed when splashed with cold water in the paddling pool, swung joyously on the playground swings, cut a wooden birthday cake and served it to your family, and unwrapped many lovely presents.

You spoke to your family on the phone, just like a big girl. When asked how old you were, you exclaimed proudly "Free!", while holding up five fingers. You changed your outfit approximately four times. You were so excited to see the pink balloons and bunting festooning the house in your honour. To see your face when we all finally, finally, sang 'Happy Birthday' to you (an event you had been waiting for for about a month) was priceless.

At three years old, you are a longer-legged, chattier, more stubborn version of your baby self. You can be the sweetest little girl alive, all sunshine and light and sharing...but woe betide anyone who tries to "share" the Barbie you are playing with. You adore Jack and Beebee to the moon, but you are completely aware that they both think the sun shines out of you. You know that they will give in to you 99% of the time. You have Jack twisted completely around your little finger, and Phoebs would give her last dolly to you. And frequently does.

You rarely stop talking (which in our household is considered entirely normal). You use a sing-song baby voice for Daisy and Asha (and the majority of your baby dolls who have been behaving nicely). You use a wheedling, persistant voice to get someone (ANYONE!) to put on a Wiggles DVD any chance you get. You have a cross, completely hilarious stern voice (scarily close to my own) that you use on anyone who must "Stay dere! Wait a minute. I tum back, ok? Stay dere", complete with hand actions and finger pointing.

You still speak of lot of curly toddler-gibberish, interspersed with comprehensible words. I could listen to you talk for hours...and quite frequently, I do. You sing incessantly, and in the past month or so have butchered several Christmas carols repeatedly. You never let the lack of a melody hold you back. We had a delightful few weeks listening to you sing "Baa baa black sh!t", and quite frankly, I miss your Mousian version of Happy Birthday. Although we originally thought you were singing "I poo on my head" (which brought enough mirth on its' own, believe me!), apparently you were singing, "Ah poo were where wet! Ah poo were where wet!" which translates directly into the standard, boring lyrics for Happy Birthday. The only reason we know this is because the tune stayed more or less the same. And you sang it, ad nauseum, whenever candles or cakes were spied. Clever little mouse.

You are a great one for giving me directions whilst driving ("Not dis way, Mumma! Dat way!") and pointing out places that you know ("Mumma! Look! Mine swimming!! Paddle, paddle, kick, kick!! Look!!!!" and "Mumma! Mine kinder!! Look!"). You have the scary ability to smell a playground (unseen by any adult eye) 10km away. Any sight of any water at all unleashes cries of "Bitch! Bitch!", which of course, means that you love swimming. Obviously. (Except recently, all water is now a "ribber". Even the bath.)

You say the sweetest things at the funniest times. Such as the day you were popping out to the shops with your Daddy, and you came to me at the kitchen sink and whispered, "Have fun washing da dishes, Mumma". Or when, any time I would go to the supermarket without you, you would insist I had been to the doctors. "Your tummy sore, Mumma?" You will grab my head in both hands, pull it down towards yours, and whisper things so softly into my ear that I cannot understand a word. Usually, messages like this end with "I you, Mumma". Which simply means, I love you Mumma. Which breaks my heart every single time. Even when you've just been a completely stubborn little cow.

You are such a Mumma's girl, and I love it. I think the fact you slept in our bed nearly every night for the first year of your life (the easiest way to keep you quiet while living with Grandma and Grandpa!) has spoiled both of us, because I still feel happiest lying with you in my arms. Yesterday you had a very high temperature and were a little bundle of misery. I stripped you off and placed your bare chest on mine, just as I did when you were tiny and had colic. I'm not sure who was calmed more - me, or you.

Whenever we are preparing to go somewhere, you always need to check where I will be. "I stay Mumma? I stay Mumma." Thank goodness you are now happy to go off to kinder. Considering that we have been attached at the hip for the first 2 and a half years of your life, I am eternally grateful that you will happily toddle off for a day at kinder...as long as I come back! I love the fact that every single time I come to collect you from daycare, you barrel across the room and snatch me around my knees, bellowing at anyone who will listen, "My Mummy! My Mummy came back!", and then gleefully return to whatever you were doing before I entered the room. I love that.

At three years old, you are quite simply, a delight. A funny, affectionate, stubborn, whimsical, musical, endearing, dog-cuddling, cat-harrassing, sibling-dominating, delight. Without you in our lives, the sunshine would be behind a cloud. Being your mother makes me indescribably happy. Thank you for being you.

Happy birthday, my Maisie Maisie Mouse.

All my love,
Mumma xxx

How To Make A Family

In an ordinary suburban house, people began to gather.

Family, friends, strangers. Early greetings were polite; muted; a touch awkward. To begin with, the two families were quite distinct and separate. After a while, the adults mingled quietly, almost hesitantly.

The children ran from one end of the house to another, oblivious to any chasm.

When everyone, adults and children alike, gathered for the imam to begin the ceremony, all was hushed. Even the tiny babies in the room slept noiselessly, lulled by the old man's calm voice.

The words, spoken in rapid but gentle Arabic, were understood by only half in the room. It didn't matter. The intent of those words was clear to all. When they were translated into English, the beauty of those words was appreciated by every person in that room.

By now, the smiles around the room were growing. If you listened hard enough, you could have heard a faint heartbeat growing stronger with every new exchange, every erupting laugh.

When the bride's father spoke of kindness, understanding, tolerance, a bringing together of two different cultures, and above all else, love, his words resonated. Of course, you could hear everyone thinking. It makes sense.

In Australia, we pride ourselves on being multicultural. On being the types of people to give anyone a fair go. To be tolerant, and fair, and to welcome people from all over the world.

And yet, while many of us love the idea of the availability of cuisine from around the world in central Melbourne, few of us venture beyond our own backyards to experience life as others live it. We are suspicious of those different from us. We do not automatically seek the good in others' religions or customs. It is still considered unusual for people of different religions and cultures to marry. There are, unbelievably, still those who think that we don't have enough room for refugees fleeing hellish lives.

Today, in an ordinary, average, Melbourne loungeroom, conversation billowed as a new husband and wife posed for photographs with their children. People who had been strangers that morning swapped stories and laughed; children played and ran up and down stairs in a blur of olive and milky white skin tones.

The heartbeat of a new family grew louder and stronger. It fed on the goodwill and kindness filling the house. It swelled with the hospitality of this groom's father, who was so very kind to all who entered his house. It was watered by the tears of the bride's mother, who had thought that her daughter might never be happy again.

This new family was born of a father and his two daughters, and a mother and her son and two girls. Today, this new family was held and nurtured in the hands of an enormous extended family, one made of two very different families who came together with the same objective. Observed by my son as they posed together for a snapshot, they were described thus, "Look, Mum. Before today, Anna had three kids. Now she has five. And a whole lot of uncles."

Regardless of religion, or culture, this wedding today was a beautiful occasion. On the surface, food and names and stories were exchanged; new acquaintances made; new experiences had. But underneath the pretty clothes and the comaraderie, the children present saw adults of many different walks of life practice love, kindness, tolerance and respect. And not one child there was surprised.

Worshipping at the church of Kikki K

Ok, ok, so I tried to be all cool and pretend that I'm the New Year grinch...but I can't keep it up!!

Although I still don't hold with all the resolutions and promises and suchlike, I'm still that "Ooh goody, it's a new week/month/year/school year!!!" geek I always was.

But you knew that.

And I might not have cleaned the house from top to bottom (only cos it's still looking pretty good after the Great Tidy Up prior to the family descending on Christmas Day) or cleared the pantry of stodge (that would be a waste, right?), but I have bought a new calendar. And filled it in nicely and carefully. And I may have been spending more time playing games on the floor than washing dishes (not really a resolution but a promise I made myself. Totally different.)

Oh, and I visited Kikki K the other day. Because if we're being completely, utterly, soul-baringly honest here, I loooooooove stationery. I adore being organised. And I go all flitty over organisational stationery. Ergo, Kikki K is my kind of shop. (Trust me, this is so totally NOT a sponsored post - ha! as if - but I do really love Kikki K, in quite a disturbing manner.)

And whilst I was drooling over admiring the lovely things in this lovely shop, and thinking of ways I could be organised AND stylish, I found something that I think may be quite useful. Or at least, I hope it will.

Even though I have been known to have a rant or two when things get a little rough (but I think anyone would be forgiven for going all Ranty McRant after "speaking" to Telstra), I like to think I'm a pretty positive person. Most of the time.

And after reading my first post of 2013 back to myself again, I realised that quite possibly, I had not been my most positive person. That, in fact, I was being a bit negative towards the new year, expecting 2013 to be as *ahem* roller-coastery as several previous, unnamed years (*cough* I'm looking at you, 2010 and 2011)

Which isn't fair. Not on 2013. Certainly not on the poor suckers who have to hang out with my sorry excuse for a person every day.

So I got myself a little somethin' in the Land of Kikki K called 'Think Happy, Be Happy'. It's a yellow spotty gift box containing a small book and some quote cards. Nothing ground-breaking, but certainly enough to kick my butt in the right direction when it starts to droop. In my ongoing attempts to be mindful, (quite difficult with a mind as unruly as mine) it will be helpful to have one quote a week to focus on and remind me of my promise to myself (again, not a resolution! Sheesh.) to remember what is good, and enjoy the moment. I'm not even sure what happened to that sentence but I'm sure someone out there will catch my drift.

So what is this week's quote?

'Do more of what makes you happy'

It's as simple (and as difficult) as that. Obviously, this means without tequila.

Perhaps someone should brace my children for an onslaught of Mummy-led Lego building time. Ha. But seriously. I think this is just as much about recognising what makes us happy as being aware of making time to do what makes us happy.

So in the spirit of this, today I have sat on the beach with my mum, watching my two girls frolic in the water and build sandcastles. I pegged out two loads of washing, knowing that in this 36 degree heat, it will be bone-dry in a few hours. I've spent the afternoon alternately reading, helping with Lego construction and watching the Muppet Show, and watching the Mouse play with her dolls house for ooh...three hours now. And counting.

Around tea time, we'll be heading down the beach again. I know that we'll come home sandy, salty and tired, but exhilarated. I know that time on the beach with my family, especially on such a hot day that we need to go in the early evening to escape the heat, is the very thing my soul needs. That, and to not go cold turkey on mince pies just because it's January 3rd. Question: If I eat a mango, does it cancel out the Christmas stodge? That would definitely make me happy.

The New Year Grinch

I think the biggest problem with a new year is the pressure.

It's such a squeaky clean slate, y'know? A fresh start, new beginnings etc. etc. I used to be one of those people who loved a Monday because it was a new week, a fresh start - you can imagine how unbearable I was with a New Year. Capital N, capital Y. Capital P for Pain In The Rear.

With a Brand New Year, you get a clean, new calendar (and after a few more weeks, beautiful crisp, fresh school-related stationery) and the chance to write in it with no mistakes or scribbling out (can anyone else see my OCD tendencies emerging here?? No??)

I would clean my house from top to bottom; chuck out all remaining Christmas-related sugar and stodge; fill in my pristine new calendar with birthdays and important dates with a nice pen, and embark on a skin-cleansing-every-night-exercise-every-single-day-puritan-diet-with-no-fun-stuff regimen that would answer all of my problems.

Then, somewhere between New Year's 2005/6 and New Year's 2006/7, I gave birth to Jack.

Which meant that New Year's Eve 2006 and New Year's Day 2007 were a totally different kettle of fish to previous ones. I did not have a hangover to recover from. My new calendar was shoved somewhere on the kitchen bench (probably under my breast pump). I was on maternity leave, so there wasn't any money to squander at the shops. And even if there were, a 7 month old baby kind of cramps your style in the changing rooms...

And clean my house from top to bottom? With a crawling baby? Ha!

So I guess that around the same time I was earning my motherhood stripes, something in my New-Year-psyche shifted. Rather than the New Year being full of promise and possibilities, it just seemed to me to be a day when getting a park at Safeway was impossible. A day that symbolised pressure - for whatever your particular goal was - to lose weight, to be more organised, to quit smoking, to simply be happier. It's January 1st, dammit! Be happy! Be thin! Stub out that ciggy! Stop drinking! Save money! It makes me tired just thinking about it.

I mean, come on, we've just had Christmas - the season to spend money we don't have (well, after all, God would not have put those dresses at 30% off in exactly the same shop that you needed to go to to buy for someone else if He didn't want you to have one, right?? Right????). It's the season to eat far too much 'sometimes' food, far too often (because it would be churlish and wrong to refuse lovingly-prepared party nibblies whilst socialising with one's loved ones and strangers at Christmas, right?) It's the season to drink lovely bubbly drinkies at said social gatherings (again, churlish comes to mind for those who say no thank you to the aforementioned beverages).

And after several weeks of shopping, spending, eating and drinking, how on earth are we meant to click our fingers and become clean-eating, teetotalling, hessian-sack wearing (ok, this might be going overboard slightly, but whatevs) puritans just because it's January 1st?

It's almost as if we're all in the middle of a massive sing-a-long, belting out glorious tunes with tinsel draped around our necks ("Tis the season to be jolly!" Alrighty then, maybe I WILL pop that third mince pie on my plate...right next to the pavlova...) when the fun police ram the door down, confiscate the merriment and jollity, and leave everyone standing around with some Nicorette patches, a family-sized calendar/organised and a Weight Watchers pamphlet in their shocked hands.

Or maybe I'm just a New Year grinch.

*sigh*

Ok. I'll just come out and admit it, shall I? I'm highly suspicious of New Years, and the promises that a New Year holds. Ever since New Years 2009, I have been waiting for a good 'un. Every year since then (when I was hugely pregnant with the Mouse), I have privately held high hopes for the incoming year...and been bitterly disappointed (except for when Mais burst noisily into the world. That bit was awesome).

So here it is, 2013. 2012 was, as expected, exceptionally average for the first six months. I was unemployed; our house was incomplete; my health was dodgy-as; Archie went to live on the farm with Farmer Brown. I guess it's safe to say that until around July, 2012 sucked arse. But from August on, 2012 was pretty good. If 2012 received a report card, I'd say that it had made a great effort to improve throughout the second semester and finished at a satisfactory level, however, it would still benefit from a more positive attitude and from not sending my dog to live with the angels.

2013: I'm looking directly at you. You have 365 (well actually, 364 since it's already the end of January 1st but anyway) days to prove yourself. It shouldn't be too hard to be an improvement on recent efforts. All you have to do not be completely shitty, and you'll win Year of the Year, hands-down.

Now, where's that new calendar of mine?

21st Birthday Gold

So some people might say that our little Mouse is growing up.

Others might say that she has officially entered a 'challenging' period of development.

Some folks have chuckled at my futile attempts to restrain my wilful daughter in such stimulating environments as Woolworths, and offered an opinion about how best to 'handle' her.

Many times over the last month or so, I have closed my eyes, counted to ten, and waited for limitless patience. Many more times, I have wondered if I would go straight to hell for wishing for my littlest child to be just a weeny bit older. Or reasonable, if you will.

Not that I'm wishing her life (or mine) away. But rather, I am sure I will be quite appreciative when the stubborn, argumentative, wily, fearless Duracell bunny who is my youngest daughter develops the area of her brain labelled "Logic and Reason".

In the meantime, I'm assuming that it may be a while before calm prevails in our house. Which is why I'm making hay while the sun shouts at everyone and sits herself on the naughty step, and writing this stuff down. It is 21st birthday gold. Gold, I tells ya.

Lately, the Mouse has picked up a few phrases that she likes to trot out when she's feeling friendly and social. She'll run up to me, bend over as though I'm the short person to be spoken kindly to, and say in a high voice, "Have fun, Mumma!" For example, "Have fun washing the dishes, Mumma!", or "Have fun going to work, Mumma!" Or my personal favourite, "Have fun folding da washing, Mumma!" What a little gem she is.

Her newest trick is to clasp both sides of her face and gasp, "Oh my doodness!" Which she will repeat, ad nauseum, until one of us also exclaims, "Oh my goodness!". This is quite cute, and not nearly so irritating as the bedtime routine in which she says, "See you inna mornin'!" about five times. If you don't reply loudly enough, or quickly enough, or whatever, she will repeat herself until you do. And she gets increasingly louder and more insistent with every repetition. At 7pm, this is annoying. At 2am, when you've merely tucked her back into bed after a bad dream, it plain sucks.

The other night, I had to GET BACK OUT OF BED after tucking her in at 2am, walk into her room, and say "See you in the morning" until she was satisfied enough to shut up. Problem was, I was saying it through gritted teeth. Which, according to the rules of the Mouse, was not good enough. Given that I had tucked her back in more than a few times by this point, to say I was responding in an enthusiastic manner would probably be a lie.

Anyhoo. She's not always a cranky little witch. When we go to swimming lessons she can be almost charming. Her favourite activity in the pool is jumping along with a kickboard, learning how to move through the water with confidence. Her teacher calls it 'bunny rabbits'. Maisie calls it 'runny babbits'.

The thing is, most of it is all very cute. I guess I'm just a little nervous about what's to come, given that she is so much more verbal than the other two were at this age. And more bolshy than Jack and Phoebe put together. Given what occurred this week with the big kids, it can only get worse.

At the beginning of last week at school, Jack's (everlastingly patient, seriously-deserves-a-medal) teacher was asking her Prep grade to brainstorm words either beginning with 'x' or with the sound in it. You know, words like box and socks and axe and xylophone. My son puts his hand up and offers the word that springs immediately to his mind. Sex.

Seriously.

Now, Jack's teacher did a much better job than I could have done in keeping a straight face. She just kept making that list, saying, "Oh yes, that's right, like when you fill in a form and you have to say what sex you are, like if you're a boy or a girl. Like that, Jack?" And Jack, who clearly did NOT mean that at all, nodded his head and kept his mouth shut (a bit too late, but never mind). The kid sitting next to him, however, offered this: "I thought sex was something to do with ladies with babies in their tummies?"

Sigh.

All I want to know is, where did my son learn that word? Because it sure as #$%^ wasn't from me.

So then, while they're all blithely chatting about S.E.X., Jack's teacher looks up and sees the RE teachers waiting to come in. Yeah, you know them. The Religious Education ladies. Riiiiiiiiight. And so my kid beckons to his teacher again, and whispers, "I know I've been working with (let's call her Mrs. Church, ok?) for a long time, and I really like Mrs. Church, but I believe in dinosaurs. And I've been thinking, it's really hard to believe in God AND dinosaurs, y'know? So I think I might not do RE anymore. Because I believe in dinosaurs."

Jack's teacher (let's call her Mrs. Roy), bless her cotton socks, said, "Ok Jack, I see your point, but how about we talk to Mum before you stop doing RE?" And my son replies, "Ok Mrs. Roy. You talk to Mum, and I'll believe in dinosaurs."

Mrs. Roy came and saw me at lunchtime, absolutely shaking with laughter. I explained that neither Christian nor I had ever dissuaded Jack from RE, despite our household not being a religious one. I just found it fascinating that the son of a scientist (and believer of evolutionary theory) and a Buddhist came to this conclusion by himself. And, I'll admit, I was a teeny bit proud. (Oh, and rather remorseful that my progeny had given his teacher such a challenging morning...especially since she's so gorgeous and we love her.)

By the time I got home that night, I was pretty satisfied that I would remember the stories from the day for blogging on the weekend. Obviously, Phoebe thought she could make my day stick even more indelibly in my brain.

While I started cooking dinner, the two girls sat playing together on the carpet. Given that it was quite late and I was absolutely wrecked, I was really grateful to see them playing so nicely and quietly. As I peeled and chopped, I overheard Phoebe say in her sweet little voice, "Just let me get my prick out."

Thankfully, I had put the knife down only seconds before.

She then went on, "Ok, let's both get our pricks out", and they both bent over their laps, concentrating fiercely. By then, I couldn't restrain myself any longer, and called out, "Darling! What game are you playing? It sounds like a funny one!"

She gazed at me with a very serious expression and replied, "We're playing doctors, Mumma. Maisie has a sore foot, and I'm giving her a prick." And she held aloft the toy syringe, using for giving needles. "Oh!" screeched I. "A prick!  Ha ha! Lovely!" and went back to chopping furiously.

Phoebe just looked at me as though I were the weird one. Which I guess I am.

I may be the weird one. And the tired one. The nervous one. The one who shouts. The one who polices them in the supermarket. The one who sees a teacher approaching and wonders which word has come out of his mouth now. But I'm also the one who'll be in charge of the 21st birthday parties. With 21st birthday speech gold in my pocket. Now all I have to do is stop giving my kids 60th birthday gold...

Meet Miss Laini Rose, Our Newest Comedienne

It's not every day that you have the chance to snuggle a brand new baby. Yesterday, I was lucky enough to meet little Miss Laini Rose, 48 hours old and as sweet as they come.

Like every person I've ever witnessed cradling a new baby, I squawked (rather stupidly), "Oh! Were mine ever this small? You forget how little they are!"

Well, duh. That's the trickery of kids, innit? They grow whenever your back is turned. And when you're watching them. And when they're jumping all over you. And when they're far too quiet...

Anyway. This precious little bundle of brunette perfection fitted perfectly into the crook of my arm, and I marvelled at her smallness. She was a healthy birth weight - 8lb 14oz - and measured the incredible length of 57cm. But to look at those tiny little fingers, skinny curled-up legs and dark, downy head of hair...she was a weeny little thing, all scrunchied up and making squeaky noises. I fell immediately into the old pattern of rocking and patting without even thinking about it.

(Yes, all right. I'll say it. And then can we move on? Please? Ok. I got clucky holding Laini last night. As clucky as ever. And I may have contemplated 'borrowing' her. But only for a minute a while)

Now, I was already having a lovely visit with Laini and her mumma, Casey. I think it would be fair to say that both Case and I could talk underwater. Put us together in the same room...there isn't even time to draw breath. And to make matters worse, Casey had upped sticks and moved her family far, far away just before she got pregnant with Laini, so we had a fair bit of catching up to do.

So there we were, nattering away about Casey's third birth and her big kids and my kids and Laini and all the other stuff you talk about when you haven't seen someone for ages and they've just made this divine baby and removed it from their torso, when Laini began sucking her little fists.

I'm not sure why this is so cute, but it is. It just is, dammit.

So Casey began the laborious task of breastfeeding her newborn daughter. If you've never breastfed a tiny baby, it is hard to describe the level of difficulty of getting the baby to suck (in the correct way) for the right length of time (in the correct way) on a booby most likely bigger than the baby's head (in the right spot). If you can imagine that carnival game with the clowns, and their heads move from side to side, and you have to get the balls into their mouths to run down the correct slot? Yep. Just imagine that the clowns move from side to side far more erratically, and have teeny tiny mouths the size of a five cent piece, and the balls you have to put in are as big as basketballs, and occasionally the balls spit milk at you without warning, and the clowns look up at you with a frown as if to say, what on earth are you doing to me? And stop sucking, only to get a face full of milk.

That's pretty much breastfeeding a newborn. (I make it sound so alluring...)

Well. Being the amazeballs mumma that she is, Casey had Laini attached beautifully within minutes. And being the little star she is, Laini was feeding like a...well...like a hungry baby. To say she fed steadily for nearly half an hour, and was still happily guzzling away when the nurse came in, is no exaggeration. And anyone who's ever tried to stuff a basketball down a clown's throat knows that a newborn feeding for half an hour is stuff of legend.

So when the nurse wanted to take Laini away from her feed to weigh her and do her heel-prick test, I kinda thought...couldn't you wait until she's finished? But Casey is far more laidback than me, and agreed without complaint. Or maybe it was the endone talking. Anyway.

So the nurse pried Laini away, and stripped her naked. Laini's little pursed lips kept trying to find that awesome booby, and when none was forthcoming, she started to get a bit narky. But this baby...she's obviously one clever kid. She didn't make a big fuss. Didn't thrash her arms and legs and begin screaming, like many other babies would have. Oh no.

Laini waited until the nurse was exactly at the right place...and projectiled meconium.

How do I describe meconium to the uninitiated? It's the first poo of a newborn baby, so it's been sitting in the baby's bowels during gestation. I've heard it described as thick Vegemite. Liquid licorice. Black tar. Basically, it's black and sticky, and extremely difficult to wipe off. And it's just a little bit stinky.

That poor nurse had quite a time trying to wipe the meconium off her shirt...her skirt...her keys...her ID badge...the scales...the floor....the wall...the trolley...not to mention the baby. We wiped and wiped, but that stuff is stubborn. I dunno what's in it really. Now there's a Science experiment...

The nurse had the good grace to laugh and say that she DID undress a happily feeding baby. I couldn't help but agree with her. Casey was trying hard not to laugh (it hurt too much). And Laini?

She stretched, completely starkers on the filthy, meconium-smeared scales, yawned, and went to sleep.

Ladies and gentlemen, I think we may have a new performer in our midst. I adore meeting new babies. They're all incredible. But never before have I met one with an impeccable sense of timing and innate circus skills. Welcome to the world, Laini Rose. I expect great things of you.

September Spring Ding Part 3: When You Turn 85, How Many Fire Extinguishers Are Considered Necessary?

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.

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.

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 of crap 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 to heaven Ikea. Excellent.

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.

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's guilt 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) :)