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.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Monday, January 7, 2013
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
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
Saturday, January 5, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
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 wasdrooling 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.
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
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.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
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?
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?
Sunday, October 28, 2012
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...
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...
Monday, October 22, 2012
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.
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
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.
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