The Mother of all messages

You know when something unravels in your life and you only know it on reflection?

What began as a fairly innocent curiosity in (what I thought was) a dead flower on a stalk outside our ensuite window, turned into a full-fledged whammy of a message.

Something catalysed on Ella's third birthday for me. I began an unravelling. A shedding, if you will. I didn't realise it at that moment, but it was as if my higher conscious shifted up a gear and I have been hurtling (not out of control, but in complete command of the wheel) down life's highway ever since.

I received a piece of correspondence that, while not entirely well-received on the day nor completely responsible for my shift of what I believe is the last of my current lessons surrounding Ella coming into our lives, sat at the helm of a very noticeable chain of events. A couple of days after mulling over this letter and sorting through the gifts it presented me, if only I could be humble in accepting whatever was on offer in it, I noticed what looked to me like a yellowed, dead flowerhead standing straight up on a plant outside our window. Being in the ensuite, I had cause to pause and reflect on this fairly often throughout the course of my days. A week passed and then I noticed one evening that the 'flowerhead' was moving. Swivelling on its axis, in fact, and quite low down to the ground at right angles to it. I called out to Steve to tell him something was in there and reserved the right, in my mind, to freak out if it was going to turn into one of those Bogon moths we have down here - not because Bogon is utterly too much like Bogan, but because I had had more than one nasty run-in with a moth of mammoth mothy proportions as a child and have had a bizarre phobia of them ever since (even the little ones).

So for the next several days, I watched with great interest. It twisted and turned, it moved positions, sometimes it was still, but always it was there. I decided, or knew somewhere in me, that there was a reason I was witnessing this creature build a cocoon for itself right in front of my eyes. I thought about looking further into it, Googling "strange cocoon thing with pointy sticks" and seeing what came up. But, being the procrastinator I often am, I left it and decided simply to watch and not make anything of it. I almost berated myself for trying to turn it into something more meaningful than an insect turning into one of the flying kind.

It became almost like a sport. What would it emerge as? And Steve and I started mentioning it in conversations, it became affectionately referred to as my "Caterpillar Friend".

And then the most awful thing happened. The gardener came. And he sprayed the weeds while I wasn't here and did some cleaning up. And when I returned home, my Caterpillar Friend was gone. I was mortified. I felt soooo responsible for the death of this creature. Something I felt sure I could have avoided if I'd only mentioned, however crazy I sounded, to him that he needed to "leave that plant alone, there's something growing in there and it's cheaper and more interesting to watch than anything on cable right now."

So I called up my peeps at Peace Space. I thought surely they'd be able to point me in the direction of the learning that was meant for me with this caterpillar. When I spoke to Neri, she said to me "Well what a wonderful gift it has given you, it has made itself aware to you and then sacrificed itself in order for you to seek the lesson or the learning that is being offered here." I was certain she was just trying to make me feel better. I know it's only an insect, but it'd become so much more than that. And instinctively, I kinda knew she was right. It had become such a big deal to me and I wouldn't have sought out any deeper understanding of what I was witnessing if it had peacefully gone about its chrysalis and flown away.

Neri passed on the Animal Wisdom relating to Caterpillar for me this morning. And this is what it says:

Caterpillar

The life of Caterpillar is one of four stages through which butterflies and moths travel in their life cycle. Without their experience of the Caterpillar stage, butterfly and moth could not reveal their beauty. Caterpillar’s existence demonstrates many lessons to us mortals on the Earth plane. The first of these is the importance of going through a process so as to reach the final formation—that is, putting our dreams and goals in life into reality and taking flight. As with all stages of the butterflies’ and moths’ life cycle, the Caterpillar stage is a time of growth and change. It is a most important experience during which it sheds its skin four times in readiness for the formation of the chrysalis or cocoon stage. The humble Caterpillar reminds us of the need to follow rightful processes in all our life experiences in order to reach understanding and respect of our true selves. Caterpillar energy is about the importance of completing the process (or experiences) without shortcuts! Should we skip any part of the proper processes of change and growth (like the Caterpillar’s shedding of its skins), we could well end up falling short of our life expectations, suffering hardship, personal disappointment and dissatisfaction. Caterpillar asks, "are you too quick in demanding a realisation of your dreams and ideals? Could you perhaps be caught in what the material world or others dictate to you?"

As you prepare to go through the repetitive focus required by spiritual growth to reach a new form of personal perspective, conscious understanding and self-acceptance, become aware of the “three-plus-one experience” of the personal lesson. Just as Caterpillar does with it's four sheddings of old skin in the growth phases, we must be prepared to shed our skins. As we journey on for the sake of the Earth, we need to let go of the old, comfortable habits of past ways that no longer support us in our quest to embrace the beauty of our gifts. When Caterpillar appears, it reminds us that we are part of a wonderful process that is ever-evolving, like the progression from egg, caterpillar, chrysalis or cocoon to the beauty of the perfect winged form. Are you paying attention to the processes of new change and growth? Are you ready for the hard work of understanding the repetitive lesson of "practice makes perfect" to reveal your special gift and beauty. This is about getting better and better and attaining a point when you are ready to crystallise into a new form for yourself.

Caterpillar wisdom is being prepared for the repetitive focus of casting off our tough exterior to expose the gentleness and pliability of the true Self within. When we move with Caterpillar meditation, we release our humbleness which we usually hold within. Caterpillars grow from within and this is a call to you to carry this vital awareness on your life's journey. Caterpillars move with a quiet, gentle, wave-like motion and choose to feed from one type of plant or related group of plants as they taste with their feet. Caterpillar suggests to us to keep focus on what nourishes you most and not to run around trying to take in too much at this time. Make sure you choose correctly for yourself, as not all that is out in mainstream society will sustain you on your spiritual journey of growth and change. This could be a good time to "dip your toes in the water" and test what is correct for you and your future path.

The wisdom of the little Caterpillar's life span is huge in its symbolism for us. Not just about the final goal or the totality of the journey, Caterpillar represents respect for process within a greater process, and transit into transformation many times in one’s life. It is about the support and the energy needed to provide the foundation or baseline on which we may build or from which we may proceed. It is knowing how to experience the experience, to go with the flow, to bring in, and grow the formation of true self-acceptance to reveal our beauty and creativity for the good of the Earth and the All.


Lessons Repetitive Experience Humbleness Change & Growth Shedding the Old

Mandala 25, The Wave of Repetition, Pastel Blue, Blue Lace Agate, Caterpillar, Chord A minor

I cannot tell you how much this resonates with where I am walking right now. There is so much in here that feels EXACTLY like what I am doing. It further confirms to me, like the words of that Radiohead song, everything is in its right place. In good, correct time. For every time I've been (even lovingly) scolded for thinking this, or doing that, I've been coming round to this point in my life. All in good time, as they say. What a relief to know that despite what others have tried to rush me through, or "get" me to see, I have been treading at a pace that is perfect for me to get to here.

It's such a beautiful affirmation, I'm completely aghast. And possibly the nicest part of all this? My Caterpillar Friend is still there. He must have gone awol for a couple of days, hiding from the spraying perhaps, and is busily eating away at his chosen plant as if nothing had ever happened. But how amazing life is, that it would present this opportunity for me to read and have confirmed to me where I've come from and what's going on for me right now. If he hadn't have moved at the very moment he did, I wouldn't have gone further with finding out about him. It's sealed it for me that there are kingdoms within kingdoms on this planet that are just blaringly obvious with their wisdom. It's insane that we don't literally stop and smell the roses more often. I am quite sure the world would be better for it if more of us did.

Am I in trouble here?

Feeding the LGBB has become a thing of mystery. She's making all the right appreciative noises (interspersed with frustrated gruntings which I was taking to mean displeasure), leans in to the spoon.... and then tries to inhale what's on the spoon by opening her lips about as far as, well, let's say a credit card would have trouble swiping the space. What this means is, she gets just the hint of flavour from the food. There's no way anything's passing those lips unless it's by absorption. And she looks so frustrated about it.

She looks at me with such anticipation. Wide eyes. Bushy tail. Gets all fired up, wiggles and bounces. And then.... pursed lips and chin(s) to chest as that spoon comes. It's beautiful. And equally exasperating for me. I show her how to open her mouth by opening mine. She either grins at me or a look of disdain passes fleetingly across her unamused face. It's either one reaction or the other, and neither of them have resulted in the open mouth.

Then today, she reached for the spoon with one hand. Then flailed with the other to grab on as well. There we were, the LGBB and her two hands wrapped firmly around mine, which was trying to make its way to her clammed mouth and dodge pumpkin drips at the same time. Once that spoon hit her mouth, she opened up! And in it went! The key, it seems, has been for her to do it herself.

Is this wise, I ask, with a 6 month old? Should I just get out the orange paint right now and save myself the trouble of worrying about sprayed walls and floors (and ceilings and curtains, windows and light fixtures)? I have always expected I will be giving her her own spoon, and letting her dip it in and feed herself, but was thinking this would happen when it was developmentally a curious time for her. She almost elbowed me out of the way to scrape the bowl herself. Ok, so she didn't really and that's a minor exaggeration - she can't elbow yet - but man, oh, man if this is what her frustration has been (because after this point, she shovelled it in, or allowed me to "help" like there was no bottom to the bowl), I am battoning down the hatches for a rather head down, tail up young lady to share the house with.

Bit.... erm..... nervous? Yes, nervous is the word. And impressed.

Let Baygons be Baygons

Last night, as I was giving the LGBB her rollover feed, I heard spraying. Full on, aggressive sounding spraying of the can kind. PSHHHHHHHT! 'Far out', I thought, 'Steve's found something scary, probably with eight legs. How gallant that he's doing something about it before I get back out there.' Note I didn't use the word "kill"... just can't ask him to do it.

Then a few seconds later, PSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHT!! again. Another 20 second burst of spray noise. 'Shit, the bastard must be huge, I thought, as I imagined a now-dizzy huntsman doing an Elaine Benis-type dance on the floor.

Poor thing, though. I don't like crawly things inside, as evidenced here, but I hate to kill them just because I don't like them in my house. It's something that causes me great internal turmoil.

So there I was, with sounds of insect repellant filling my ears, and by the sounds of it, Steve had now sprayed enough to stop a herd (do huntsmen travel in herds?? I bet they do, like wildebeast) of the things and I was actually starting to think 'Oh come ON, that's a bit of overkill' - boom-tish.

When I got out the door, I didn't find my husband climbing the breast of a hairy beast, Michael Douglas shirt-off-with-sword Romancing The Stone style. Instead, he was doing dishes, as per my earlier request to rinse off some of the LGBB's little cups before that rice cereal set like Plaster of Paris. PSHHHHHHHT went the tap as he added more hot water.

Oh.

INCOMINNNNNG!

At mothers group yesterday, there was some discussion over the most cringe-worthy reasons (in hindsight) why they've taken their young charges to the doctor.

One had gone, understandably when, her daughter was tugging at her ear. Turns out, she was just keen on discovering her appendage - much like the mum of the little boy at the end of the table whose father said "Easy, mate, you'll tug the thing off!" when he'd discovered an appendage at the other end of his body.

One mum went when her daughter was making gasping sounds. Was told by the GP she was just exercising her newly discovered sounds.

I had been considering going because the LGBB's latest is a succession of noises that sounds for all the world like whoop-whoop monkeys air raiding over the Channel with machine guns.

But now I think I'll just wait til the Battle of Dresden passes and look forward to her next epiglottal mastery.

Lazy bloggin'

Just something to keep the days ticking away. A recent Digg search turned up these pearlers:

What happens when you take a photo at the right angle
Upside-down-ternet (only the truly geeky would appreciate this one)
Too much time on their hands
Girl in human sling shot (come on, with a title like that I had to look!)
Oh be still my dorky heart
Just about one of the scaaaariest things I've ever seen (especially that section about the maps, oh dear God....)

Parks and Poppets

We went to the park yesterday - had a little lazy rug lolling overlooking the spot where we held Ella's memorial three years ago - and enjoyed the warm sun and the big breeze. The LGBB hasn't seen so many leaves blowing in one place in her life, she was most impressed with the nature.

When we arrived back home, she treated us to her very first sit on her own. SO special! So sweet. So assisted by her fat cloth nappy.

I love this photo. It has instantly become one of my favourites.


And now... I give you, Little Miss "I can sit on my own for 2.45 seconds!"

The clip, Mummy, the clip....

I think it's tugging at my eyebrow

It's Ella's 3rd birthday

And all I can think is, I should have been having a hard time tucking my excited girl into bed last night.

She should be playing with her sister.

I should know where she is.

But none of those things have happened. Just going to try and get through the day. Again.

Diversionary tactic

Here is my attempt at looking the other way for the next few hours, to try and coax myself gently into tomorrow. A bit of 'yumour.

The going-to-bed conversations between moi and Steve have been hilarious of late. But I keep forgetting them. I must remember to take something in to my night stand so I can write them down. Night stand? Bedside table? What is the difference? Do wealthy people in big English country homes or Park Avenue apartments have night stands? I definitely have a bedside table. Not that it's a table.

What a stupid name for a piece of furniture. Either of them.

But I digress. The other night, I recounted to Steve my realisation of only just a few short years back - that I had been lied to mercilessly about the whereabouts of my Dummy. I give it a capital D because... well, frankly, I can remember it and it meant that much to me. It was on a chain and I remember chewing that filthy old rubber teat on it and the taste (it tasted like chicken... no it didn't, it tasted like filthy old rubber) and the loud squeaky sound of it being squished between my teeth.

Then we went on a holiday. The only two things I remember about this holiday were seeing some long-dead important man's chair in a glass box (it was outdoors if my memory serves me correctly though surely that can't be right) and it had the stuffing coming out of the seat and I vividly remember thinking "Who would want to sit in a chair like that, how dumb". And the other painfully clear memory is me sitting and trying not to panic as my parents hunted high and low for my dummy while also packing and getting the kids organised to leave the place where we'd been staying.

They never found it *cue Lisa McCune walking off to the side of the camera in a black trench coat, all sullen and forensic-minded and serious like*

Now...... I've thought about this on and off over the years. I see it like an old blurry fading photo in my mind. And now I'm convinced:

There was no way I could have, would have, lost my prized dummy - it was on a chain and I practically wanted to marry it. So why would I have been so careless? No, something fishy was afoot and I think I can point the finger squarely at either or both Mum and Dad.

When I mentioned this crime to Steve, he suggested that maybe I should have looked in Mum's handbag. "Why would she put it in her handbag? Nooo you put it straight in the bin, if you decide to take your child's dummy away you have to commit and you're not committed if you keep it on you just in case," I retorted.

I also mused at the foul state of my manky, mangled dummy and that they couldn't have replaced it very often. To which I was offered, "Well maybe they thought 'If we just don't wash it, don't replace it, never take it off her, she'll eventually think it's so disgusting that she won't want it anymore.' And when that didn't work, they just stole it."

True, true. I'm sure that's what did happen.

And I vowed there and then, as Steve is my witness, that I will let the LGBB give over her dearly beloved dummy - for o how she loves it so* - when she's ready. Even if she's in grade 4.

*This bit spoken really fast like one of those Spoken By credits at the end of a political campaign ad: She only has it for bedtime and thank God for small mercies and some sort of rational thinking back there in the first 4 weeks, otherwise she'd be loving and tending and petting it every minute of the day.

Faster than a speeding bullet

So this is how you look like you're going fast without really trying...

Like a breath of fresh air

You know when you read something and it's like someone's done the hard job of plucking all the stuff out of your head you knew was there?

And so it is with Intuitive Mothering - Trusting your own child rearing instincts, one of those reads that speaks to your very soul. Nay, probably your higher self. Well, mine anyway.

Must thank this author. She's taken the writer's claw out of my task - because I have been jotting things down as they come to me, but it seems, they're all here in this book. In plain English.
With a cherry on top.

It's like one of my favourite, well-used Steve Martin (shit... was it Steve Martin? I can't remember!) lines: "That's just what I've been trying to tell these people", except in this case, "these people" is just me. It's full of wisdom I've been trying to tell me.

Just squish it a little bit after you rip my heart from my chest, why don't you

That's what her look said this morning.

Oh my God. I'm heartbroken. I literally saw the mapping of a new experience tear across her face. And I caused it!

We're currently working through Lesson 49,767: "How do you teach your baby that teething rings are for biting, boobies are ... not for biting?" I feel those jaws clamp down like iron vices and before she started teething and gumming things, I'd say to myself "thank feck there are no sharp bits (yet)", but now just the vice part is enough. Bone clamping on bone with a soft squishy, moveable centre that pings at odd angles when you bite it (that'd be my boob) is enough to send me skyward out of my seat.

And yesterday, I yelped loudly because it caught me off guard and it goddamn hurrrt. And she pulled back, stared at me with the biggest look of wide-eyed shock and then wailed the most awful, heartbroken wail - looking at me all the time with her eyes full of tears and it was confusion I saw on her little sweet face. "You betray me!", she was saying (in my mind).

So this morning, I thought for all the world that she would have forgotten yesterday's events - she didn't bite during her dream feed late last night - and I started feeding her like usual. Then she did it again. And I swear, as Steve is my witness, all I did was breathe in faster than usual. I was careful not to utter a sound because I don't want to upset the balance of her beautiful feeding pattern, she's like a natural at it.

But it didn't matter. The stone has been cast, it's too late now. I've become the first person to scold her and she knows it. I'm the mummy who giveth and who now taketh away (even if that taketh just happens to be for bloody legitimate reasons). Her face folded into a thousand little crumples and she burst into tears before even pulling away this time. She was inconsolable and if I hadn't kept my cool, so would I have been. Instead, I steered her away with gentle persuasion - I didn't jolly her up, not at first, I saw she needed to feel the pain of it and let her cry a bit, just rubbing her back and telling her I love her (erm.... despite the feeling that my boobs had been mangled in a steel trap).

Steve assured me I handled it well. But I can't help but feel bloody awful. Not that the alternative is any more attractive, I'd rather try and get out of the pain option - and I'm not about to set a precedent that allows the LGBB to do as she pleases if it's not asseptable.

It must be very difficult for them to even separate - "Suck on booby, milk comes out, bite on cold thing, gums feel nice". I honestly think she forgot, because she did it again after I finally coaxed her to keep feeding. But this time, I made sure I didn't even flinch. She didn't bite that hard but when she did, she herself recalled what happened the last time - she cried. So that's what she did again. Big doleful, pitiful wails. And it tore me to shreds. She also didn't finish her feed.

I don't quite know what to do. I think I'll call the Unflappable Ruby and see if she'd like to coach me with this one. I'm guessing I may have to wean sooner than I wanted, but I'd really rather not have to go through the rigmarole that is expressing. However..... I would also like to enjoy feeding the LGBB. And if she goes on strike (which is what I fear she may well do) my hand will be forced anyway. Even if I wanted to allow her to keep chomping like the big mouth on the Chomp ad from years ago (that's what I think of when I hear the word "chomp"), there's a little thing called a reflex causing me to whince or gasp, which I can't stop even if I can learn to reduce it, and it appears that this is what she's reacting to anyway.

I almost kidded myself that she is very sensitive to reading emotions - which of course, in some respects, she is - but that doesn't explain why she giggles uncontrollably into her fist if I go in to talk sternly to her about her sleeping habits. Is she selective, perhaps? Is she reacting to this new experience that causing someone else pain is painful? *curling into foetal position just picturing it again* It's so awful that you can't protect them from all these things! But then... what a bloody miserable life they (or you) would lead if they didn't experience all there was out there on offer. Doesn't have to start yet though... *meekly* does it?

How is it that their little faces can so clearly convey how much you've stomped on their hearts?!

Erm, any advice? Anyone? *echo echo*

Hard up

A recent conversation, during which it was suggested by The Friend that my self-diagnosed dim-wittedness was glaringly null and void as far as she could make out, but that the self-insulting was keenly alive and kicking, was proceeded by a visit outside to The Gardener. Asked him if he wanted a coffee and he obliged my hostessing penchant.

Came inside, whipped up a serve of my finest, East Timor Free-Trade ground beans - chocolatey and rich as all get-out - and thrust the mug in his hand before traipsing back in to answer the Room Service bell in the nursery. When I came back out, I was full of apologies at *only* having that coffee to serve him. As if the lack of Nescafé instant in the house (instant is a no-no in my books) was abhorrent to The Gardener. And not only that, but that our biscuit supply was non-existent because "I haven't had a chance to go shopping but I promise I'll have some for you next time."

He just looked at me, slightly mystified as to how to answer my wailings about the second-rate coffee and no Melting Moments, but he did stammer something about it being just about the best damn brew he's had on the job in a while.

In hindsight, can't help but wonder now if The Friend has a point.

Decoy Dog

There's no comparison. One is the big dope who's always looked over her from the day she came home and who now sniffs the top of her head ("f-f-f-f-f-f-f"), gives big sloppy kisses on the cheek and goes everywhere with her (including one terrifying moment - for me, not her, she was the one who pushed him - stepping into the lift at a major shopping complex where he fell to the floor, almost lost forever).

The other is a poor man's attempt to slip in a convincing look-alike, as if the LGBB wouldn't notice.

I give you, Marley:


....and Rowlf:


Is it me or does Rowlf look not so much try-hard as needs-to-try-harder? Look, he's a dear wee chap, really, he's endearing in his own way. But seriously. He ain't no Marley.

Another ghost

I was thinking just this morning, feeding Lolly in bed, that neither of my girls have ever had formula and what a personal achievement that is... I think it has a lot to do with the fact that, at the time, it was all I could do for Ellanor so it was vitally important to me. And now, with the LGBB, she has thrived on breastmilk and I think it would have been a very different healing process if we had not been successful together on the whole breastfeeding front.

But then, as my stupid mind does, it wandered and made up imaginary conversations and retorted back that the "achievement" with Ella doesn't really count because it was only a month. I realise that it's the ghosts of comments past that cause my mind to go these ridiculous lengths to cut me down a size. And it's something I will have to watch closely.

Then I was reminiscing about that month with Ella and how it felt like a whole lifetime (and for her, it was her lifetime I suppose), was wondering how I found the time to express and be by her side all day - I'd express at the hospital round at the maternity ward each day where I had her, go back and sit by her side all day in the NICU and at night I'd go home, meet Steve home from work, don't even remember eating, then we'd both go back in and stay until shift change over around 10.30 - we'd leave before the nurse officially came on but I could never go home until I knew who was looking after her - and I was expressing twice overnight as well. That dropped back to just one express at the request of the neonatal nurses because I was bringing in more than she needed in the end, as if my body was overcompensating for all that I couldn't do for her. I recall washing and sterilising things at 1.30am and leaving them in the microwave so that I could catch just a bit more shut eye before the next 5am-ish time to express. And I'd be back in the car in peak hour, which thankfully wasn't full-on because it was school holidays still, at around 7.30am.

I know I remember thinking to myself then "Dear God, how do people do this with a baby at home" and sort of being almost thankful that Ella wasn't actually at home waking me as well, without recognising the vital point that most people don't have to drive to feed their baby. It was a strange thing to think but in my addled state it made sense - if she was home, derr of course all of the travelling much less the expressing wouldn't have been taking up a lot of my time. But all I could think was "at least I can have a relatively uninterrupted night" and thought I'd grieve later for the bizarre first months of her life and how there was a distinct "yes but you're not properly mothering your baby because she's not actually with you all the time like other mothers" feeling about it.

And the casual comments of same were scattered through conversations, even after she passed away, and I felt so devoid of anything recognisably "me" that I just allowed people to say them. They would now argue defensively that they knew no better and have never "been here" (supporting someone who's lost) before. But now I can say confidently, you do NOT say things like "Oh yeah, but you didn't really experience what it's like because your baby wasn't home with you and you weren't having to get up to her", etc. Of course that is fact, Blind Freddy can see that. But holy shit, there's a little thing called compassion, solicitude, simple kindness that prevents (thankfully) most people from having to point that out to me as if I didn't know. Human decency prevails for the most part, amen. Sometimes even that can't make up for the razor-sharp ignorance of the very few.

Of course, as it turned out, I grieved for so much more than the fact that I was able to sleep.

Phew, don't know which vault of my mind that surfaced from. Anywho, as they say, better out than in.

Not for the faint of heart

Picture this: I'm standing chopping vegies in the kitchen.

The LGBB is having nappy-free time and is blowing raspberries on the floor. Big, slobbery, loud raspberries. Then, without missing a beat, I hear something that sounds ever so close to a raspberry but with a distinctly muffled intonation. I stop chopping, listen, again with the raspberries. Again I start chopping. And the moment the knife slices through the potato, I hear it again. Much clearer this time.

Little Lolly Gobble Bliss Bomb has bliss bombed her insides out. It cannot be explained any simpler than that.

What impresses me is, the little lady is barely 6 months old and already she's learning to stealthily cover up her shifty bum-trumpeting. Now to master the no-follow-through rule of life.

That's no lady. That's my daughter.