The Gods Must Be Crazy

And I don't mean in a Botswanian kinda way (you'd have to see the movie to believe me).

First off, for the past fortnight, Steve and I have been.... well I don't know where. Having decided we are going to move (for the first time since we built this place ten years ago), we've been up to *here* in house plans and land possibilities. Trying to fit a square peg in a round hole.

At the crucial point, night before The Big Bank Appointment and going down to sign on our first dotted line, Steve came home from a quick duck up to the local shops and declared, "It's too hard, it's not feeling right, so it's not the right time to move. We're not going anywhere." It was music to my ears. And I felt relief. Joy! So weird, as I had been keen on moving, getting away, having a fresh start (hey if a caterpillar can choose to metamorphose in front of me - show off - I thought it was a good sign that our itchy feet were moving in the right direction). But hearing him say that and take charge - it was almost as if my higher conscious went "Pheeeeeeeew that was close! Thank God one of you came to your senses at the 11th hour."

We just can't leave this house. Literally. I've wanted to. Plenty of times. With and without him, let me tell you *thumbs over shoulder at the husband* We've gone through a lot here. But even having the market appraisals done by the estate agents was a bit of a wake-up call. We have here not just a house (to quote Darryl Kerrigan), but a home. All that we want and need is right here at the moment. It's a nice feeling and I don't quite know why I got so worked up about having to move, but the urge that was quite forceful two weeks ago has simply vanished.

It happened once before, when I was pregnant with Ellanor. Remember clearly sitting at the kitchen table with some other real estate agent, saying we were just signing papers on a block of land (and we were and we did, we just never moved there after everything that ended up happening with Ella). And the upshot of that was creating the water feature in her memory and what we poured our efforts and emotions into at the time.

Now we've decided to stay, we have rolled up our sleeves and said there are certain things we're sick of pointing to and saying One day we've godda change that. Soooo, not wanting to miss riding the crest of this new impetus, we've upended the laundry. Actually, we didn't mean it to be a big job. It was fine as it was. But, uh.... seeing's we've purchased a new washing machine (comes tomorrow) and wanting a change of scene, Steve's ripped up half the floor already. He suddenly got all gung-ho (in his stripey "these must never leave the house with you in them" shorts, my request not his) and got tucked in to lifting the flooring and preparing it for a brand new 'do. He'll kill me for showing you (his shorts), but until he sees this here's the photo evidence. And the mould and grime (and grease and guts off the rod) we found on moving out the old appliances presented a previously unthought of bit o' extra work - a new skirting board to replace the one that's been rotting away merrily for the past 10 years. Ooops, that'd be my fault for overflowing the washing machine a few times and warping the floor, etc. Still, it's been a good "just as well then" excuse to get the new washer.

I was horrified, no make that absolutely mortified, at the state of the laundry. Particularly behind the washing machine. When we moved it out, we were taking a breather at the door with the back of the machine facing the tv (which was paused in the middle of something he'd been watching) and Steve said "Do you think Leo McGarry's just seen our washing machine?" I was furiously searching my mental names database for a Leo and coming up blank, until he pointed over at the telly. "Leo" is John Spencer's character from The West Wing and the screen was stilled on a rather unfortunate expression which did look for all the world like poor Leo had just seen a most disgraceful sight.

Other things have been happening during these past weeks. I don't know where to put all the work I've been getting (need to get a bottom drawer happening - an old co-worker who ended up being "let go" left behind an entire bottom drawer of unlodged paperwork that had been costing the company's clients thousands of dollars, whoopsy daisies, and ever since then it's been known as "The Bottom Drawer" policy around these parts).

And better yet, the LGBB is tucking right into her solids (and getting lovelier and funnier by the day). Tonight, she even smooshed a broccoli floret happily against her gums. And ear. And chest. Carrots can go bite the big one, but we're working on it.

She has also started gabbing on. Gabbin' with Lol. It would make a cute talk show. Mind you, don't get within a metre of her when she is "talking" or you'll cop a spray of baby spit in the face. Oi, milky-broccoli-breath, say it don't spray it. There are more "th"s in her sentences than Sylvester (the cat, not the Stallone... although....). Tonight, I was feeding her before bed in her room. Dimly lit by her teddy bear nightlight. She seemed to think that it was a spotlight. On her. As she stood at the mic.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, she stops feeding, looks up at the light and does this straight-legged, wide-eyed, slapstick jerk, at the same time going "Dth! DTHTHTH! Duh-th-th-thbth!!", each "th!" punctuated with a sudden jerky stiff-bodied movement. She knew exactly what she was doing and that she had an audience (of one, stifling giggles in the back of her throat) 'Twas, I am sure, the first of one of many moments I shall have to bite down hard to avoid giggling and thereby encouraging her. As it turns out, she's our daughter alright. I am absolutely certain she was all smoke and mirrors up top, in the vain hopes of detracting from the business going on in her fat nappy. A regular Kenny Craig if ever I saw one - I even caught photo evidence of it one day (see for yourself, that goatee's a dead give-away if you ask me). After a few moments of this oh-so-cute-and-riveting comedy routine, the stuccato rumblings from deep within the folds of the bamboo fibres covering her bot-bot could not be mistaken. Cheeky minx.

None of this stopped me from crying big hot silent tears of happiness mere minutes later. I sat her up to burp her and the undeniable realisation that I was in the presence of her experience of being loved and enjoying herself was so strong that I started to cry while I watched her upturned face to that nightlight. While I poured tears, she blew raspberries and "chattered" away to her ted, then left her tongue out and turned into my cheek. Blergh! A mixture of sloppy kisses and salty tears on both our cheeks, I knew I was so lucky to have her here with us.

We commemorate tomorrow the third anniversary of the day Ellanor left us. And I know she's around here somewhere. It just dawned on me that it's no coincidence my deeper story of my experience with Ella is called 'The Parallel Story', because more and more I wonder if there is some sort of parallel plane where she walks alongside us and her sister.

I wonder a lot.