The great Matchbox Heist of '82

I had the most bizarre day yesterday.

I went to a really old friend's parents' place for lunch - meaning, we've been friends a long, long time (24 years to be perfectly accurate), not my friend herself is really old - and it was such a spinout to go back to the home where I'd spent much of my youth, after school, on weekends, looking after their animals when they went away, etc.

And despite the fact that her 2 year old son and the LGBB were there, I could have been 10 again, just yearning for her older sister to say she was going riding on her horse and would I like to go *swoons* They have 6 acres there and the girls, frankly, were living my fantasy life.

I watched as she pulled out some Matchbox cars from a container to give to her son.... and there they were. Three of my old cars. I sat up a bit straighter, unsure then if I only remembered them because I'd played with hers so often. But they were so familiar! The green VW Gold with the roofrack and prized orange-tinted windows. The convertible orange Mercedes (sans convertible roof, mind you). The cool metallic blue Mustang. Oh, surely they were mine!! I kept the conversation light and casual as I grabbed first one, then the other, then the other and deftly flipped them upside down, looking for my mother's tell-tale nail polish daub on the underside.*

Nothing!

Still, that didn't mean much, I mean maybe these ones had been herded from the rest of my stash before The Big Fight that caused the once-and-for-all division of cars with my little bro.

Anyway. Whomever they belonged to, they were still being well loved (she says, with a tic in her eye that won't go away because she'll never know or be able to ask if they were STOLEN from me at some point of our childhood, before we stopped playing cars, that is, and started talking about boys).

And then, to spin me right out, when I got home I flicked on the telly and they're playing reruns of Family Ties on TV1 at the very after-school time that I used to watch them as a kid. It was an absent-minded after-thought, and we never usually have these in the house, but before I plonked myself onto the couch to watch it while folding baby clothes and nappies, I grabbed a mini packet of Doritos from the pantry.

I felt like I was sneaking them because I didn't ask mum if I could.

*My brother and I fought to face-scratching point once over who had the better cars, caravans, trailers, ambulance, fire engine, you name it. We would fight over every last little roof-dented, wheel-buckled shit box we had. So mum, fed up no doubt long before the face-scratching day, finally bellowed that she'd put an end to this once and for all. She sat like a mediator at a summit, all the cars belly-up in front of her, while Timmy and I negotiated our way through whose were really whose. And then she put a daub of pink nail polish on the underside of all mine so there were no further arguments. I was mortified that I had to have the pink brand on mine (I fought so hard against anything girly and pink for the first decade+ of my life).

A clever idea, just quietly. But don't ever tell 'er that.

Good one, window-licker

Standing at the kitchen window, Jazz seized her opportunity to stand up at it from outside and get as close as doggily possible to me.

I was dropping toast in to the toaster, absent-mindedly watching her face and thinking how cute she is - really (I mean, despite wanting to get that cute boof-head of hers and flatten it when she makes me crazy) - when I realised she was studiously watching my every move.

Smart dog, what a clever girl, I gushed to myself. She's a handsome dog and she's brainy. Dropped the toast into the toaster. Clang, clang.

It was then that old Brainiac dropped her gaze down with her head cocked. She was looking for the dropped bread. Outside.

What a genius.

With or without you

Who was I kidding?

I forgot that I miss you until I finally said the words.

Is it really like in that book? Can you show me?
I feel like I should know. In a maternal way, I want to ensure where you are is comfortable. Not lonely. I wanted you to myself and it happened so quickly, so suddenly, that I had to share you out to the world. I barely had time to know you myself in those brief moments you were right here in front of us. And then you were gone. And there was no more pilgrimage to make every day.

The void was filled eventually. I suppose. Did I start filling it in too quickly? No, I don't think so either. I do wish sometimes that I had had more time to stop. But to stop at that time would have been to die. Strange, I didn't have thoughts of wanting to die to be with you. But rather, thoughts of wanting to swap my life for yours - that if there was a way I could have died so you could be here, to live a life - your life - I know I gladly would have.

I never entertained the thought that we would live our lives together. But... are we anyway? Is the only difference that I can't actually see you?

I have often thought of you, Ellanor. Often. In the first months, the first year, I wondered what you were doing and where you were. I would say to people and to your Dad that it felt like you were just away on some trip somewhere. I likened the feeling I had, still have, to a mother wondering and a little concerned about her worldly child off travelling the wilds of Africa, the mountains of Tibet, the streets of Rome.

I feel like you are just a postcard away.

With friends like these...

Question:

If your baby is a grubby grot, getting over a cold and therefore still spitting and snotting and dribbling everywhere, would you take that baby to your friend's house and let your baby do said spitting and snotting and dribbling all over her baby's toys and rugs?

I know I wouldn't.

Would also let your baby eat on the floor and crawl around with dirty face and hands, rubbing stuff into your friend's carpet and touching all the furniture (table legs, licking table legs, grotty hands on couch)? Would you pretend you didn't see it or would you do what my friend did and laugh at each thing and say "Ooops you got some dribble on the toys"? And then, to top it off, would you get your friend's baby's big teddy bear and snuggle it into your baby's dirty yoghurt and fruit covered face? I'm not talking a bit in the corner of the baby's mouth, I'm talking a full face of food.

And would you make it so your friend feels she doesn't have any recourse because, after all, you've come over for the half day to be with your friend who you think isn't coping well (and press her to go onto anti-depressants)?

I am seething, more for the fact that after she's left, I have MORE work to do. I will have to clean all of the LGBB's toys. I am so angry that I could cry. There was no point pointing it out, my friend lives a far different life to me and I can see that when I go to her house. I am by NO means the cleanest person, but I don't see how you cannot see your child is slobbing all over someone else's fucking house. Fair enough, let your child do that at your place but I know for a fact that you'd not willingly allow your child to go crawling about with food in their hands and on their face.

I've never come across this before, mainly because this is the first visit from this friend since her baby has been mobile. I am shellshocked at her disregard for my home. She's a good friend, which makes this so much worse.

What is ridiculous, though, is that I am not assertive enough to even say anything. That apparently, it's easier for me to (once again) allow someone to do as they please thinking that I think it's ok when underneath I am thinking "Just get through this next half hour then they'll go and you can start cleaning, it's nothing that can't be fixed/cleaned". When really, I planned to do work this afternoon but I feel like I can't work because I have to clean before things/food/snotty spots set all over the place. Add to that that Lolly has just woken and I have very limited things to give her and places to put her to play until I do clean, even if I did decide to put off the cleaning.

GOD I'm cross! I think I'm mostly angry at myself for being so timid - the fear of being told I'm too pedantic or that it's funny to see me flustered over something like this is far greater to me than the inconvenience this friend has just created for me.

I'd love thoughts from any mums on this. Whether this is considered usual behaviour or not, as I sure as hell KNOW that my daughter would not be allowed to do that at someone else's house, regardless of how comfortable I was with the friend (in fact, in many respects, the closer I was to a person would just insure that I didn't allow it). It doesn't take much to wipe your baby's face and hands, surely??

Keep the cork in it

Who says you need vodka to have fun?

I just spent a most joyous afternoon in my backyard. Just me, the LGBB, Jazz and a bottle of bubbles. Not alcy-holic bubbles. Oh no. The $1.20 teddy bear-shaped cannister blowing-bubbles kind of bubbles.

Steve and I discovered on the weekend the amusement that is perching your daughter in her cot and blowing bubbles in her direction. What added to that particular brand of fun was the new bottle o' bubbles I had purchased the day before on an impulse. The only logic I had was, "It's bear-shaped, it'll be a hit with the LGBB" (who is dead keen on bears, just quietly). I hadn't factored in that they were obviously trying to shift their shipment of bear-shaped bubble blowers because they were in any way defective, hence the bargain price.

So Steve started first. That is, after he'd screwed back on the bubble shaper bit that I'd pulled off, thinking you had to pull out the stick from whence the bubbles come. I actually pulled the top off it and after much deliberation, we worked out that you squeezed the bear/cannister to make the bubble head appear out the top. It's fixed to the bottom, see. So you squeeze, then blow and the bubbles will form and spill out, as is the usual custom.

I was doubled over in fits at Steve's first attempt. You have to picture it though (and maybe, even then, it still doesn't do the visual justice): a grown man sitting laxidasically in my breastfeeding rocker chair in the LGBB's room, both of us looking on eagerly at him and on his first blow.... nuttin'. A big fat fizzer. No bubble. Second blow, same thing. What made it funnier was the action of having to squeeze the bear to make the bubble blower head come out. And then Steve's deadpan face as he did it. Over. And over. And over. The guy should be on stage.

So today, I took said bear outside with me, the LGBB and nature. The breeze picked up only after I started to try and blow. As Murphy's Law dicated. And then..... oh my God. The invention worked. Some little bloke in some far away Taiwanese factory high-fived as bubble after bubble came out in quick succession. And the LGBB's face lit up as they whizzed past her pram. She was leaning forward eagerly, trying to grab them (many moments too late, don't you love that about babies' developing spatial ability?). And then the piece de resistance: Jazz. And her big boof head, trying to bite the strange balls that were floating through the air.

Oh my God. I thought I was going to let go my pelvic floors laughing. Ok, we're amongst friends - maybe I actually did, just a little. Thanks to Lolly 7 months ago.... So here we were, outside, the LGBB looking all confused and a little pissed at not being able to grab a weird floaty thing coming from Mummy. Mummy doubled over pissing her pants laughing at the dog who was indignantly trying to stop the strange floating balls from invading her space in the backyard. Oh, and then there was poor old lady, Pep. So out of it by this stage in her life that she sat next to me, ever next to me the darling, blinking and confused when they popped in her face.

I thought the afternoon couldn't be topped off. That was until I took the LGBB inside to "finish her off" (that final few minutes of play that insures a sound afternoon sleep... is the plan, anyway). I gave her her stacking ring toy. All the rings were separated from the main stem. And she was grumpy! Oh boy, was she in a snoot. She was wrestling the rings off me as I attempted to chuck them over the top of the stem. The largest ring got caught on her arm and she tried to grab the next one as I flung it, but the big one up her arm got in the way.

Bwaaaahahahahahaha.

It was like watching some crazed and deranged spoilt starlet trying to fit on all her bangles. Like seeing Elizabeth Taylor being pompous over the diamond jewellery and swatting away her minders. I was in fits. And each time she looked up at me gruffly, I had to stare off into the middle distance and pretend I was laughing at something else.

But oh, how I was laughing at her beautiful, sweet, silly, sick self. The poor darling.

A different spin on the same old number

Well, when I created the pages about Ellanor and expanded on them as the demand became apparent, I never expected to receive a request to use her story as inspiration for a young girl's interpretive dance number.

But that is exactly what we received today.

In part, she wrote

i would jsut like to say that what you have done is beautiful, and im sure people say this all the time but i guarantee you that your website and contribution is helping people every day. I am only a young adult so have never had a child or lost a child for that matter, so i cannot even begin to think about what that would be like.

And nor do you really want to, my dear.

my other reason for writing to you is because i am a dancer at university and am currently in a project of choreographing a dance piece. The idea that i have chosen to explore is a mother losing a child. I know that i haven't ever felt the pain of a mother who has gone through this, but it is something that i want to explore because i feel it is such a tragic subject that people (both men and women) can be faced with and at times is totally unexpected. As teenagers and young adults we often think about what our families will be like in the future and how our children will be, yet we never really think about what it would be like to actually lose one of these children. I want to explore my feelings on this and put them towards others.
I found your website to be very inspirational and as i have not experienced motherhood yet, i would like to use your stories and poems etc as inspiration for my piece, in terms of your loss, your grief and also ellanor's gift.

What this has done is drop a penny in my head. A long time ago, I wanted to touch children. No wait.... that sounds SO wrong. I wanted to reach children. That's better. I wanted to reach them, reach out to them, not necessarily open them up to things but more... keep them open? If that makes any sense? My father has said to me on more than one occasion, 'We are born coming into this world knowing all'. It's the other way around to that which we are conditioned to think. I believe this thoroughly. Although, I am guilty of falling into the same trap with the LGBB; because those motor skills prevent her, we have to nurture her to the point of doing things for herself. But the underlying knowledge, it's there in every one of us. How many times have we heard "S/he's been here before" or "s/he has an 'old' face" when talking about newborns? It's not coincidental, I believe, but rather we're seeing echoes of what they have come in with, before it's gradually lost and they begin to wake up from where they've been and come into who they are now.

When this girl wrote to us today, I realised that all those times I've yearned to be a primary school teacher, a child care worker, a kindergarten teacher, I was looking for that hook. The powerpoint, if you like, that would enable me to plug in somewhere and experience that awesome time when children come into their own. And to be a contributor to the shaping of our future world. But I never realised any of those vocations. None of them sat well. It seemed futile, because my whole aim was to create awareness of how brilliant and fascinating they were - of, for lack of a better expression, touching them in such a way that they grew up full of pride in themselves, having a well developed understanding of their role in the bigger picture, how they can make a difference to the world and the way everybody lives. To take the blinkers off, I suppose.

But it just seemed such an exhaustive task and I let it go. Now, I am becoming wise to the prospect that if I want to truly help change, turn the juggernaut around, join the growing tide of people who are chipping away at making a difference, I can't do it myself. Not me, personally. But through people like this young girl. What better place to encourage young children to retain their innocence and awareness in order to heal the Earth than in the home?! From their parents? And even better, young adults who are yet to become parents. What a boon! For Mother Earth!

Little by little, awarenesses may begin to open up just that bit more. The possibility to name just one example that, hey yes, as absolutely crazy as it sounds, I did have conversations with my daughter before her conception and after her death. And that was only made possible because I was open to it. People she flitted to and dove in to open awareness that bit more were also only able to hear her because they too were open (if you want to read more on what I'm talking about, read Little Ella ... and take a box of tissues with you). The reason I use this as a good example is that that message, her message, was about expanding forgiveness in the self. Opening up others' compassion and consideration for others. In essence, not unlike that obscenely cheesy movie, Pay It Forward.

It's fascinating to me. And I am being gently pushed towards something that's forming in the outer reaches of my mind. I can feel it, but I can't tell what it is yet. It's bugging me! Not unlike a mozzie trapped in my bedclothes.

The bed bugs bit

Well, what a successful binge fest one lucky mozzie had last night, dining on my feet.

I hope he's pulled up sore this morning, little fat bastard. I have three bites on one little toe (excuse me, would you like a little toe with your mosquito bite, madam?), two on both big toes - right on the knuckles too, conveniently(not) for scratching - various others around my general feet area and one in the centre of my foot which, after a morning of scratching, now looks like a big red Play button.

And I'm going out of my FREAKING mind with the itching. I look like a mangey dog, scraping my feet along the carpet as I walk. Anything to tickle the itch away.

Oi said pet, oi said darl, oi said puh-LOISE

The LGBB tells it straight to the camera.

Perks of the job

Tell me what other kind of job in the WORLD has a clause that says:

"You will oft times be prioritising and in such demand that taking a dump will become a luxury."

Just wondering.

Harnessing her inner logic

Please Sir...

I want some more.

We're moving. Yes, I'd care to make it official

If only I could convince Steve that 16 baby huntsmen in one day (and waking not 5 minutes ago this morning to the big granddaddy of them all on my side of the bed half way down the wall near my head) is grounds for moving.

They may well be as nervous about approaching thunderstorms as me and turn indoors to escape the heat. But they should have built their own bigger houses if they wanted something to protect them from the goddamn weather. Coming in uninvited and unwelcome is just rude.

EEEEEUUUUGHHHHH!!

The baker's dozen

Twelve plus one.

Thirteen.

Baby huntsman spiders, all over the LGBB's bathroom.

A nest has exploded somewhere and my skin is crawling, people. Can I come over and sleep at your house?

I'm so hungy I could eat a sandwich from a gas station

Not unlike the scene from Vacation where Clarke Griswold is trying to find where to fill up the new family truckster with gas, I have just spent an infuriating few minutes pawing at the outside of the smart little arsed black box known as the video camera.

I turned it over and over and over. Like you'd do when you were a kid with those bloody annoying Rubiks cubes (c'mon, hands up who unstuck the coloured squares and restuck them perfectly in colour sequence then proudly declared you'd solved it? Just me?). I could not for the life of me where to stick the power cord to recharge the damn thing. And it had lost battery power right in the middle of the most delightful little "golly-golly-golly"ing by the LGBB. A moment, never to be captured again! Bastard technology! Damn thee to hellll.

I started trying to make the little jack fit in to various similarly sized holes, even the ones underneath that were so clearly not the power outlets, not unlike when Clarke is tapping down the side of his car with the gas nozzle in case there's some sort of hidden opening that will magically open sesame. So when I finally found the hidden flap, more secret than 'arry Potter's Chamber of Secrets, I heard Ellen in my head saying "Oh... Clarke? Isn't this the gas tank?"

Too smart for its own good, stupid video camera. Golly, golly, golly.

My drinking problem

"I need a drink, Roz. I'm takin' the rest of the day off." Best line of Nine To Five if you ask me. So fitting. I use it a lot.

An entire weekend of pets heads falling off is still in effect. Even though it's now Monday.

• Odd job that should have taken, well, as long as it takes to find and purchase a new appliance including delivery that's now turned into full blown structural renovations - tick.
• The "quick duck down to Bunnings" resulting in a huge renovation in itself - of the LGBB's
nappy, in the boot of the car - tick.
• Feeling like I'm living in squalor because I have an old washing machine, an old fridge, a clothes horse, a vacuum cleaner and the dryer all sitting in my living room (along with all the usual furniture, oh plus some stuff I need to sell on Ebay) - tick.

And now it seems I can't even take a swig of my water bottle without the contents going everywhere but my mouth. Stoopid damn drinking problem.

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.

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my

We just had an interruption to our power service and it arked up the Foxtel IQ box.

He: *scrolling through Foxtel planner* Ahh, shit, it missed recording Fucking In Africa
Me: What the hell kind of program is that????
He: *ignoring me* All my favourite shows, see? It always stuffs up my shows.
Me: *picturing lerve Serengheti-style ... eww how gritty* What's it about? Is it a documentary? ... Comedy ...?

Then I caught a glimpse of the actual show title. That'd be Battlestar Galactica.

Note to self: if you're not going to pay full attention, don't listen at all.

Things I've learned in the last 24 hours

• There is a very over-dancing, over-acting, over-annoying blonde male (in the red jacket) on The Wiggles sometimes, with a lovely perfect row of pearly whites, who looks like a frustrated backup dancer for The Boy From Oz.
• When presented with the opportunity by way of ricotta and zucchini mash, the LGBB will choose gagging over breathing - hands down.
• I can move surprisingly fast when required (see previous point).
• A mug of skinny latte is sometimes not so skinny.
• Murray Wiggle's cartoon caricature is far better looking than the man himself.
• He needs to eat a burger.
• A mug of not so skinny latte and a slice of pear-and-something tart do not mix.
• It is not wise to attempt to make it home if you hear clunks and shudders that you aren't sure are coming from your nether region or from the lift you're standing in to get back to your car.
• Even if all cross-checks have been made to ensure all sphincters are air-tight. Just trust me.
• I say again, I can move surprisingly fast when required (see previous point).
• Don't blame the LGBB for any noises emitting from your person. Steve will always find you out.
• My mind may actually go places deemed sick - point in case, on Creature Features this morning (a kids show, and sorry Sparkcat, I couldn't get to the tv fast enough to change channels), they were showing how to care for hampsters. The next time I came back in the room, I saw a plate with a slice of some unidentified meat and three veg. Immediately my mind went straight to "Fuck, they slaughtered one of them, that's bit harsh for young kiddies!" I won't deny I'm a bit scared of what I think sometimes.
• The LGBB lurrrrrrves the cat from Creature Features and talks and squeals to him. Now I have a dilemma! (sorry again, Sparkcat, I've failed the 487th rule of early childhood parenting: never let your child grow attached to a snide, talk-it-up character they can learn bad manners from)

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.

Another year over, a new one just begun

I'm ringing in the new year with ringing in my ears.

I swear, I am about to cut off my head, at the neck actually, and be done with it. Our brilliant first "proper" night out - read: 5 hours off duty, not even the evening rollover feed to worry about - was dinner and a movie. Which was all well and good until 3.30 the following morning and a stabbing pain in my shoulder blade. My initial thought was that Steve was finally seeking vengeance and going me with a kitchen knife for all those times I nagged him about the lawn. But it turns out, it was the beginning of a nightmare weekend drugged up to the eyeballs on Panadeine which, in itself, is bloody fantastic (I feel invincible) but not necessarily my idea of healthy living. Also not great when they wear off after only a couple of hours and you're only allowed to dose up a few times a day.

Note to self: if you're going to have a migraine for the first time in, oh, EVER, don't do it over the Christmas/New Year period because no one gives a flying flexed tendon. Not until after the 3rd.

On a far more cheerful note, the universe, in its infinite way of surprising, has delivered to us a delightful gift. A babysitter. A keen-as-mustard, living in the same suburb, babysitter. And I'm not talking the kid next door (although she did offer and, despite being just 15, looked to be an appealing candidate until she was blown out of the water by the opposition). Oh no. Far more exciting than that.

I received a call out of the blue three weeks ago from Ruby (that's not her name, but I like it), the 2IC midwife at the Mother Baby Unit where the LGBB and I took respite in November. She was calling to see how we'd been getting on. What was, I guess, a fairly routine follow up call then took a turn towards trumpeting angels on high. Backlit. With sparklers. She confessed she felt we'd made a real connection and she felt she wanted to offer her services and babysit for us. Whenever we want. I had to stifle the sound of my humble jaw dropping to the (dusty) floor. I admit that at that point, even though the LGBB had been blessing us and herself with 12 luxurious hours of sleep per night, I was still not really back on the ball - and let's face it, who can really balance on top of that ball without excellent core stability which is completely lost after a baby? I hadn't got a handle on how to juggle her day napping and trying to fit in work and housekeeping in amongst these grabs of sleep and progressively longer up times she was doing.

So when Ruby offered, I cried. She told me I wasn't allowed to cry. So I cried more. HOW this happened is just so beyond me. For you see, not only is she a midwife. Her previous role was as a NICU nurse (at the very NICU where Ella was, coincidentally). She knew the nurses who cared for Ellanor back in 2004 and she herself had been there up until the month Ella was born, but she left on maternity leave. And gave birth to her daughter. Lauren. On the day Ella died. To the very hour. Now if that's not a person I was destined to meet, I don't know who is.

The afternoon of last Friday, when Ruby was due to come and scrapbook on our dining room table (the only payment she wanted was a big table to spread out on... and coffee.... both requirements I could fulfil), I started to get anxious. Really panicky. What if the LGBB wouldn't sleep for her? What if she freaked out so much that our night off had to be cancelled?

But then I smacked myself with each hand and said "Erm..... this is a NICU nurse coming to babysit a healthy 5 month old, you numbnut."

Turns out, Ruby had such a ball at our place that she's all too keen to return. So much so that I asked her if she was going to start ringing and nagging us to go out so she could come here again and scrapbook in peace (she has a decoy album on the go so that her two toddlers can "help mummy", the poor love). I don't know what the joy is about scrapbooking, though friends know I've tried to love it, but far be it from me to stand in the way of a gorgeous, big hearted soul if she wants to do it at our place.

Now I can intersperse her with offers from other friends and family. Aaaaah, the world has suddenly opened right back up again. Gee. What a chore: I have to get around to taking up everyone on their offers to babysit. What a difference to a few months back when I couldn't even entertain the thought of preparing to go out - it felt like such a huge task that it was easier to stay home.

Does anyone get that?

Café chic chicks

Mummy: Whaddaya reckon looks good, Lolly?
The LGBB: Mmmmmm.... Let. Me. Seeeee.

*scoffs* $13.95 for a burger? I don't THINK so.

Meh

If we hadn't explained their opportunity for 'umour, Christmas would have been a bust for the person who lovingly and generously sent some finger puppets across the miles.

We were not amused after the initial unwrapping. But, dang, if an elephant head wiggling on Daddy's finger isn't amusement-face-worthy.

What gives with the unwanted assvice?

I know this is a crime the world over. I have already taken my solemn vow never to be one to do it. And maybe this maternal enthusiasm for others' child rearing practices is just a "gift" I don't have. Or a sport. Perhaps it's a sport and I didn't sign up for it so I don't know how to play the game properly.

I speak of assvice given by other parents to parents when they're NOT asking for an opinion, merely stating (for conversation purposes) things that are happening with their baby in their situation.

Goddamn!

If there is ever any doubt in my mind, you can bet your sweet tootin' behind that it's due to someone casting a back-handed "Are you sure you ought to be doing xyz yet?" in my direction.

It was as simple as saying "The LGBB is starting on solids" and what I received were several opinions and a bit o' assvice that I never asked for. Hell, I know babies her age who have been on solids for weeks already. She's over 5 months old, yes she's mouthing at us when we eat, yes she is leaning in and taking more than a general interest. Add to this that my MCHN advised me to start *by*, people, by six months. I realise the current medical recommendation in this new millennium is now 6 months to start solids. I realise that in the '30s, the recommended age to begin solids was 9 months. I also know from my own health centre book, I myself was started on solids when I was 14 weeks old. Shit, maybe that's what's wrong with me?? In the '90s, it was 4 months and that's only 10 years ago.

What? Are babies these days new and improved versions of the ones that were being produced only a decade back? Is Babygut v466.0 a better model? Is that why it's so important that I listen to everyone and what they're saying to me because they know my baby better? I must have been a fool to think I'd know when (and why) I would start the LGBB on a bee's dick of rice cereal. My biggest factor, and maybe it's a no-no, is that I am going partly with my instinct and partly with the guidance of the health nurse, who said she should be on solids well before Christmas.... I thought that was a bit advanced, but given that most other babies in my mothers group are on solids (and all but three, LGBB included, have been weaned already), I think I've done a cracking job on getting my fully breastfed thriving girl to this mark. Why all of a sudden am I unsure because of a few people's comments to the contrary (as if they live here and see what she needs better than I)?

Honestly, I wish traps were kept firmly shut sometimes. If someone is already uncertain because they are new at a job or task, in the workplace you'd be left alone to get on with your job - no one would offer help (or fair few people, anyway), they'd all be busy doing their own work. But nooooooo, have a baby and suddenly everyone right down to the woman on the street corner giving it a bit of "current research suggests..." will give you her opinion. What would be more helpful than "Don't do..." or "Make sure you..." would be if people started their replies with "Hey good luck with that and if she doesn't take to it or appears not to be ready, you can always try again soon". When I do attempt to introduce something new to the LGBB, I'm sure there'll be times where I'm guided by her (who am I kidding, that'll be most of the time, surely) - but the point is, we'll work it out together. Having people already stamp their opinions all over what I'm doing, I feel too proud and not a little uncomfortable to go back and say "Hnnngh, we did xyz too soon so we're trying again next month". The fact is, I just want support, not suggestions or the feeling that I'm being told what to do. It's a strange ambiguity that I can be told what an amazing job I'm obviously doing, yet in the next breath have a bunch of instructions laid before me that I didn't ask for. Surely if I'm doing a good job, I can get by without that assvice... or at least, my sources are already taken care of if you think I might be cheating on the job and passing off LGBB's thriving as my own hard work.

I love my job. I'm good at my job and I'm proud of it. If I want help with my job, I'll seek it (and not necessarily from an assvice giver). I've always been like that. In my paid and unpaid work.

Look, I know. It's an age-old complaint and if I had a yawn-face smiley, I'd bung it right *here*. But it's my turn to complain about it. So please.... keep the lids closed. And step aside while I just get off this incredibly high horse, there's a dear.

She's not foolin' anyone

I picked this Portrait Place "complimentary" photo up yesterday. One of those deals where you pay $15, get the professional sitting but the first photo print is free - then they take shot after shot and invite you into a little room for a slide show and you ooh and ahh about how cute your baby is and end up walking out $600 poorer for it.

Well our Lolly decided to smile on the first shot (for Daddy) and then the rest of the time prettty much pursed her lips and looked at us all like we were crazy. Needless to say, none of the others were any better than candid shots we can take at home, so we ended up with just this one professional sitting pose. And I HEART it so much, I cried when I saw it.

MOVE IT!

AAAAARGHHHHH.

That's me. Just walking in the Christmas throng.

Seriously, is everyone walking deliberately slow? Three abreast? Far out. I'm going to invent pedestrian rear view mirrors. Shits me to tears.

Something akin to a bear slasher movie

I was thinking last night about what would/will happen the day something befalls the LGBB's prize toy - a stoned-looking pup named Marley (after Bob, of course) - if it happens before I can hunt down a back-up Marley. Kind of like when Peter Brady used his "twin" as a stand-in so he can date two girls on the one night, it will be a lesson in morals I'm sure.

I recalled the time when, as a child, my teddy had to go to the teddy hospital. I pictured a hospital with teddies and their legs in plaster, laying back on hospital beds with gauze wrapped round their fuzzy teddy heads and sipping water brought in by teddy nurses. In reality, it was probably some guy's garage.

I think Parby (hey, I couldn't say Pooh Bear, orright?) had lost an eye, or was seriously close to it. I was distraught, I remember that. And mum arranged for him to go to hospital and he was there for what seemed like months. Again, in reality, what's the bet it was just the time in between being picked up from school and picking him up... no it was longer than that. But it felt like an eternity.

We dropped Parby off and I said a teary farewell. Probably waved a white hanky as his train left the station and all that. And then I waited. What news of Parby? What of his eye? I think I must have nagged mum to within an inch of her tolerance about when he was coming home (from the wars).

And then the day arrived. A thick white package arrived. Oh the indignities.

"GET HIM OUT OF THERE, he probably can't breeeeathe!" I was desperate for her to cut the bag open and rescue my dear bear.

She took the "good" scissors and cut. Right before my eyes, I witnessed something a child never wants to ever see. Stuffing. Piles and piles of stuffing oozing out of the white tough-bag. I shrieked. I was horrified. Mum had gutted Parby on the kitchen bench. I think I swooned and smelling salts may have been involved.

Turns out, what mum was digging her hands through (had she sterilised, was she wearing a gown and mask, is what I want to know) was not the entrails of my beloved Parby, but the stuffing his "doctor" had used to pad the bag and keep him safe on his trip. Must have been like being back inside his mother's womb, all woolly and stuffingy and warm like that. Bwahaha.

I still have that bear today. I still cannot have him dishevelled or sitting uncomfortably. He was my first true love.

And if that dog Marley knows what's good for him, he'll keep out of mischief and keep himself good and clean. At least until I can find his doppelganger.

First kiss

It happened. Right out o' the blue.

There I was, walking her to bed. We were just about to stop at a big picture of Ella sleeping on her tummy (it's one of my favourites) - this is a bedtime ritual we follow now, we have to stop and say "Baby Ella is asleep, it's time for bed" and now she looks for the baby *sniff*, it makes my heart swell and burst - and she did it.

The LGBB turned her face in to my cheek, grabbed my hair on one side and my neck on the other and gave me a big wide-mouthed slobbery kiss. No smacking sound. Just that babyish awkward "I'm sure I do something like...this..." kiss.

Going to go and savour the moment now.

Message in a bottle

To whom it may concern.

This is a letter that will never be sent. I see no way how. Not at this time, anyway. Best to just leave this *out there* and you will come across it if you are meant to and, indeed, you know where to find it if you are supposed to read it. I won't hear mention of my sullying anyone's name. None have been mentioned. If it may sit uncomfortably with you, you can choose not to read it. But I have to get it out. And here is where I choose to. You remain anonymous, unless you respond, and only I can be judged by this letter I am writing out to the unknown cyberspace into which I'm sending it.

What a shame you didn't hold on just one more year to hear me say "I get you more now than I ever could have before." What a shame you didn't have more patience. With me, with yourself.

Things have been striking me like blows out of the dark these past months. I've stood on the brink of full blown depression and something keeps spitting me back out. But it's a cruel half-life to be living, one of immense ingrained sadness (melancholia) littered with days of feeling just so-so. Never completely, wholly joyous. It's come as a nasty shock to me, as I hoped I could just be left alone to enjoy this time with our baby. But life has had other plans.

I'm afraid to just contact you and say "Hey! I remember you saying this, I get what you mean now", because there is the inevitable point-scoring to be had by you. There always was. If it wasn't "Just wait until...", it was "I told you so" and I don't want to hear that. Who does?

I wish nothing even had to be said. I dream of a life with you where we just look at each other and we know. We just shake our heads and one says "It's just..." and the other says "I know". And we both know that we both know. But that won't happen. It never could have. Before, my struggle to conceive, which clouded my empathy, prevented it. Now, your lack of natural empathy does. Some people have this. Some people don't. Some people's hearts bleed so much for others it's hard to stem the flow. Others have hearts that are boundless but they don't give out wisely, yet they probably always feel like they are giving and they feel spent and wonder why, why did they not see how much I was doing for them.... I'm sorry if I never saw you were giving so much of yourself to me. I suppose what you gave wasn't what I required. I know I felt like what I gave you wasn't enough, but unless you were lying, you would always tell me how much I meant to you and that I was your "rock". It seems sometimes some people give a little of themselves and it's like receiving a flood, whereas others feel like they are giving an ocean's worth and it's only a drop at the receiving end. Is that a fault of the giver or the receiver? My answer to that would be "Neither". It's simply a case of poor pairing of energy exchange. One person's trash is another person's treasure - and maybe one person's drop in the ocean is another person's Atlantic.

I feel I protected you and those close to you from yourself and some of those now-recognisable harmful ways as much as I could. I'm coming at it from a new perspective now. Not one of "Why don't you just clam up and be thankful you even HAVE children", but of truly understanding what it is like to live the dream day upon day upon day. And herein is my latest challenge, which I know you would (at best) only attempt to understand for a brief moment but never really experience; that of the mother still aching from loss, wanting to make good this opportunity she's been handed to mother again - hating herself for not being happy (as if she's never satisfied, even now that her primitive instinct has been fulfilled, fretting that something in her is still preventing the joy and she's allowing it to be so), still not buying clothes too far outside of her baby's current size for fear of them not being required, beating herself up for not being "happier" but caught between worlds that leave her wishing she could just settle in and be joyous.

It should be noted that none of this is admission that I would do or say the same as you. We are different people and I express and give of myself far differently to you. It's what makes the world interesting, that difference. No, I am merely saying I understand where you have been coming from when I have witnessed what I have when it comes to you. And I am sorry if you ever felt judged. It was never my intention to appear to be judging you. I was more trying to understand (albeit defunctly) why you would do and say certain things, squirrelling away Notes To Self at the same time that I must remember never to "do this" or "say that". But it's far easier to stand on the outside and look, no? Now I am where you have been before me and I can say, it's bloody hard not to do the same as I've seen you do! And why we shall forever stand apart, because you can't possibly, conversely, experience what I have and put yourself in my shoes, step around in them and feel what it's like to walk around each day amongst people who appear to you to be squandering their "luck" at conceiving easily and having healthy, living children.

You once claimed I was "like this" (I assume that means rotten, evil, no good, mean, never nice to you?) even before Ella. Well, yes, our conception and miscarriage issues have been going on for years as you well know. Before that, I was a young adult learning my way in the world and figuring out who I was. As were you before me. Funny that all those past errors in you were always overlooked by me and absorbed into our relationship, yet mine were dragged out years after the fact to be used by you to (once again) point-score. It's sad. You'll never see. Never ever see what you are like, because you admit no fault. I admit too much fault! See? We're incompatible. Please don't think you have all bases covered where I am concerned and your knowledge of who I am and what I stand for. You don't.

There is still work to be done. I'm doing it. I'm walking it. I get it now. I get you more now. How utterly sad then, that you may never know. Sadder still that your pride will probably prevent you, even if you do find this and read it, from just allowing me to be who I am with this new experience - I sometimes wonder what it would be like to still have you in my life (as you have long since removed yourself from it) and think that by now, I would be caught in a web of deceit again, not allowing myself to be honest around you and tell you that your words sting and smart like cold sharp slaps across my face. But no, I was never allowed to tell you that - you labelled me "too sensitive" a long time ago, justifying yourself against my feeble protests and continuing on with your assaults unchecked. Your whole character goes unchecked, by everyone around you. People give knowing glances - I've seen them, not instigated them - and I am still told to forgive as you know not the damage that you do (to yourself, mainly). It's a stark contrast to the proclamations you have made of yourself that you are "nice".

Nice is not about setting yourself up in someone's life so they can be your punching bag, simply because they never disagree with you - perhaps to disagree was to receive more pain than they wanted to cope with so they simply let you go on. That is a fault of mine, I know. But your inability to accept the person you are, and not just the "nice" side of yourself (and you are nice, sure, I don't disagree), is what prevents us from being friends. It probably always did prevent it. You never really knew all of me. You assumed much of me, that's all. I was always too afraid to let you all the way in, you messed about enough with the parts of myself I did let you in on and only a fool will open their hearts all the way to someone they don't trust with it.

I just want to be with kindred people. And that's why I can't be with you at this time. It's not that I'm not allowing it. I think the universe (or a collective something/someone in it) is protecting me from you. If the doorway ever opens, it is because the time is right for me to move forward with this ongoing lesson you are presenting me with. I can only trust you are learning too so we can cross paths somewhere down the track and say "Yeah, I remember you. So... who are you now?"

Signs that your gardener may be gay..

..or at least in touch with his feminine side:

• There is a definite swagger
• He has a dog whom he claims is under 10kg (if its name is Precious, I am not going to be surprised, although I shall endeavour to lose this last bit of baby weight lest he lure me into his van, stick me down a well in his house and send me lotion in a basket to rub on "its" skin to make his tailored skin suit - Jame Gumm only chose the fleshy ones)
• He is exceedingly polite and non-macho (no "yeah g'day, no wuckas" from this one, despite his trade)
• He is very handsome in a non-rugged-gardener kind of way
• He is very softly spoken
• He is agile in the bush (this goes against the theory a tad)

But the clincher...

• He rinses out his coffee mug so as not to leave a stain when the dregs dry.... not even I do that. And they're my mugs.

Officially sad

Q: Ok, so what would be classed more sad than claiming to have had a celebrity sighting in your local shopping centre?

A: Confessing that the "celebrity" was none other than Harold from Neighbours.

And more seriously sad than that?

I didn't even see him, I just overheard two shop attendants having a giggle that they'd had a "celebrity sighting" in the Telstra shop next door.

Can we go lower? Make it officially sad? Why yes, we can, dear reader.

I actually craned my neck in an attempt to catch a glimpse of Harold from my seated possie and almost woke the LGBB in the process by knocking the pram.

The one song that complemented your formative teen years

For me, it has to be We Built This City.

Ok so I didn't like the way the guy and girl singers had matching mullet frizzes. And I couldn't stand the way she she sings "Cor-pur-ashunnn-games". Ugh.

But come on, with lines like "Who controls the wreckin' ball, into our guita-ARS", how could it not be an anthem of its time (approx. August through to November of '87, granted)?

I recall being morally offended (much like when I had to accept that ABBA was singing about snorting coke) when people started parodying the song and singing "We built this ciddeh on al-co-hol, built this ciddeh...". God I was a prude.