The Piker

When you ask an 8 month old to be an "honorary flowergirl", you have to expect that she's not going to
a) know why the hell she's getting dressed up
b) understand that it's not terribly FCUK of her to accessorise with a pink dummy
c) care about staying awake during just the most important day in your life to date
d) have the good grace to actually stay present and accounted for during the ceremony at all, in fact.

And when Mummy has to drive you around in your chariot of choice to catch some shut eye (the 3-wheel buggy with the mostest room to guarantee an itchy-scratchy flowergirl dress nap), you might as well go out in style with one last flash of your divine blue oceans into the lens.

See what I have to put up with?

Last night, devoid of any other ideas for entertainment in the extra hour of time we'd gained with daylight savings finishing, I said to Steve, "Tell me something to Google and I'll Google it."

After a moment's pause from both of us and a smirk tripping across his face, I confirmed with a withered look that, yes, I knew he knows everything and there was nothing he would need to Google but could we just do it for amusement's sake anyway. Maybe he could pretend not to know the answer to something. Just to humour me.

So he says "Ok, Google this: does Steve know everything", not that he's not modest or anything *cough from silent crowd* He obviously just wanted to ensure Google was up to speed with his vast knowledge of.... well, shit, basically.

So I did. And here was the single, solitary search result on an otherwise blank page:


Naturally, he found this hysterically funny. I told him I wasn't playing anymore.

Getting her fix

Try as she might*, the LGBB just cannot kick the habit. And now, today, photo evidence that her addiction is increasing.

Yes, that's right. I caught her trying to shove two dummies in her mouth at once. And I nearly melted right on the spot.












*er... she hasn't tried at all yet and I'm not in a hurry to make her, but that's a minor detail

Four X moment

You can get it singing a song

You can get it sitting by a dog (or two)

You can get it blowing a ras'


Matter of fact....

I've got it now.

G'night.

To all you Intuitive Mothers (and mothers in the making)

Do you ever read something, like a book or an article, and think, "Hang on.... did I write this for myself and forget?"

I have found the Mother *boom-tish* of all such books. I am only wishing I'd found it when LGBB was about 7 weeks old and I was going through the motions with a fake smile plastered on my face, I was that worn down by sleep deprivation and had been hung upside down (or so it felt) for so long that to find right way up seemed so impossible that I was quite happy to just hang there and wallow, thankyou very much all the same, kind Sir.

I have found it, for me personally, to be one of those nuggets that speaks to your core. That inner you whom you know, maybe very well but more often perhaps not so intimately - the authoress herself professes to not really know where the book came from and I find that fascinating as much as it is affirming that it comes from a divine and pure source, devoid of much of the ego you find in other books of its kind. I know exactly what she means because there have often been times where I will write something and go back and read it later, to find I feel like I'm reading it for the very first time. Ella's Parallel Story was written like that. In fact, both the stories about her that I wrote for her pages came from thin air (not to say they're not completely factual, it's just that I sat down, put my fingers to the keyboard, got up and went away and there they remain, unedited bar a few spelling errors, no reworking or the likes).

This book, Intuitive Mothering, has given me the fodder I really needed at a time I really needed it to stand taller and realise I don't need peripheral parents, aunts, uncles, siblings, friends, professionals... ANYONE... to give me the proverbial pat on the back I thought I needed from an outside source. Mind you, the irony isn't lost on me that a book (in itself an "outside source") has led me to this conclusion. Hmmm. No, I think the difference is that I feel far more empowered by seeing the book on the shelf (the slimmest paperback spine in amongst the other Parenting manuals, just leaping out and going "Pick ME! PICK MEEE!", having the follow-through to purchase it (I was on a "date" with Steve at the time and we'd just meandered in to a large bookstore and sauntered to our favourite sections - he Quantum something-or-other, me Parenting) and then realising what a pearler it actually is right from the first page.

It shines a truth. It speaks to my innermost mother instinct. Reminds me to trust what I feel is right, for me and the LGBB. It goes and sits and has a yarn with that real deep knowledge we all have that, without all the assvice and interference and uncertainty that builds up in you when you defer to others to tell you if you're heading in the right direction, you most certainly ARE doing exceptionally well for YOUR baby and everything is going right (despite what any general book or MCHN tries to tell you).

Just yesterday, I had a nightmare day: went for the LGBB's 8mth check. Was told I was sitting her too much and "that's why her legs are bent like a frog, if you keep doing it she'll have problems and need physio" and rah de rah de rah. It made sense, there were no "that doesn't sound right" alarms ringing in my head. I simply went "Ok" and began doing more tummy exercises with L from the time we got home. Don't think it's a coincidence that the poor kid had the most miserable afternoon - she cried and cried almost non-stop, big sorry-for-herself sobbing - and by the time she got to bed last night we were both exhausted. By the time I went to bed, I'd realised (again) that I'd allowed someone else to tell me what was best for my child. It resulted in an extremely uncomfortable day for both of us.

I always vow I'll never do it again, that I'll be more aware of it next time.... and I always slip! I'm not hard on myself for that, I am realistic about it and the fact that by my very nature, I aim to please/do right/do it well. But when I walk past that book on my end table, it snaps me back - the pendulum might get out of whack but if it swings back to centre, all is not lost.

I don't profess that the book has ALL the answers or that it is for everyone, merely it is a bloody useful tool now for me to dip into - full of reminders I could have written to myself, but so nice to see it in print, published, as if anything written in a book is fact and "right".... except this time, with this book, intuitively, I know that for me, it IS right. Because it speaks to my truth. The comforting thing about that is, if it has been written by someone else, and yet it is full of what my deeper wisdom would have written had I not buried her with fear, cynicism, loathing and the best of intentions, then surely it is going to also make someone else's soul squeal with delight.

So therefore, I feel it my duty to pass on to anyone who considers it might be something they'd like to source.

I give you Intuitive Mothering by Lyn McPherson, published by newholland.com.au, ISBN 174110352-5, available in all good bookstores... or maybe none because the authoress says now they are rather difficult to come by (makes my finding my copy so much more special to me). We have been in communication with each other by email a few times now, she contacted me personally out of the blue after I posted a private comment on her site just to thank her for her work in making this happen. She's one amazing and lovely person.

Some small exerpts from:

The better we look and the tidier our house is does not reflect how well we are coping.

"Things" are not important to your child, but you are. If you are happy and around and interacting with your child, that will mean more to them than anything you could ever buy them.

Confronting and releasing expectations: Make what we "should" do what we "want" to do.. or don't do it. Another barrier to tunin in to your child lies in expectations. They are everywhere, from mothers to friends to doctors - and especially the expectations you heap on yourself. The key to liberating yourself from expectations is to take the word "Should" out of your vocabulary. Every time you hear yourself thinking you "should" do something, ask "Is this really something I want to do? I it the right thing for me and my child?" If you are able to say "yes", that is great - it has now become your choice - not something done because it is expected. If your answer is "no", choose not to do it. (If I had remembered this yesterday, my Bullfrog-Legged baby and I would have had a much happier afternoon, wouldn't we! I didn't listen to my instincts until last night, and I couldn't wait until this morning to make it up to her when she got up for the day)

Be proud of your decisions and choices. If you feel the need to reassess one of your choices, do so for you, not for others. Avoid the bombardment of influences out there..... Throughout your journey with your child, just be who you are. Do not expect to feel anything, just let yourself feel. Let it all flow. Neither of you have ever done this before - it's a new relationship for you and your baby. Every woman is beautiful and unique. If we were all the same, life would be very boring. Every child is also beautiful and unique and every mother is beautifully equipped in her own unique way to understand, nurture and raise her children. See the beauty and the mystery of the discovery, and the true freedom brought about by feeling rather than thinking.

'Intuitive Mothering' is more than another baby care book. It is a warm and friendly tool for the new parent negotiating the maze of apparently conflicting, prescriptive advice about parenting styles and approaches - Dr Bronwyn Gould, Chair, National Assoc. for the Prevention of Child Abuse and Neglect.

Oh and..... if you go to the Links page on her website you might just see something from Yours Truly....

Lolly. In the Round

Michael Flatley eat yer heart out, t'be sure t'be sure

Any requests?

Hmmmmmm, I don't know that one.

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 Golf 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.

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.