Flick-ball-change

Knowing what's important is what's important.

Smart fish

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Praying online

I hear a local radio station (Christian... don't ask me, I just like the music) encouraging listeners to pray for rain and break this drought. "You can even pray online at www....."

I started to scoff, thinking this praying "business" was a little out of hand. Sort of indignant that this recent spate of rain spells could be attributed by some of this station's listeners to their devout prayers.

But then, it occurred to me: no shift happens "just 'cause". There is a big school of thought ('scuse the pun) that the globe's weather is mastered by universal thought and attitude. I must remember in my spare millisecond to try and hunt out some further information on this theory. But is it a theory?

If people want to pray for rainfall and then rainfall happens.... is it because of them?

Or it just because it's actually winter, when rain is likely to happen anyway? Hrmm yes, I think I'd be more impressed if they prayed in the height of summer: "Unseasonable rain has filled the ebbing reservoirs..."

This isn't to say it's not good, nice, willing of them to do something, anything, because I'm of the belief that, hell yeah, many many things and not just the weather would be a lot smoother if collectively, people's minds were more geared towards thinking positively and therefore lightening the mood of the world. But then, I also believe that'll never happen so I can stay firmly in this belief and never be proved right or wrong.

Ha hah. I ... win ... I think.

Don't say I don't love you

For I give you.....

Japanese Tetris


Sparklinuxlover, you'd better not even try to open this one cos it's on YouTube and, though I heart you, it's so infuriating I haven't worked out a work-around because dang, if there aren't the coolest clips I want to send you numerous times a week. What are we to do about that dang-diddliang dilly of a pickle?

Pardon me, stewardess...

Just how much exactly is a breastfeed?

Why, the answer is approximately 5 kilos. Yes, siree, I have noticed a giddying trend south on the scales which coincides with each feed I drop. With no discernible change in diet or exercise. I'm on a winner, baby. Well, actually, for the weight-conscious among us, I suppose that isn't solely true; I have avowed to, wherever possible*, stick to smaller portion sizes and whether this combined with the lunchtime feed for the LGBB being dropped had anything to do with the other, I don't know but think I ought to mention for the sake of full disclosure, if nothing else.

On top of THAT, I dared try on The Jeans** today. A fanciful whim. Two weeks ago, The Jeans wouldn't even do up, let alone look comfortable around the upper thigh area. Talk about camel toe, shit, I had a fucking bloated, too-much-dairy camel toe sticking out down there. And I promised myself that no more, no more would I be so bold as to assume The Jeans would fit for at least another year. But in a move designed to beat myself while I was down this morning, I tried 'em on. And blow me down, they fit. ZOOOOOOOIPP. The zip went up with such graceful ease I had to actually check I had tried on the right pair (for we all know, one pair of jeans only a woman doth not own). And they were. The right pair. The Jeans West (fits best, bweah yeah) Wide Flairs. SHIT!!!!!

Added to this, I've heard almost a year's worth of breastfeeding furphies mostly surrounding the "fact" that "all" breastfeeding mothers lose weight whilst performing the duty, but have also heard worrying reports that you actually gain weight again when you stop. Eeeeek. A sombreing thought for a lass who was a bikkie short of a Magda. Ok, not quite, but I said love, I said pet I said puh-leeese. I see their looks, when they tell me you lose weight when you're feeding... and there's me all puffy to the eyeballs nodding and going "Yuh-huh" like I'm part of the In (skinny breastfeeding mothers) Crowd.

Now, when those skinny minny breastfeeding girls whinny about how their weight dropped off so fast from breastfeeding, I can be quietly smug in the knowledge to hand that my body, at least, is enabling a weight loss heading south juuuust enough to pique my interest and then WHAMMO! When I drop these last two (morning and night) feeds, I will be lookin' spiffy. And they? They will be gaining. And I will be sailing down with a wave and a "See ya! Sucks to be ya!" (I do what I've gots to do, with my still-heavy frame on my side, go with me, people please)

Ok, again, not quite but at least I'll be able to see my feet again without leaning over.

*excluding any meal partaken at a Hog's Breath Café, oh. my. FREAKING. God. The chicken. It's the best.

** The Jeans: those jeans from your former life deemed impossible to be fit back into after childbirth.

Work on, work off

So it's a little bit of an indulge yourself, work it off present from Steve and the LGBB.

A box of milk chocolate Lindt balls
A packet of their scrumdiddliumptious 70% cocoa (hey, if you're going to be good and do the dark choc for anti-oxidant thing, this is the chocolate to get)
A silicone mini muffin tray (WOOT!)
A mini trampoline
An exercise bike

See where it went?

And, oh. Just THE most gorgeous, LGBB-selected card - Steve asked if she was suuuure and apparently she kept over-reaching in the trolley to point it out - which she still seemed keen on this morning and tried to wrestle from my grip as I tried to read it (You're 1 Today! from Bambi and friends). My heart is bursting.

Is 9.15am too early for Lindt?

Silly stuff

Why is it that when you don't make a huge fuss and go flailing about the place, sometimes it's assumed you wouldn't just like a bit of an effort made for you anyway? I am one who tends to go "no worries, I'll be right, you go and attend to the people who are making dying sounds" even if it's quite obviously bad acting on their part. And off go the people to save the damsels and (male version of damsels) in distress.

I don't want to sound brattish, but I do wonder why I don't make a more blatant go of rocking the boat. I know why: everyone else in the boat would look at me from under withering eyebrows and go "Kirrooool, what are you playing at? You're fine. We have to go over here and help XYZ out. Again." So I don't really bother. I don't bother making a fuss and saying "Dammit, I am your bloody daughter, I will really miss you being here." That, and, it's just not me. I don't do it because I don't think to do it and wouldn't have the first clue how.

More's the point, I am put out that come hell or high water, the parent in question ensured they saw a more elusive sibling on their birthday last year. But me? No, I'll be right. I'll understand. You have to work. You have deadlines. It can't be helped. And seriously, realistically, of course it can't.

But why, then, do I feel that somehow I'm not "as important"? I know I'm looking at this irrationally. I know I should look on it thus: by the very fact that I've been ditched by someone very dear to me, it's obvious they have a high regard for my capacity to roll with the punches (like this one), otherwise they probably wouldn't have been game enough not to be here and instead, making sure they found a way to make the drive and the effort because I seemed like I needed it.

How's that sound? Convinced?

It's just that.... I wished they would have at the very least made plans to see me soon after my birthday. I didn't get that either. I just got a "sorry, I can't be there". And yeah. I feel really babyish and sad about it *pouts*. Is it because my birthday is mine, all miiiiiine? And when you're a mum, there's nowt much you could claim to be "all yours", for you only?

Perhaps I should start the playing-hard-to-get game. It seems to make people come running. I know I sure as hell used to.

Everybody say Ahhhhhh

I'm demure, I'm being 'cutesy', I'm Lady Di...

BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHA fooled ya

Want to see me in 360º profile? *boing*

And you can blame my Aunty Nic for this latest fascination:
Poking out my tongue.

MLAAAAH.

What about the animals? Won't anybody think of the animals?

What are they thinking here?

I find this an absurd venture.

Thought it was sore...

My wrist was dislocated.

Just had it popped back in *Here, miss, bite on this bullet now, will you* Actually, the adjustment wasn't that bad at all, especially when compared to lugging around a writhing, teething bowling ball who refuses to hug my waist with her legs, so enforcing me to bear the full weight of her person on my one arm.

Tried swapping arms but she just slips down the valley that is my boobs, lumps, bumps and stomach. So no joy on the left hand side.

I'm on strict keyboard time watch. I have a measly 20 minutes in every hour in which to write to my friends, twirling gum in my mouth and lazily curling my ankles while I'm at it, type for work and type for other purposes. And mousing? Left handed, baby. You wanna see someone unco? Move their mouse to the opposite side they're used to and I'll show you.

Tip:

Freshly ground coffee floats on the surface of milk. Milk that's in your mug. Waiting for you to make the coffee by putting it in the plunger, as is the usual custom.

Or you could, you know, distractedly tip it all in said mug.

Business as usual

Can't. Type. Long. Like girl. In horror. Movies. Who sprains ankle. And. Is. Useless.

Got me an old-fashioned RSI (presumably from lugging about the LGBB and compounded by my recent writing flurry and also paid work, which is speed-typing... yuh, it's an extreme sport). It is making everything quite painful, although there's nought much to do but suck it up and keep on truckin' regardless. Slightest flex of the wrist or thumb and I'm wincing like a puppy.

Speaking of puppies, everything else here is as usual:

Still teasing the dogs, still like a silent pressure cooker fooling itself it has grace in the face of a whinging child, still pissed that I didn't watch Big Brother from the start so now don't even want to know what's happening because I needed to be in on the goss from the beginning.

And in other news, I bought some stuff for Lolly's first birthday today. I had a moment in the shop, all to myself, where I looked at the punk glitter wig and thought "Why not", then the glowband bracelets and thought "Yeahhh why not" and then the lolly bags for the other kids and thought "Holy shit, I'm buying things for my daughter's birthday. Fiiiiinally, I get to organise a birthday." I know I'll probably be a wreck afterwards but man, I am loving the preparation so far. Just because I get to do it. Even if I stress, I'll be grateful that I have the reason to.

Dare you to not spring even a tear... just one

The little contestant from Britain's Got Talent who's now all over YouTube.

Despite the unnerving Bindy Irwin similarity in features, she's soooo adorable I could squish her.

And now the end is near

And so they faced
Their final curtain.

From the moment the show went on air, I thought The Catch Up would be yet another huge embarrassment for Australian television. Their last show is airing today. I see they were even beaten by another network's rerun of Anne of Green Gables (damn! how did I miss that??? bugger!)

I tell you, it's been rubbernecking at its best. Last time I tuned in, they had a scrolling text bar across the bottom showing latest "news"..... it displayed chintzy, cringe-worthy gossip stories as the panel chatted, things like what was happening in J.Lo's neck of the woods and what colour dog collar Paris Hilton had bought for her pet pooch. Glad they got rid of that, at least. Worst of all, I was just left with a horrid taste in my mouth - that of being sold out again if this was what was being served up as "fresh and new and intelligent" for mums at home during the day. What do they think we are? Makes me fume that they pitched it at a lower than average intelligence level, it was actually rather a disgrace in that regard. And yet, so typical of the station it aired on - the Boys' Club with flagships such as Who Wants To Be A Millionnaire and The Footy Show. Blergh, really. A phrase often heard in this house is "typical bloody channel 9" and this daytime show was no exception.

The show has been a mess since it first aired in February this year. I'd hurriedly flick past it if I happened to have the telly on at that time. It's certainly not must-see tv for me (though my bar has been raised, it's true, such is the small screening time I give new shows these days due to my heavy reduction of me-time).

I went from vowing I'd watch the final one right through, to considering just having it on in the background, and now I'm itching to change the channel altogether. I can't watch it. Yet I can't look away. At any rate, after 1 o'clock today, it won't bother me either way will it!

It was always doomed, wasn't it? I mean really. Libby Gore, Mary Moody (who I only know as the mum from Kingswood Country), David Oldfield's wife Lisa (of Pauline Hanson-related fame) and Zoe Sherridan.... whoever she is. I am possibly showing disgusting ignorance, but I just don't know how they (at that station) thought it would work. Was it because they were trying too hard to be a poorman's version of The View (in itself a bit of a joke but certainly more palatable on the whole)? Was it because they were a panel of women on a testosterone-charged station?

Whatever, I won't miss it because I never watched it. Apologies to anyone who might have found it entertaining. I'd rather watch a shoe.

Old mother Turtle

I have no idea where this is going to end up but need to log it in this timeline I seem to have going here on this blogspace.

I've been clearing a space each morning (energetically more than anything) to enable me to carry out work on this writing I'm doing. I go in with a ritual of shifting and clearing any incorrect energy - and must admit I've become very slack at this, despite doing it more than daily only a few weeks back when things first started to shift again - surrounding myself and anyone else I feel responsible for, or at least in my immediate "zone".

It's usually the same old subjects: myself, Steve and the LGBB, our home and belongings. They all get thrown in there when I do a clearing. The past few mornings when I've gone to do it, though, Ella's name has inched its way into my consciousness. One of those inclusions that just flowed so easily that I knew I wasn't forcing it in there. I've been hesitant to include her, wondering why or how on earth my doing a clearing could possibly pertain to her. I see her as a soul far wiser and more capable than me down here doing my bit.

But I think that's where I've gone astray a bit. Perhaps just misguided or naive.

I included her in the process this morning before I got started and was confused and a bit uncomfortable about it, only in that I felt like I didn't have the "right" (if that is in fact the correct word) to assume she needed clearing as I was doing it. An hour passed without feeling like even a minute had gone by, when I raised my head out of it again I realised I'd hand written four pages without stopping. Such is the way I write when I really need to, it's so much more constructive too when it comes to me like that.

Anyway, I started back on the computer for a brief moment before Ella's name popped into my head again. It wasn't "her", per say, not like old times - certainly no dialogue was exchanged - and I had the presence of mind to give the bods at Peace Space a call. They've been without a phone (embarrassingly, it's a phone/answering machine that I donated to them and it's since gone kaput.... oops) and I was clutching at straws thinking anyone would answer at all. But eventually, the phone did pick up. Neri. Sounding rather distracted, as you do when dragged back to the present after being deep in thought "somewhere else".

What ensued was a lightbulb moment of a conversation. Just incredible. I said I needed to ask a "brief" question, not wishing to disturb her or me more than necessary from our respective tasks of the morning. And once I had finished explaining that Ellanor kept wanting to be put in my clearing and protection, she said "Whyever would you not?" Hearing it in such simple, factual terms - "she is a part of your family, you, Steve, Lauryn. You're her mother, you represent her connection to Mother Earth in this lifetime, of course she would come to you when she feels the need for some added protection" - just made me crumble. I don't know why it took her to say it, after all, I have been struggling (it feels like) for so long to retain the title of "Ella's mum" to anybody who's still willing to hear me rant about it. And then, something so easy and flowing as a simple morning ritual is the thing to really bring it back into perspective for me.

I've not felt the need to include Ella's name before. It's only been literally the past three or so days. Usually happens when I am preparing to get five minutes of time for myself (and that hasn't come about til this morning, I've overlooked doing it for at least a week now) and I'll mentally start my checklist of who I need to include. Me, Steve, (Ella), someone will pop in there, Lauryn... hang on a minute! Ella?? Then consciously to myself, I'll go, "Ella. Why not Ella?" But it's been bugging me as I try to work out whether it's me doing it or her!

Now I have my answer.

And the turtle connection? When I rang, Neri had been researching and meditating with Turtle, who had come to her first thing this morning. Her mother passed away (herself a mother who had experienced a neonatal loss, back in a time when there was no such thing as expressing oneself on the accepting internet or anything similar) and she was drawn to uncovering a bit more about Mother Earth today. My phone call came right in the middle of this dawning - all I have received so far is that Turtle, who lays her eggs in the sand, where they hatch and many not make it to the ocean as they fall prey to predators, never loses her threads of connection to all her babies. I blubbered. Hell yeah, I blubbered silently on the phone as she explained it briefly.

I've felt the pressing urge to make a visit back up to Peace Space for a while now. I organised a time only yesterday with them to make a day of it, this Saturday. Manuscript (for what it's worth so far) in hand. And now it's becoming more clear to myself and Neri what we'll be doing this weekend. She is working on a topic not dissimilar to my own: Mother and the mother connection.

More after Saturday as it comes to hand.

Only have time to feel guilty

OK. So we're into the second week of my Lean Cuisine style of living (making sure I'm looking after myself). And I thought it was going smashingly well. On reflection, this is because a) the LGBB was gracing me - most days - with at least a 1 1/2 hour sleep in the morning, with the usual "don't expect more than 40 minutes out of me" nap in the mid afternoon, and b) there was a three day weekend in there where Steve was terribly helpful and I relaxed. A. Lot.

Lucky I did do all that relaxing so I don't feel totally melted down already because we're into a new week and, uh..... I'm back to feeling guilty for not spending lots of time with the LGBB when she's awake and yet she hasn't slept more than about an hour and 20 minutes for the ENTIRE day.

Took her to occasional care when she woke up from her sleep (read: when she'd wailed for 20 minutes after having a 10 minute bit of shut-eye, but at least I managed to gulp down half a coffee and go to the toilee in that time). She wailed there the entire time as well, except when her very nice carer carried her around the room. Still, better them than me. Just for 20 minutes.

We're home now and I just want to know how many others think it's unreasonable of me to just want some time to myself. Without feeling guilty. The LGBB is currently listening to her friends in the stereo (it's a Play School cd, dammit she loves it and I'm a slave to anything that soothes the beast lately) and I am hiding(?) in here. We've been home 15 minutes and I literally plonked her there and myself here.

Just. Need. A. Breather.

It's not like I'm in her face all day, she gets loads of time to amuse herself (and she's only been happy to do that again these past four or five days - before that, it was the whole Greek tragedy thing every time I left her side for the previous 2 or more months and that was difficult in itself to balance). I've no idea what other people do in terms of leaving their babies to "it" - I have tended to do the 50/50 thing, splitting her awake time into part play and/or reading with her then the rest on her own. But now she's awake for such a long time..... there's no way I can do that. It's not healthy for either of us, for one thing.

The nurses way back at sleep school told me one of my long term goals would be to try to find ways to assimilate the loss of my first baby with living with my living second one. It's difficult to explain just why it is that I feel so obliged to stay by her side, or at least allow her to see me, from wherever it is she is sitting. And I know the day will come when there is nothing I will be able to do and she'll be off into this room and that, then friends' houses, school, leaving home, yada yada. It's a very strange thing to live with this dichotomy between feeling desperate for space and yet needing to insure we are getting "enough" of each other. I think in all this, my cellular memory is calling out desperately for Ellanor. And I cannot hold Lolly to that flame.

But what am I to do? I do feel despairingly isolated. It's not something I wish to keep bringing up. It's not something I try to find in everything. And yet... it is in everything. It's only when I try to work through and peel back the layers to the source of why I am doing some of the things I am - and even when I don't see it, I've had professionals, like those nurses, gently suggesting it could perhaps be because we lost a daughter - that I discover it's sought me out again. I feel trumped constantly by this interwoven grief.

And I feel so, so, very guilty about the LGBB having to bear witness to my healing as I go. It's like a Painting By Numbers picture.

More physically pressing, though, someone recently asked me if she's dropped her morning sleep "yet". I think I weed my pants at the thought.

Tell me no lies, am I like Lorelai?

Gilmore, that is.*

That was the question Steve had to struggle through an answer for last night.

Me: Do you think I am like Lorelai?Him: *looks over, confused*
Me: I mean, you know how sometimes people have said I remind them of Lorelai? Am I really?
Him: *unsure how to answer, a little exasperated but amused and frowning* Wwwha... umm...
Me: *continuing without hearing the attempted reply* I guess if I talked a bit faster I might be. But I just don't see that I might be. Do you think I'm like her? Isn't she annoying though?
Him: *laughing now* Lenny. Yes. You are like Lorelai.
Me: Is it because she'd ask a dumb question like this?
Him: *sighs and turns back to the telly*

* So I still miss them, what of it? They were friends, no matter that they were fictitious, I truly believe I've missed out big time by not being born anywhere near Stars Hollow.

She's a maniac, maniac on the phone

Ok, so there's not much time for back-stories. I'll just have to put in as much as I can to bring you up to speed. The main points are:

• Old, old friend's mum became my friend by default over the years.
• When I say "friend", I mean like I felt obliged to continue to use her services (House de Beauté type stuff) even after it was most inconvenient when she moved about a 30 minute drive from me - heaven knows I can get anyone within a 5 mile radius to tear hairs off my legs and nethers without having to drive so far for the privilege.
• So really not a friend at all. But more like, yeah... an old friend's mum.
• Not even friends with the old friend anymore.
• Relationship, for what it was worth, with the mum got reeeeeally scary for me. Particularly after Ellanor passed away and she began to call when in an obviously altered state and tell me all sorts of strange things that were very confronting to me (in terms of my ability to conceive/carry a child and what we were "doing wrong" to lose so many).
• After I contacted aforementioned long-ago friend (and we were very very close, but years ago) just out of the blue in 2005 to see if the old familiarity was there, it was very soon apparent it was not. In fact, I was a bit confused that she seemed not to even know I'd had a daughter, despite the mum telling me she had and even going so far as to say my old friend had been upset for us.
• The mum moved two states away at around the end of 2005, a sea change I guess, and I admit to feeling very relieved for even though the contact was sporadic (and always instigated by her), she seemed to be one of those people who had assumed a place for herself in my life that I'd never invited her to take up - that of "mother" to replace a bit of a gap I had (willingly, consciously) made.
• I didn't get any more than one or two of those uncomfortable kinds of telephone conversations that seem to be her forté, while she was away.
• She doesn't have any clue about the LGBB, although I think I did mention I was pregnant again (which could mean "anything" has happened).
• I'm now stuck like a bit of a slave to the answering machine-slash-caller ID. I find her calls bordering on the side of harrassment, she was verbally rather confrontational and certainly there to push her points across last time we had any decent length of conversation and I would have thought my lack of returning her messages, which have been alarmingly frequent lately and getting a bit haughty, should have indicated to her that I didn't want her to contact me anymore.
• I'm too big of a wuss to answer and tell her just that. I am still, despite everything that has gone before, not the kind of person to state my needs and where they're not being met - not with someone so distant from me but who still assumes to know all about me (oh yes, she's one of "those"). But still, I think I've been creating these monsters in my life all along. With each occasion that it hits me out of the blue, I realise that sometimes certain types are going to assume that because I don't verbally state each time I disagree with them, that I am right behind whatever they're saying - it's my nature, I accept whatever's being said to me because I believe that that's the other person's opinion and I take it as nothing more than that.

But this is all besides the most important point:
• The last rather terse message was more detailed - she's a "grandmother" now, which I assume means my old friend has had her first child. This is possibly the sole reason the mum was trying so hard to contact me and in hindsight (the nasty thing that it is sometimes) I feel a touch dreadful and selfish that I didn't return any of her umpteen calls over the past couple of months. See, the mum and I share a bit of a blaring similarity - we both lost our babies, at the same NICU no less. And I can only imagine the kinds of skeletons that are flying out of her closet at seeing her daughter with a child now.
She also mentioned she is moving back home.

And now I'm shitting myself she's going to knock on my door. The one thing that keeps going through my head, somewhat annoyingly and nowhere near helpful, is that St John's Ambulance ad woman.

"Would you know what to do? Know what to do." See? Not helpful. Any suggestions?

Is it a bird, is it a plane, no it's...

Peter Pan?


Lolly enjoys the late afternoon sunshine reflections in the kitchen

So simple it's childs' play

The poor LGBB.

Playing on the floor with Daddy this morning, he noticed that she doesn't have that same innocent "If I do A, B happens" mentality. It's not that she doesn't know how. She just doesn't want to. Wild horses couldn't make her. There's not much delight happening with the whizz-bang showy toys (not that we have many), she's happy to watch us play with the ball-down-the-slide giraffe flashy lights and music toy. And we get a rather pained smile from her when we say anything about the music or where the ball has gone, etc. You get the picture.

I tied one of her prized wooden bees on a string. Now, if there's one thing the LGBB will do anything (or try her damndest) for, it's her bees. I read somewhere that if you tie a toy to a string or ribbon, then put it under the couch and let your baby pull the string til the toy becomes visible, joy and rapture will ensue. Well, it worked insofar as she was gleeful that she saw her bee again (after all, it had been so long since she'd seen him, 20 seconds at least) but only if I was the one doing all the work.

So back to this morning. Steve tried the same "trick" with her and he observed that she has a bit of a challenge... well, looking at things like a regular, 'excited by the little things' baby. Instead of sitting there going, "Oh LOOK! My cherished bee is moving", her look more says "Oh I see, that string is attached to my toy so when forces are applied to said string, the force must be greater than the force of the friction and gravity holding the toy in position. Hence, a light tug on the string is not enough to break this force and the toy remains stationary. However, a greater force allows it to move. How quaint of Daddy to show me."

I shouldn't laugh

How friggen lucky is this bloke?

Too little too late, sunshine

Today marked a most auspicious occasion: one hour of care in the hands of strangers without tears being shed. Mind you, there were tears at the beginning and while I waited just outside the door in Reception, a carer had to stop, drop and roll to the LGBB, perch her on her knee for the next 50 minutes and do nothing (that was one smart worker - if there is one thing I learnt whilst working in child care, it is that you always go for the kiddie who "needs cuddles", as it means the other poor sod has to do everything else including rescuing babies from themselves and each other, not to mention attending to any whiffs of anything unsavoury-smelling).

The good thing is, it means I can get something resembling a life back again, I'm aiming for around three precious hours a week. I plan to use this time, at least initially, to clean the house to within an inch of its paintwork.

I've been building up to this relief for weeks. Things just got in the way - my things at first - and then I realised the LGBB was playing the situation (they were all coincidences, of course, but I prefer to think she's smart enough to know I've threatened occasional care outside of the home and that's why she suddenly started to sleep longer in the afternoons and throw sicky fits, etc. etc.).

It seems now, after the change in sleep routines didn't work for her, in one afternoon all of a sudden she has come ahead leaps and bounds in her development. All from one hour at child care?

Today, I have witnessed the following for the first time:

• A pointed index finger, pointing at things.
• A pointed index finger poking things, mostly my nose.
• Constant stream of verbal chit-chat rivalling a teenager on the telephone (she could babble before now, but not like this).
• Scooting around on her belly - I wouldn't go so far as to say commando crawling, however if anyone needs a new spinner for their Twister game, she's your girl.
• The closest she's come to sitting up on her own from a prone position I've seen.
• Marley being given her dummy to "suck" when tucking her in to bed for the night (oh dear LORD, could the cuteness factor be any higher? My breath was taken away) - usually it's me who has the stinky thing put in her face to "suck the dummy", but no apparently now it's Marley's turn to go along with the game.

It's as if she was saving it all up for such an outing. See, I can do all these things, you don't have to send me away for me to do them. I wanted her to do something, anything, new for what seems like months - her frustration and certainly my patience couldn't take much more of the inaction and snail's pace slowness of the motor skills stuff. And yet, I'm feeling like I've been told to put the book down for the night, in the middle of the most exciting chapter. I wanna know what happens tomorrow! Today!

Yes, sir, that's my baby

There are certain signs that the LGBB has more than a physical resemblance to yours truly. The things Steve is alarmed with most are (in no particular order):

• The way her entire highchair tray must be devoid of crumbs that have fallen before she takes another mouthful (I hate when my highchair tray is dirty.... I also have to eat every shred of lettuce, sesame seed - and I mean EVERY - or hair that falls out of my burger before I take another bite, don't ask me why, I just do).
• The way she locks her feet together at the ankles, intertwining them like some gnarled trunk.
• The rhythmic slow rubbing of one foot against the surface of whatever she's lying on, for comfort (I do this at night and I believe it was only because Steve accepted I do this not to annoy but to fall asleep that we're still sleeping together).

Sleeping, people, sleeping.

Wishful thinking

*harnessing his inner geek and at the point in the conversation where I was reminded that geekdom is never far from the surface, even if it's covered over with staff-speak, pithy side anecdotes about whose birthday was today and recounts of the day's events*

K: But why did you move your old computer in there? I thought the screen on the new was was bigger.
S: Nah but once I installed Teleporter...
K: You don't work across two screens now?
S: *not listening* ...I can move my mouse to the edge of one screen and keep typing in the next.
K: But why?
S: *more to self than me* I want to eventually set eight screens up and work across them in Filemaker.
K: But why?
S: That way, I'll be able to set each screen up on the wall, each with a different run. And colour code them once it's away and...

I think he may still be dreaming. I can hear talking in there. I've walked away.

Think I'll go and eat worms

It's official. Apparently a general consensus is forming that the LGBB loves Justine Clarke so much because she looks like me. Or I look like her. I wish I was the pre-pregnancy, so without the thunder thighs in very fitted pants (nasty wardrobe lady) but with the later natural wavy-haired era, Justine.

Today marked the worst day yet in terms of my patience with her. Lolly, not Justine. Though the try-hardness of Ms Clarke got under my nails like slivers of bamboo today too. Now I'm even psycho-analysing this, suspecting my disdain for her is because I recognise bits in her that are so chirpy, so giddy, that hell yeah I want to smack her down a size. Because I wish I was that "happy" - not for one second is the irony lost on me that apparently she is how some people obviously still see me (or perhaps they just can't let go and accept that that once-chipper, innocent me has long chirped her last cheep... might be time to stop holding out hope, people). Though I do admit to unashamedly overanimating when singing countless songs a day and making up stupid ditties and pointing out the most mundane things in simple words, all because I delight in the wonder I see in her face. Lolly's, not Justine's.

In my now crazed state, I am actually thinking I'm taking out on her some of the anger I've been carrying for years. Lolly, not Justine. Indignant anger stemming from the fact that I've put others first so much in my time, anyone I've constantly given an inch to who then gaily assumes a mile or 10 - it still happens, although rarely now. I tend to discern my friends more wisely since the experience with Ellanor.

And yet, of course I know it's right and it's a given that the LGBB would take so much of me - I had so much I was prepared to give a baby, any baby - but here I still find myself grappling for any morsel of time to be me and starting to feel deeply resentful about it. And just when I thought I was just starting to reach the precipice and choof merrily down the other side of the slope into parental bliss too. Tra-la.

I realise there are things I can do to ease the load, within reason. For instance, I'm still attempting to organise occasional care, that blissful mecca that still eludes me because a) they ask that new babies come after 2.30pm the first couple of times while the parent waits in Reception, "in case the staff can't settle her" (wow, gee, instills a lot of hope), and b) the LGBB changes her pattern and time of afternoon catnaps anywhere from 1-3pm and I daren't take her if she isn't well rested or the whole exercise might prove futile. But the wily little minx isn't going to get out of it tomorrow, ho no. Not after today. Tomorrow, she will be woken from her sleep (yes it's that important to me - I've made it an unspoken rule that I never wake her once she's down, and nor have I had to, she has an uncanny internal clock that wakes her even if I was going in to do so) and taken down to the place where I've chosen to drop her off. So that I can come back home and ... do anything else other than attend to every whim of Ms Whinge-a-lot.

I could also drop the work I currently do in the one decent block of sleep Lolly takes, usually in the morning anywhere from 45 minutes to 2 hours. Usually somewhere in between. But paid work, in the name of my business, is too important to me. It's essential in terms of not only some financial independence, but moreso because I honour Ella by doing what I can to make the business thrive. It's a tough call. Of course, I'll never deny the LGBB's needs to feed the business side of my life. But I don't underestimate the power and the pull of what the business means to me, on a much deeper level, than simply earning money and making it work. It replaced the daughter I wasn't raising, for three years now. It will be a very hard one to ever let go and I hope that time never comes. That even if I am not strictly doing what it is I do under that banner of ERW Design now, and I'm not taking on much new work lately as I simply do not have a moment to dedicate, I am at least hopeful of retaining it as a working entity.

And now, to sleep. Perchance (not) to dream, because I want an uninterrupted comatose kind of experience. In order that I am refreshed to confront tomorrow.

Same

Same clothes.
Same routine.
Same hair.
Same pattern to the day.
Same walls.
Same view.
Same mess.
Same work.
Same complaints.
Same cry.
Same pain.
Same arguments.
Same ailments.
Same silence.
Same rejection.
Same husband not motivated to go out on days that SHOULDN'T feel the same.

SAME SAME SAME SAME SAME

It's my birthday in a few short weeks

And if you love me, dear reader, you will get me Wing Sings Carpenters. Namely, the hauntingly beautiful Yesterday Once More.

What I know

• The LGBB will drink anything. As long as it passes her lips via a syringe.
• A doctor named Paulo is destined to be cool.
• Trotro is a whiney little bore.
• I have officially lost 28kg. And heading ever south again after hitting a plateau of late, funny how you get a sort of second wind after reaching a milestone (which for me was getting under 90kg..... fark that sounds heeeuge).
• Who knew reducing portion size and doing 300+ skips and a walk each day, plus personal training and some boxing every week *pant pant pant* would actually begin to pay off again?
• 117kg (at my peak in July last year, the day before induction) is way too much for my frame to handle.
• If I ever get pregnant again, I need to somehow hire a stunt double to take on my extra fluid (for Shirley that is mostly what it is).
• And stop calling me Shirley.
• Some of us, however hopeful, will never do the skinny Minnie thing simply via breastfeeding. I take it on good authority from a former champion breastfeeder of two who is now super slim (as opposed to super sized) that she was one who, like me, retains the chunk while doing good for the bubba.
• A few sips of a nice wine is so relaxing right before the final writhing breastfeed of the night, especially when that feed is coming after a now-regular marathon 5 hours awake time through the roughest part of the day: the dreaded witching hour leading up to DINNERTIME.
• Remember that game? At primary school? "What's the time, Mr Wolf?" Whenever Cameron was the wolf, he was always too quick to yell DINNERTIME. Never caught anyone, of course, because we were always only three steps from the safe line.
• Cameron was a dork.
• Me and my friend, Lisa, also saw him and his mates drop their dacks in a one-in-all-in pact to show off their willies to each other in the main room of the abandoned School House that they'd broken into by way of a loose floorboard. So we got Mr Jacobs to come see. And got them all into trouble for flashing their nethers.
• Though, now I'm thinking about it, they must've been doing it more than once if we saw them do it, had enough time to run up to the staff room, dob, come back with Mr Jacobs (who was wearing a wry, knowing smile as I now recall) and lay in wait for them to do it again.
• Justine Clarke of Play School (formerly Roo) is far too watchable for my comfort level.
• A win on Ebay is always so much sweeter when you sniper bid.
• Yes, that person you hate on Ebay is MEEEE.
• If you jump rope in front of a 10 month old Lolly, she will bob her head up and down (just the head) like a cocky.
• And if you watch this whilst performing said skipping, you may just be thankful you're wearing your Tenas.

Nee-nah nee-nah

My impersonation of an ambulance.

Eventful day for us yesterday. Took the LGBB to dr's because she wasn't right at Playgroup (couldn't breathe properly, was inconsolable, started burning up, etc.). The drive from PG to the dr's was terrifying. She passed out in the car and looked like all the blood had drained from her. Did a quick exam and checked over by two doctors, they got an ambulance for us and I tell you, I did very well if I do say so myself... was cool as a cucumber because I didn't want to upset my girl but holy frig, it was frightening. She was very listless, super sleepy (still is today) and incommunicable. They don't know what happened, suspect something viral, sent us home telling us to keep her fluids up (she hadn't had a wet nappy in about 5hrs)

After a dose of Panadol and 90ml of fluid administered via syringe by Mummy (very fun game, for any babies reading - apparently it's da bomb), our poor wee Poorly was allowed to come home. So we shrugged, went "Wwwwwwhat the hell happened?" and came home. With a bear from the ambo's who we've named Amber. Or Ambo. We haven't decided if she looks dero enough for the latter.

Am currently chasing down alternative doctors to take a look at her (and when I say "alternative", I literally mean GP's who use alternative/holistic methods to treat and diagnose. Also waiting on a call back from a Network Chiropractor (one of the most blissful treatment experiences I've ever had and I've had a plethora) - who knew my sister in law was such a boon for contacts?? There's one in the clinic where she works. Too coincidental for me not to make an appointment for the LGBB. I suspect it's something with her immune system, the Dear One who phoned today to check up on us suggested nervous system (6 o' one, and all that) and possibly looking into chiropractics for children. I didn't mention to her at the time, but my mind immediately thought "Need to find a network chiropractic practitioner" and lo and behold, not ten minutes later, The Lovely SIL called with all her information.

So onward and upward for my poor Poorly Girl. Haven't a clue what's going on with her, just going to ride out the next few days as we wait to get in to see these new care providers.

More later. Duty calls. Doesn't it always?

Whoopsy daisies

Why is it only after the "fact" that I went "oh shiiiiiiit, I'm roughly on day 15"? Actually, don't worry, I can answer that one myself.

Calculating this current cycle, I initially thought I had miscounted and that actually there was no chance. But uh.... given that Miss LGBB was a CD17 conception, I'm going to be doing star jumps and lots of skipping (like that ever helped, as with the reverse of that with legs up the wall, etc., never assisted if it just wasn't gonna happen that month).

Talk about tempting fate. I've been musing on and off about what the hell I'd do. Not ready, soooo not ready to head back there - even though all the while, a strange (perhaps primitive? more likely just habit) sensation of hope and anticipation is lingering.

I have decided I would probably go into the foetal position and rock back and forth, mumbling like Rain Man as I recalculate the dates out loud, over and over.

Feedback invited

I had a thought in the shower this morning. And then another. And another. Had to go and write ONE sentence, which I thought would be enough to help me retain and remember for later. I really didn't have time to keep writing.

But ummmm..... my single sentence turned into the following, and I'm assuming it's also for this book I'm toying with. I'm finding that I am tending to write and put aside, write more and put aside. Obviously, it's all unedited and as it was a pretty steady stream of thought, it is bound to jump around a bit which I'll have to fix. But for now, any thoughts or questions would be mucho appreciated (as I don't really remember what I actually wrote and I just can't go through it again now).:

Her birth was indescribably uplifting, peaceful, quiet. A truly positive experience. Despite the urgency after her birth - the whisking away to the warming bed, the gastric tube, the EEG stickies on her chest, being wrapped in plastic to retain body heat, splinting of her arm to keep the drip secure – I felt nothing but humbled and completely awestruck by her, by my body, by my brand new emotions. There was a huge amount of fear at the alienation put upon us and our unnatural meeting, due to the intervention that would keep her here long enough for us to properly make introductions and which ultimately forced her to succumb. And yet, even with the presence of this enormous fear and the tiny part of myself that wanted to keep at a distance “just in case”, I couldn’t deny the immense maternal pull and it was this that pushed through in the first hours and ignored all the goings on around us in the NICU. To me, there were only the two of us (and three, when Steve was in) in the whole world.

It took several months for that feeling of lightheaded euphoria to dull. Ellanor died during this time. And yet, I still retained the feeling of “coming back down to earth” like some giddy thrill ride. Only, I was actually hurtling down and landed with a thud, met by the rising feelings of despair and body-numbing grief that will forever remain familiar to me. I still feel like I can’t shake them totally and wonder now if I ever will.

I was still finding my way as a childless mother. I wrote and wrote and wrote. My writing, seeing my words, became a Healer of sorts to me. After 12 months of diary-keeping, I came across a support website where I could not only chat about this further with kindred people, I found some sense of profound, perhaps bizarre, comfort at seeing others’ words of grief and in them, so many touches of my own feelings. It was a huge turning point for my healing.

But what also occurred was, little by little as my sadness gave way to anger, a growing cynicism I had never had before. This new me, on the other side of my specific rite of passage surrounding motherhood, was someone I had never known before having Ellanor. It was unfamiliar for me to not find joy in things, mostly the little things, to not wish people well always, to not care about them and what was happening in their lives. I was completely self-focused and didn’t notice.

As the anger then subsided and acceptance came over me, sometime in 2005, I remained somewhat more spiteful and harder than I had ever previously been in my life. I wanted to prove (pretend) I was the same person, that I was unchanged by all that had happened to me. But all the while, a little voice deep inside kept struggling to be heard and accounted for. My soul, I now believe it was, was telling me to get real – get a grip, basically – and it is only through writing now and being aware and accountable that I am giving the real, new and improved version of the old Me her voice and stripping away some of the defensive barriers that were inherently present, protecting me at my most sensitive time.

I had Lauryn in 2006 just as I was getting used to this new person I was finding. It sent me reeling backwards and I was depressed (if not sleep deprived) during the first months. Much like any new parent, I know, and yet so totally different to most new parents. Suddenly not given the enabling free time, alone with my thoughts which had become my solace and my lifeline to process whatever came up virtually straight away, I was thrust into a new world yet again where the very reason why we had struggled so hard was alternately filling empty voids in me with rapture and also making me want to scream “You’re stifling me!” as I literally had no time to think.

But it wasn’t just the time and space that any parent craves. I had not realised how much my survival had come to depend on the moments of solitary I had instinctively surrounded myself with. To suddenly not have that space whenever my thoughts took me there, I felt like a wedge was being pushed in between me and my firstborn. A wedge I had also given birth to, with her very own set of needs and an agenda that was totally alien to me, my life and that of my “understanding” with Ella. I am most relieved I did not notice this until just recently, where a more satisfactory balance has been reached for now.

If I had analysed it too much, things might have been very different for me and my little girl. I have often felt very guilty since Lauryn was born, wondering why I couldn’t look at her and “just be happy and thankful”. Of course, I was extremely thankful and spent almost every night shedding a silent tear looking down at this baby with the uncanny resemblance to her older sister. Thinking a steady stream of wild thoughts as I slowly succumbed and fell into feeling love again – “she’s so peacefully unaware of what she’s brought to us”, “will she ever know how much she has helped?” “I am amazed by her” And then, “Is Ellanor watching us right now, is she a 2 ½ year old peeking around the corner quietly instead of being in bed?” “If she was here, would she be a handful, God imagine all the operations she would have had to go through by now already, would she be frail, sick…” And then I would start to feel guilty about thinking things that had never actually come to fruition, like being thankful in a way that we had not had to endure all the operations and all that time and energy, of how difficult and different it would have been to manage a new baby if Ella had been in and out of hospital with her heart condition.

Some might say that I should not bother myself with these things, but by doing so, by wondering all the what if’s and could-have-been’s, I keep a glimmer of familiarity and connection alive in me with Ella. People might do well to remember that for some, and of course maintaining a healthy balance so that fantasty does not overtake day to day realities, it is most important to give that space of allowing the questioning and wondering because it is one of the only tangible ways to ensure that the baby or child actually “grows up” with the rest of the family. Ellanor will forever be oldest. Big sister. The first. She will also always be a baby, asleep in a photo, never coming home to introduce herself (in the usual sense) to her sibling/s. And we feel most strongly that one way to bring her into the fold, however big it grows, is to consider her and what age she would be at any given time, thereby somehow normalising her death and at the same time releasing the event from the shroud of taboo.

Jelly Cheek To Cheek

The LGBB is a sucker for the jelly. LOVES it. Could live on it (though that is technically debatable). The nightly home-made jelly and yoghurt routine goes like this (to the tune of Cheek To Cheek):

Jelly
I like jelly
I like it so much that I can hardly speak
I like eating it as I stamp both my feet
I love jelly after finishing my tea

And you know I sing it once more (and once again) with feeling until the bowl's empty.

Cut me some slack, Jack

The universe spat out the clothes I bought for the LGBB.

Apparently a scarlet coloured A-line dress and a couple of fleecy Bonds skivvies are not to its liking. Not to mention the little card that's now en route to its intended recipient *wipes brow*

And when Steve heeded my SOS last night (through sobs and a constant stream of berating of myself, I'm surprised he managed to understand what I was saying - something about checking the "third last trolley in the bay closest to Safeway"), he had the good sense to juuuuust make a last-ditch effort and see if anyone had handed the bag back to the store, seeing as the tags and docket were still in the bag.

Lo and behold: some blessed soul had handed it in.

Of course, I cried more when Steve filled me in. He said something along the lines of "Oh, and I asked if anyone had handed in a cute baby girl with it and they said no so I assume Lolly's with you."

That's funny, Steve never makes jokes at home.

It was an extremely dark and stormy night...

...when the single solitary brain cell in my head left the shopping bag of (beautiful) clothes I'd just purchased for the LGBB with a returns docket - so, like, clothes for free which of course made me falsely think I had not spent $47 but only $24 - and the birthday card I'd pored over painstakingly in order to post off tomorrow for a little lad who's turning 2 on Monday, in my trolley.

You will be relieved to know I managed to remember to remove Lolly from the trolley and bring her back home.

Needless to say, a desperate call to the store has netted nothing. Someone (else) has had a lucky day. Bastards to them for not handing the bag in.

Very, very cross at my error. Not so much because of the waste of money (but hell, yeah, who wants to fritter it away? If I did, I'd be at the pokies) but because they were so cute. And I just cannot be fagged going back there again to purchase them (again) and now I also don't have a card to send me little friend.

Could the week get any more crap? I've just stuffed up all over the place. With friends, with work, with me fair-haired bairn. Fark, fark and blast.

If you're happy and you know it...

Well, I dunno. Despite this being the shittiest week with the LGBB (and other stuff) that I can remember in a very long time - she's teething for all the babies in Australia and passes on her deepest condolences to Baby Schmoo for jinxing her too - it seems even in sleep, old Lolly keeps on truckin'.

Stealthily creeping into her room last night to turn down her music (God that kid plays her stereo loud during the day) and rescue an angrily-flung dummy from the folds of Teddy's arm at the head of her cot, Steve paused mid-pad on the carpet because she stirred.

Arms up. Arms down. Fast. Staccato. Like she was making deranged bedsheet angels.

Then all of a sudden, up came the arms, eyes still tightly shut in sleep. Hands, pert and straight as boards, met in mid air to make three sharp claps. And then her arms fell back down by her sides as if she hadn't moved a hair. All the while, an amused beam on her face.

I don't care anymore that she only slept for two 10-minute powernaps between 10am and 7pm.
I don't care that my previously busy, planned day was reduced to rubble because of those sleeps.
I don't care that she's started getting the shits up - how did my father tactfully, tongue-in-cheek, put it in his email: Stick with the teething business. I’m not surprised she gets her paddy up – family trait I’m afraid. Means that she will have a fierce independence when she grows up * - whenever I haven't understood her heart's desires.

Because she claps and grins in her sleep.


* Good God, help us. And I love a bloke who can use "paddy up" in a sentence.

Breathe

I'm writing a book. I didn't think it fitting to mention it until I had accepted it myself. But it's fact now, I've started. And I've got around 20,000 words. I'm compiling bits and pieces from things I've written in the past three years and I'm trying to make it all work together now. It's hugely intense and emotional, gives me searing headaches sometimes when I read certain things and yet I can't deny the messages any longer. I had to get going on it. So last week, I did.

Not entirely off-topic, as I've been surrounding myself with all this over the weekend and it's put me in a funny (not ha-ha) place. I believe that being in a place of acceptance that all is as it is for a universal reason (the end-point of which no one knows until it goes sailing past and then another life lesson comes up, they're like waves) is the main key to the healing I've made over the death of Ellanor.

I was struck again last night by correspondence from a dear friend that had me thinking all night. She has inadvertently helped me realise where all my energy is going (not that it helps me curb the drain, that'll take some work): I have been hellbent on "fitting the mould". Seeing my words through her eyes - the sucker for punishment read my entire blog in one sitting yesterday, can you imagine? - really helped me bring it all back in again.

Quite coincidentally, yet perhaps not at all (the symmetry of universal process never ceases to excite and delight me), I was also trawling through my whole blog yesterday for a different reason. I was struck by not only how much more light-hearted yet deep my writing used to be *sob* but the positivity that innumerous people have thanked me for in the past was actually evident to me. I've not seen it before. It was a sombre realisation. It showed me in black and white just how far down I've come, if I could see it for myself and think of it as the "me" from before - strange then, that this has come at a time when I *should* be so much happier.

But therein lies the issue. And what a biggie it is.

I'm placing an ideal on myself subconsciously. It's one I've actually made mention of here and also to various people as the conversation arises IRL. I'm going to Playgroup this morning, for instance. I could choose to let them in on where I am today (in a different headspace totally, surrounded by thoughts of Ellanor), I could vent a bit about how hard it is to try and juggle being Mum to two girls, one of whom is obviously not here; I could shut up about all of that and just focus on Lolly and get carried up by the day to days of all their lives; or I could just as easily not go, so avoiding the predicament altogether.

I say it's a predicament because I've done (and am living) the "get on with it" method, prescribed by family, friends and wider community alike. Why did I rush to get to this point though? Did I do it to reassure people I am capable, I was ok, I could do it all after I had Lolly? I recall telling various friends, relatives, health professionals, that I was NOT ok. When mention of Ella was made by me, I was moved along by and large (not by all, but when it comes from those you highly respect the opinion of, and you're feeling on the back foot, out of your depth, sleep deprived and very lost, hell yeah you use someone else's "trusted" judgment).

Yet, as this friend last night confirmed it is for her too, to live this way is to deny your lost child. And what would ANYONE who gave me the suggestion to move along know about that?? It's proven to me I still haven't quite got the balance right and maybe I never will. Days and weeks go by and I don't even notice that I haven't mentioned my dear cherub. I know on another level, though, that our connection is on a far more organic level. It's almost cellular. I don't always need to mention her or bring her into conversation now, as I used to (especially just after the LGBB made her entrance to the stage), because to do so and have conversations changed or be offered polite but very clear messages that I needed to "move on" and "let go" now that I had another daughter was actually more painful than the realisation that if I didn't say her name out loud, nobody would. Certainly they weren't mentioning (and don't mention) her to me. Here, right here in this blogspace, is about the sum total where consistently I've had only thoughtful, encouraging back-rubs from readers. That and a tiny online "mothers group" of my four non-blood related "sistas" *index and middle finger tap to heart* which has been my life blood for a couple of years now. I really have wound it right down, though, my expression of thoughts about Ellanor and the tough gig I've got keeping myself buoyant (no easy feat with an extra 20kg still to go, let me assure you) for Lolly day to day.

We just went on holiday. Every single day, I was thinking of Ella. This outdoor balcony would have been an issue with a 3 year-old, getting the LGBB off to sleep would have been hard with Ella here too sleeping in the same room, what would she have been like - would she have been into all the drawers and cupboards, would we have had to pack far more frugally in order to take her favourite toys (answer: Yes, undoubtedly). I could go on and on, the wonders I had in my mind. I do it all the time. Often, when I'm not talking and sitting feeding Lolly, I will be thinking about Ella. Wondering about her like she's still on her travels, wondering how different our house would be, my relationship with Steve would be. Would we be happier now if we hadn't had the struggle we had with Ellanor?

Yet, still I don't want to see her death as a tragedy. Her not being here as a gaping empty hole in my life. To do that is to negate the time she spent here.

And what of the LGBB? How does how I am with all of this affect her? I never want her to feel she is living in the shadow of a baby, an older sister, who can do no wrong. I need to do right by her too. How do I properly compartmentalise my ongoing healing and growing and accepting that Ellanor is not here, how do I weave that into my life, our lives, now, all the while maintaining an honest balance? How do I do it and keep the impact on Lolly to a minimum? When do I even get the time to regularly take my thoughts and energy to a space where I can continue this healing?

Therein lies another pressure not familiar (thank God for them) to most other mothers. No Playground floor play talk would ever be able to touch on how you balance giving yourself a break about giving in some days to the immense yearning for a child you will never see change in those photos, while still trying to put on a happy face for the achingly gorgeous grizzle-bucket now asleep (finally, damn those goddamn teeth - about 8 of them I can feel coming all at once, oh my poor Lolly!). How do I manage sitting here reading the diary I kept each day while looking after her sister in the NICU, keeping myself together even though my head feels like it's exploding? And then I have to go in to her when she wakes but it's like trying to flip a switch in my brain: this is not Ella. This is another baby.

Oh that's right. This is the Bliss Bomb. This is a totally different, unique person. I know that. But because Ella will always be a baby when I physically put myself back in time to where I was with her in the physical, it's still difficult while Lolly is also a baby to separate the two girls.

Feel a tad nauseous. Better stop and regroup before my young charge takes charge and yells out.

There were three in the car and the little one said...

"PULL OVER! There's a fucking MOTH in here!!!!!!!!"

We never did find it. But it's the reason we got home at 2am instead of 1.30am.

What a whirlwind of a trip that was. Here are a few highlights to indulge the very few who are keen to know:

• If we coulda stayed more days we woulda.

This is Lolly being "funny" because she's sitting in the car next to her usual carseat. Hi-laaarious good times. Just ask her.

Suck it up. Ok, yep, we're all a bit over it now.
Driving since 2.45am on Day 1, we were just outside Sydney at about 2pm when Steve took this.

Lolly does her Missy Piggy impersonation

• Night 1: I honestly thought we had broken the LGBB for good, such was the screaming like I've never heard her scream. Nobody could soothe her, not Marley, not Cutie Pie (a new little soft-dolly fave friend), not Mummy doing the usual distractions like blowing her hair (met with a "get the F out of my FACE and stop BLOWING on me" from her) or pretending to bite off her toes (similarly met with screeching an octave higher than that heard by dogs).
At that point, my own resolve completely shattered, all I could do was speedily snap up those goddamn snaps (who the hell can put one of those suits on a kicking, convulsing, desperately tired baby??) and put a boob in her mouth - sorry Paul, if you're reading, for the visual. And the feed didn't calm her like it normally would either. There's a bedtime story that has now become part of her nightly ritual. It's called Say Goodnight and it's four pages long, contains about 20 words and big faced babies having a play before falling sound asleep. The LGBB looooooves it. And when overtired, as I discovered, instead of not wanting to read it, she just turns the pages angrily, like a baby possessed. It's so bloody funny. But I daren't laugh, oh no. She's frightening in those moments when I am between her and her dummy and sleep. Far out *takes short shallow breaths*
So before I could leave her "holiday bedroom" (for everything we saw and encountered was prefaced with the word "holiday" so she could understand what the biiiiig drive in the car had been for), I had to first read Say Goodnight. Three times. I'm unsure if I needed to read it more than once. But she kept groping at the pages so I kept reading. Like the obedient girl I am. And then, God bless 'er, I tucked her in, said "Night-night" and turned around for one last look.. and she'd fallen into a coma within the three paces I'd taken to get to the door.

"Forget the damn merry go round, this plant is SOOOOO exciting!" (for some reason this bush caused shrill squeals of delight from the LGBB)

• After that first night, sleep times were again easy-breezy Covergirl. She is SO like me in that regard: anywhere strange, you get yourself to sleep pronto lest the resident boogyman come and scratch your eyes out. No. I'm sure that in her case it was more that she was knackered from all the new sights and sounds than any deep-seated fear of the dark like yours truly.

Being silly with the camera, having lunch and waiting for Daddy.

• Our land ladies were anything but ladies. But oh, how they were very hospitable and in love with their investment (it was indeed a gorgeous apartment with an even nicer outlook - ocean and lake entrance, both kinds!). This place was stocked with everything. And clean? As a whistle.

• Why do places along the Hume have such strange names?

• I met up with someone I've known for a few years now but never met in person, who is truly. Wonderful. You know those people you meet sometimes and you just cannot believe your "luck" that they are in your life? And equally, that they are in it by their choice (as much as yours)? I want to say something syrupy like, I wish she was part of my family or some similar sucky thing. Except... it's better than that. She is part of my family. My spiritual one. Which somehow is the more real to me these days? (and that's not to say my blood relatives are not part of that family of choice either, it's just very refreshing to make a selection in order to surround oneself with people who give and take in equal amounts). It's the one that has become my reward for the place I have come to for now, and not merely the one bestowed on me at birth.
Each encounter I have with her is like turning another page in this amazing book. And of course, I was ashamedly unprepared (as I mostly am when people see me in person, I never have the words I want to say, I get stage fright and shy in equal amounts) yet came away wishing I could have spent so many more hours with her. It was the icing on the trip.

And thanks for the socks, again, by the way. SO gorgeous.
Lolly is rapt with them.
Especially the box they came in.

• What the hell is going on with Pizza Huts around the country?? Do the youth of today have no respect for the black, red and white? I saw a gutted, graffitti'd, very sorry-looking old Pizza Hut of yesteryear as we were leaving Gosford (another lovely bit of the world up the coast there) and I swear, I could have been back here at home looking at the one just over the hill from us - literally and figuratively - shaking my head at the disrespec' of the hoodlums who have vandalised what was once a very, if not healthy, mouth-wateringly smelling establishment. Remember? Oh surely you all have memories of birthday parties or at least family outings, sitting in those red padded seat booths, with the sticky tables, the watery "Coke", the pizzas dripping grease down your arm?

• It seems a huntsman thinks nothing of being on the 7th floor. For the entire. Five. Days. Outside our door. Oh and yes, there was another one on the car. A pretty grey and white striped one. Bless.

"I can see through tiiime!" The LGBB thinks she's going at warp speed

• There was this man we saw sporadically while we were there and DAMN I didn't get to take a photo because I wasn't fast enough. He was impossibly tanned, a retiree we guessed, on a motorised cart. But not any old cart. Oh no, this was like a Rolls Royce of motorised carts. I swear, I reckon it had a better engine under the hood than the Tardis. And he had one of those plastic expressions, it didn't change. I decided his name was Bernie. And he had probably died about a week ago but his friends had tied him to his sweet ride and put it in gear and let him go off, in order to stay at his beach house. But the funniest part was, aside from the tinted glasses, the George Hamilton tan, the old-man bling (you know, watch, strange gold chain around neck, etc etc), he had this slicked-back white hairdo that, I swear, looked like he was clocking about 180kmh. His hair belied the fact that he was actually gadding about doing roughly 2kmh.

Bootiful. And the view in the background's not bad either. Boom-tish.

• If I never take another photo of the LGBB again (get off the floor, stop rolling about, it wasn't that funny), I am satisfied with the shots I got of her at the beach. Oh my. I think my heart exploded.

"I'd tell you if I liked the beach, Mother, but you've done this chin strap so tight I can't actually open my mouth"

"Ahh! Lolly Miyagi know trick or two about Karaté, Danyo-san"

"Mmmm, yes, that was a good summer. Must do my nails when I get home."

"And then I clapped and the sand went eeeeeeverywhere!"

"Ah, yes, Daddy, but if I go like.... THIS... really suddenly, can you stop me from falling in?"

• Sometime around midnight driving home, the only car on the Hume surrounded on all sides by trucks, is when the madness kicked in. We started musing about whether truckies' wives insist on them being "safe" by ensuring the cabins of their trucks are adorned with every fairylight they can get their hands on. These were known to us as the Party Trucks on the way up (you could see them from miles away and some of them had all the colours of the 'bow on them) but on the way back, they were past contestants on "Bulb My Ride" - a new reality show not unlike Pimp My Ride, for truckies to turn over their tungsten-challenged rigs into glowing princesses of the highway.

• I told you we went mad.

Somewhere around Benalla, just after midnight, still two hours from home.

Cap in hand, farewell friends

NOOOOO!

The last Gilmore Girls aired in the US on the 15th May. I am gutted. Through the power of technology and a caring and sharing global audience, I watched the ep just now.

I feel ripped off that I didn't realise until the final credits that I had actually just seen the last of the people of Stars Hollow (shuddup, they're real if you've been following them for 7 years - hell, many of my past friendships haven't lasted that long).

I feel like I should... I dunno, mourn or something. So much of the relationship I watched between Lorelai and Rory (mum and daughter) really deeply affected me in the months after we lost Ella. Steve and I would both sit here crying over it, often. And it's a funny show (is it pertinent here to also confess I even shed tears when Izzy from Neighbours lost her baby back in '04 though? That's when I knew I had to back away, I was becoming too dependent on it to distract me and oh my God I just managed to admit to you all that I actually watched Neighbours to help fend off depression... little wonder it didn't really cut the mustard).

Ok, but anyway, where was I? Oh that's right. Crying. Over shows that reminded us of Ellanor. Or at least, rather, the potential of what could have been that would never become. Yeah. It's more than an important show for me. It became like a strange sort of extension of my family. It's no secret I love Lorelai (Lauren Graham) to the ends of the earth. I want to be her friend. Why can't I live there? Why isn't it real? Why isn't there a Luke's I can walk to for coffee (and a Luke), where's my Suki, the witty reparté, all of it? Oh and of course... the clothes and hair. Never saw so many good looking, well groomed people in the one small town. BUT that's not the point.

The point is... it's gone. Finished. Whatever will I do?

She poops, she scores

I ask you, could the LGBB get it any more *juuuuust* off the mats? Frankly, I'm impressed with her aim.

(For those of you with the constitution, click on the image for the enlarged version of Mr Hanky hanging with Lolly just to her left.)

Another piece of trivia for those playing along at home

Don't worry, this is not another entry where I divulge yet another lusty crush on some scary actor (sorry Dani, I know you're faint of heart about these things).

No. This is the post where I excitedly share the soundwave I just came across in our exhaustive iTunes library. It's a TV show theme tune which we used to play all the time in order to send our new puppy, Jazz, mad. We'd while away the hours, as couples awaiting the arrival of their children often do, sending her crazy and spinning in circles, desperate to hunt out what was making the zany-whacky-crazy-hyper noise.

I must try it out on the LGBB. Because actually, if there was a theme for our house, I think this'd be it.

People, I give you....

Happy Tree Friends

Holiday Road

Five days out from our pending First Family Fun Trip to sunny somewhere in Oz (don't worry, we know where we're going, even if we don't know where we've been)* I surprise myself at the lax approach I have to packing.

Step 1: Six weeks out, start to fret when you get it into your head that you have to take just about every toy that the LGBB looks at in the past month, just in case she has a hankering for it while we're away.
Step 2: Consider telling Steve we should fly. WITH the portacot AND the highchair AND Lolly's three suitcases of toys and stuffed animals. Because you don't think you can stand hearing That Noise** she makes for more than an hour.
Step 3: Three weeks out, booking made at Apartment Of Choice, console yourself with the fact that, as you have done away with the notion of flying (because what if her ears don't pop or your ears don't pop or she hates it or you hate it or Steve wants to sit somewhere other than next to you because you're bleating on about the fact that you don't know if the LGBB's ears have popped), decide that the most important things only must come with, because despite having the roomy Tardis as your transporter there really isn't room for the playgym and the pram and her cot. And your vodka.
Step 4: So, having made your way through steps 1-3, at T-5 days swan about in your pj's, procrastinate as much as you can, live in denial that you're going to get in that car and not get out again for a very. Long. Time. And remind yourself to remind Steve that if he dares do a man-sneeze*** within the confines of the Tardis, his life just may not be worth living anymore.

We're gonna have a ball!


* thank ewe, Talking Heads.
** this surely has been The Noise of a bored, frustrated baby through the sands of time - you know that one, it's whingey and whiney and any mother/female close to the child actually feels physical pain stabbing in her chest if it goes on long enough.
*** possibly the loudest sound in the world, usually carried out when a baby is asleep.

Today's random thoughts

• I thought Gene Wilder had died. When I saw him on The View recently, I saw apparently he was not. I don't know why I thought he had died. It's like There was an old lady who swallowed a fly... "I don't know why she swallowed a fly" (and if I have made that stick in your head for the next two hours, over and over and over, then you can welcome yourself to my world today).
• Saw that old clip, Telephone Booth, today. Ian *Mossy* Moss was as attractive as my adolescent glasses assumed him to be. Amoir, Sparker's Daughter, shut your traps.
• Yes. I once had a crush on Ian Moss from Cold Chisel. And Diesel. And Gene Wilder. Guess the odd one out and no, I am not making a word of this up.
• A Stevie Wonder film clip came on just as we were getting the LGBB ready for her bath. Steve mused out loud that he reckoned the gig to do any of Stevie's film clips had to be the best in the world. "He wouldn't know what it looked like, you could say 'Yeah, yeah, it looks good Stevie', 'yep, it's got the whizzing, flashing lights you asked for', 'now that'll be $2 million thanks'." Steve is such a simple bloke when it comes to cause and effect.
• Did the actor who plays the (apparently single solitary) policeman on Neighbours finally get his big break recently? He's been given much more of a storyline than I've ever seen. Over the years, we've dipped in and out of keeping abreast of the goings on at Ramsay Street. This copper pops up in any scene that requires the hand of the law to be present and accounted for. But now he's shagging that Timmins woman.

Oh God. Did I just say that out loud?