The end of the line

I think this little blog has reached its conclusion.

I started it to show myself that my time at home was indeed personally productive. That in between nappies and feeds and nights where there were far too many people in my bed I actually could find some time for myself. That I could learn and grow. That at the end I would have something to look back on - an accomplishment.

And you know what?

I have. That accomplishment is first and foremost my beautiful, healthy children. They have lovely manners, wide smiles and kind hearts. They make me prouder than I ever thought was possible.

This little blog pales in comparison to the true product of these last five years. A loving family. A woman who has learned to be less selfish, more patient, less harried, more loving, less anxious and more forgiving.

So. I guess this is goodbye! I hope that my next five years will see me continuing my personal growth in other ways. First and foremost I want to be more present in my family life. I want to find time to savour the joy that these childhood days bring.

I'll keep writing. I'll keep up my personal journals. I'll continue to write and tell stories for my children. I'll keep writing love letters to my children, squirreled away in the box on my dresser.

And I'll keep trying to be a better mum. Always a procrastinator, I'll try to put some of my plans into action.

Thank you to everyone who has posted, followed or otherwise encouraged me. I'll look back at this little blog and smile. I hope one day my kids might look at it and know how hard I tried to make these difficult years work for us all.

Thank you for listening!

Do you let your kids read their report cards?

I am a thinker... no doubt about it. I think, I over think, I read, I analyse...

And I end up with some weird habits. Like this and this... and this. Well, you might call them weird. I call them exceptionally well-planned projects.

The biggest one I've been called out on recently is the fact my children have never seen their report cards. With Mr Z in his fourth year of formal schooling and Miss Piggy in her third, we've received 12 report cards in total.

Each time we receive one, I don't rush to open it in front of the kids. As a former over-achiever that takes some willpower, let me tell you! When everyone is busy and settled I open them and take a peek. Then usually over dinner, I tell each of the kids what their teacher said about them (general comments only). This has always been enough for them.

The reason I don't feel the need to share their 'levels of achievement' with them are simple. Kids know what they're good at/not good at. They don't need a report to tell them that. Our kids sit in on parent-teacher interviews (school policy) so they've already been given a chance to identify areas for improvement and reasons to celebrate (we alternate reports with interviews, term and term about).

We regularly check in with our kids about what's 'tricky' at school and what they think they do well. When we get time we talk about homework tasks, offer help if it's needed. We encourage tenacity and working towards their goals.

And... the big one. I don't want them to think I care mostly about grades. Because I don't. I want my kids to be hard working and happy. I want them to be resilient. That's it. Anything else is a bonus. 

What about you? Do your kids care about their report cards? Do you?

I want my children to know failure

I want my children to know failure.

Not because I want to *see* them fail (because, let's face it, for a loving parent that stuff STINGS) but because I want them to feel it. Really feel it.

There's heaps of stuff out there about how unless  you know failure, you never truly appreciate success... can't have the highs without the lows... how much more you learn from failing. But that's not it at all for me.

I want my kids to know failure so they know forgiveness. So they can be comforted. So they can learn resilience.

We have the rule in our house that it's OK to cry. I often say, "You can cry for

** minutes, but then you have to stop and do/say something good."

Now they are bigger (and their worries are bigger) sometimes I say, "You can mope and feel sad all day today,

but tomorrow you have to put it behind you. What will we do tomorrow?"

I want them to know that *I'm* ok with their failings. I don't need them to be perfect, and I don't expect their lives to be perfect either. That just because I hold myself to exceptionally high standards, it doesn't mean that I can't forgive my own, or anyone else's, shortcomings.

I want them to fail at the little things and know they can come home to Mum and let her know how they're feeling. If they can do that a few times (or over and over), perhaps when it's the big failings they will feel safe and comforted doing the same thing.

Because I want them to know that there is never a problem too big to end my love for them.

I want them to know that not all things can be mended but that time has a way of making the pain smaller.

I want them to know, in themselves, that no matter how bad things seem, there's always an opportunity to pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again.

So while I'll sigh when they lose, groan when they are outmatched, wince when their feelings are hurt, I'll let them feel that pain, that loss, that sorrow. Let them grieve the lost friend, vent their frustrations over someone who was mean to them, mourn the loss of something broken that can't be fixed.

I won't go in and sort it out and make it 'all better' for them. I'll share their disappointment and sadness, then I'll teach them (if possible) how to make it better for themselves. And then how to let go and move on. Remind them to look around for the joy that is always just around the corner.

I truly believe this will make them grow stronger as people, fill them with empathy for others and resilience... so that if one day if I'm not there for them to bring their problems to, I'll be part of that little voice inside them that cheers them on.

What about you... are you a fixer? Or are you a meanie mama like me?

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If you are having difficulties dusting yourself off, Lifeline is always there to help on 13 11 44

When your kids don't look like you...

I've often been mistaken for the babysitter. Or adoptive mum. Because my kids do look a little 'different' to the average Aussie kid - because my husband and I are of vastly different genetic heritages. 

I have to say, when I've been asked, "Where did you get him from?" (him, being my eldest), I've chuckled and said, "the hospital - my uterus!" I've always just figured people are curious and making conversation.

My hubby was not always as nonchalant about it and got quite miffed a number of times when people said (in that slow, weird kind of way), "Umm.. he doesn't look much like you, does he?" (he being our youngest, who was blonde and blue-eyed and the polar opposite of my dark hair/skin/eyed hubby).

He would come home steaming, muttering about how dumb people might perceive him to be. I reminded him their comment was directed more towards ME and the possibility of my indisgression! Pfft!

After it happened the first few times, though, he really loved playing with people. When asked, "Is your wife very... fair..?", he often told them no, I was dark like him!

Cue stunned silence. And he laughing like a madman on return to his car. 

People usually aren't trying to be rude - they're just curious. I hope.

In reality, our kids are a really interesting blend of both of us. They all started off blue-eyed and fair haired (like me) and have grown into their own features as they've developed.

The big two's eyes changed (around 5) to a really interesting green colour. We're waiting to see what happens to the Small Boy's eyes... is it too much to hope I might get to keep one little baby-blue like me? After all, J's family is a mixed heritage one, too - with a fair, Dutch grandfather a bit further up the family tree.

Their skin keeps darkening as they grow, too. In the end, I think they'll be somewhere between the two of us. And probably tan really quickly in the Summer (assuming I ever let them out without hats, rash shirts and boardies - I am used to a life of pale, after all).

But to be honest, I don't even really see colour unless I think about it. People are who they are.

And those little round faces, with his nose and my chin are just the beautiful, perfect faces of small people I love.

And when we watch them play, J and I squeeze each other with delight and say, "Can you believe we made them?"

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What does your lipstick say about YOU?

J and I took a walk last night. The kids were at their grandparents, so we put on our coats (yes, coats! It's actually COLD here at the moment) and took a walk 'up-town'.

I really enjoyed wearing my coat. It has a pretty interesting story behind it. I was given it by a boozy bartender in London who was concerned about the skinny Aussie lass getting cold while she walked home. Apparently it was one that had been left behind by mistake. I was in no state to argue, so hey-presto... new coat!

Anyway, last night as I reached into the woolly pockets I knew I was bound to make some sort of discovery. My house is full of pocketed time capsules - a legacy of having too many coats and too little time to wear them (I haven't always lived in the tropics). Also of my laziness in regards to emptying my pockets until absolutely necessary.

This pocket was no exception. I found a dummy. I'd say circa 2011. And exhibit A

I'm thinking this lippie is from the 90s. First it has that trendy capless-push-up thing that lasted all of about five minutes on the market. Second it's Australis. Do they even make lipstick any more?

It's not a great colour, but what I was most interested in was the shape.

Back in high school I remember one of the cool girls inspecting all our lipsticks and saying that mine said, "ADVENTURE". I guess, seventeen year old me was about to embark on one hell of an adventure. I was brave. I bounced. I was optimistic and I had more brain cells (but less experience) back then.

"What's the worst that could happen" was my motto. I trusted that things and people were safe and that I would be OK. Oh to be that young and naïve once more!!!

Now exhibit B

What I know about this lipstick. It is one of few remaining after many years spent scraping lipstick from the grout in my bathroom (what is it about tiles that make two year olds want to write all over them in lippie?!), I must have been gifted it because I know I didn't buy it. It's a hideous colour but I wore it out to lunch today because it was the only one I could find (I'd already re-lost the one from last night, typical).

I'm about to look up what it says about me... holding my breath and hoping it doesn't say "SAD LOSER". It probably says "TIRED AND BORING"... I'm pretty sure it isn't creative and hopeful and adventurous...

Google led me here

Ha!

-You’re enthusiastic
-You don’t like fixed schedules
-You’re opinionated but open-minded
-You’re selective in your choice of friends
-You like to convince others
-You like to be noticed

I guess it's fairly accurate. It kinda sounds like the grown up version of the first lippie which says

-You’re creative
-You’re energetic
-You’re optimistic and enthusiastic
-You chatter a lot
-You like people to notice you
-You’re helpful
-You fall in love easily
-You don’t like to stick to schedules but you really need them

 Perhaps I'm OK with that.

What does your lipstick say about you?

Bad Mum moment... (oh the shame!)

I had a great weekend celebrating my Small Boy's birthday. I even made a cake that looked like this.

Exactly like this. This is the actual cake. 

Anyway, it was back to school and kindy and work today - except for me who had a day off. Yay me! This particular day off meant that I could do something I've wanted to do for ages - accompany Small Boy to kindy.

So... late last night, after all the lovely birthday festivities, I set about making the obligatory 24 mini-cupcakes.

What can I say? It was late, I was tired and all birthday-ed out.

They looked a bit like little black golfballs, placed in odd-shaped and ill-fitting wrappers (I'd used all the 'good' ones at the party) and covered in drippy white icing. BUT. I did manage to find a new 4 shaped candle, popped them all on a cupcake tree thingy and thought to myself, "Well done you! You didn't even have to go to Woolies in the morning! You made cakes like a real mum!"

I mean, really. If I got to kindy late, the only people who were going to see the sad little cupcakes were going to be four year olds and their lovely, kind teacher. Who all presumably love cake. So who cares.

So you can imagine my horror when half-way through the morning another mum turned up.

"Can you give me a hand, please?" She asked. I went out to her car where she began to load me up with perfectly symmetrical, Peppa Pig adorned, iced miracles. Complete with Peppa Rocket cupcake stand. Beautiful. And set right beside my drippy black and white mess. You know - just in case anyone had missed the comparison.

Well done me, indeed.

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I might add, I had imagined re-using the pig figures I made on the kindy cake. Until I left them on the stairs after the party as I was bringing things upstairs to the kitchen... and the dog licked Peppa's ears clean off her head.

Of all the ice-cream in the world, the best flavour is... (every day in May)

Vanilla.

It's creamy, it's smooth, it's international (Madagascan, French etc etc), you can use it in smoothies, on rich chocolate deserts and it has NO LUMPS (yes, I'm one of those)... What's not to like?!

Mmmm... ice-cream.

When my 'big two' were still littles. How lucky we are

to have relatives in Europe! This is us, lapping up the Spring sunshine 

(and some gelati) in Venice. 

Last week I totally surprised my husband (and myself, truth be told). We took the kids to Coldrock as a special treat and instead of my usual vanilla, I got PINK bubblegum icecream with nerds mixed in. I think he wondered if I'd had a head injury or been abducted by aliens... He watched me carefully to make sure I ate it lumps and all. I did, and it wasn't half as challenging as I thought!

And that, my friends, is what I call personal progress!

I am inspired by... (every day in May)

Lots of things make me feel energised and inspired.

Reading a first novel - you just know the excitement that came along with the first glimpse of this published tome. Someone has spent their life dreaming of the very item you have in your hands. They've spent sleepless nights wondering if they can, in fact, finish it. They've pushed themselves to the limit and made it out the other side. I admire them! What courage and commitment!

A cool Winter breeze with the whiff of an open fire. I don't know why - maybe because it takes me back to childhood? The world feels different on evenings like these if you close your eyes and breathe real slow. Or maybe that's just me!

This is the view from Caerphilly Castle (I think!). I went with my children and my grandparents in 2008

Watching someone hold a newborn. Their newborn. Knowing the fear and love all wrapped up in a tiny bundle. Someone making promises to themselves and their precious cargo. Promises and new beginnings always get me.

People watching. Sometimes I like to be that sad loser sitting by herself, watching the world go by. Wondering what all those people are thinking, feeling. Where they're going. Who they are. I get very imaginative when left to my own devices to just sit and observe (when I can force myself away from my phone, that is).

A true story. Especially of the rags to riches or endurance variety. I marvel at the strength people have.

My kids make me feel inspired. All the questions they ask that I find hard to answer. It makes me realise more about my own character than theirs. I make those little silent vows to do better, to explain more often.

Like when Miss Piggy told me zombies are real.

"No, they aren't. They're make believe"

"Yes, mum - they are! I saw them right here in Auntie B's newspaper. Zombies take over shopping centre"

"Darling - those are teenagers doing something for youth week! It's all pretend! Look, I promise zombies aren't real!"

"Well, what's all that blood all over them?!"

Cue at length discussion and question time and more questions about props and special effects... and a missing bottle of tomato sauce a few days later!!! Clearly the girl is taking inspiration from... me?!

My day in exactly 100 words

Day off.

Woken - pinch and punch! Found coffee, lunchboxes. Milo and Belvita biscuits –better than Fruit Loops? Sigh.

School drop. Treat – breakfast with dear friend. Giggles, frowns, plans.

Shop! Work dress, fun dress. Bargain – hooray!

Pick up small child. Speech therapy across town.

Home – lunch. Dog fetch, child slide - photograph play.

Big kids back from school. Homework, referee.

Remember looming presentation. Panic. Search for notes. Feels like Cluedo for the insane. Found – with cookbooks in car boot (who’d have guessed?)

Coffee, TV.

Peeling, slicing, baking – hearty dinner with the family.

Watch HIMYM finale in bed. No doubt cry. 

You can't have it all

In the 90s I did an arts degree (journalism major). All my life I have loved to learn - especially history - and doing my degree gave me lots of opportunities to spend time pondering the past.

With Spring nearly over (only a few days left) I have been doing a spot of 'culling'. Nothing like throwing stuff out to make room for the unstoppable invasion of plastic knick knacks that attack my house each Christmas.

Going through my filing cabinet I stumbled across these assignment notes. They were from a course called Myth and Ideology and we studied Greek mythology and its impact on the world.

Now there's a fun way to blow a thousand dollars! I just loved this subject.

The premise of the assignment was Antigone encounters opposition not because she is strong minded and transgressive, but because she's a woman. How much fun I had reading the old texts and coming up with arguments to support my ideas.

Back then, I was quite the feminist. I was going to be someone. I wasn't going to let 'being a girl' get in the way of my success. I wrote for smaller newspapers and envisaged a life with a briefcase and BMW. I had planned a law degree after finishing my Arts (unless Getaway called and offered me my dream job as a location researcher).

Fast forward 16 years - here I am with a dusty briefcase under my bed, three kids arguing over who gets to shower first today and a stack of report cards to complete.

What would my younger self think? That I've failed? Like Antigone, I've been a victim of my own femininity? Would she wonder what happened?

This is what happened. I made a decision. A decision to follow my heart to a boy in a country town. I went into a job that wasn't my first preference but one I knew could make me happy. I made a decision to have children in my twenties because I knew I really wanted a family more than anything else in the world. I knew I couldn't possibly build the family I wanted and climb the career ladder at the same time (although I did try it for a bit).

Maybe other people can. I'm not saying it's impossible, I'm just saying I couldn't do it and be happy. I don't think that makes me a failure.

I'm still in contact with some people from my uni days. They're either like me - having chosen other dreams over career-success, or they're enjoying career success sans family.

If I could go back to my younger self, I'd tell her it's not important to have it all. What is important to have priorities. And do what makes you happiest.

Works for men, too. When our eldest was a baby, my husband was busy building an empire - determined to climb that career ladder all the way up. Mr Z and I watched Gilmore girls and ate steamed veges on our own every night while Daddy worked himself ragged in the office. He missed the first steps, the excitement of the first words - he missed putting that sleepy baby down for his sleep at night.

By our third child hubby had discovered that some dreams are bigger than an enormous bank balance and had changed his priorities. He downsized and even took a year working from home so that he could enjoy playing with our Small Boy while he was still an infant. He is happier than he has ever been.

Am I glad I chose family over career? Yes. I can live with not having a BMW, but I couldn't have been content without having had kids. Seeing friend struggle with infertility, I thank my lucky stars every single day for these small people who have blessed my life.

Do I wonder what my life could have been? Of course I do. But I wouldn't change it for the world. Do I feel I have failed, given that I haven't reached my career potential? No. I might not have a BMW but I do have a happy family, and I wouldn't trade it for the world.

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Wondering what inspired this rant reflection? This article. It sounds like one I would have written in my early twenties. If you're on team contented is enough, read the comments. They made me smile :)

Linking up with Essentially Jess

The very last one...

A milestone crept up on me this week.

My last playgroup. Like, ever.

After eight years of weekly meet ups (excepting that one crazy year when I worked fulltime) with other mums, I had my last one last Tuesday. Next year my Small Boy goes off to 'school'. A couple of days at Kindy and two days at the ECDP where they will get him ready (listening and talking-wise) for prep.

I thought I would be sad. I thought I might even cry. But in actual fact, as I walked through the door for the last time, I breathed a sigh of relief.

It's not that I haven't loved playgroup. I really have. I've made some (quite possibly) lifelong friends. I've had help and advice and support when I've needed it (sometimes when I haven't needed it too, if you know what I mean).

I've sort of grown up at playgroup. I've gone from a brand new mother, gingerly laying a milky newborn on a blanket (far from all the other children, brandishing cars and trucks) to the sort of mother who can watch her brood with one eye while scoffing down tea and biscuits and recounting the latest antics of her tribe.

source: unknown

 

But I feel okay that that part of my life is over. Playgroup used to be the place I went to for conversation. Now I have conversations with Mr Z and Miss Piggy. Playgroup used to be the place I went to for support.

 

Now I can giggle or cry (as the occasion demands) with girlfriends over coffee once the kids are in bed. No more nappies, no more mashed bananas, no more waiting up for 11pm feeds.

 

Feels kind of liberating.

 

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Linking up to Maxabella's Weekend Rewind



Reading the warning signs

Interesting time at the dentist. Sigh.

Mr Z got a bit over-excited at the playground and smashed his front tooth (his adult tooth) on a concrete dolphin. As you do. Who on earth puts a CONCRETE dolphin in a playground?!

Cue panicked phone call to dentist. An after hours one. Dollars. Sigh.

Cue hurried introduction to dentist I don't know who's probably hungry and tired and just wanting to get home to his dinner.

Cue panicked 8 year old, huge injection and eyes wide open in fear (mine).

Poor Mr Z, trying hard to be brave. I'm trying hard to be brave.

Then I saw it. Something I hadn't seen in years. An odd jiggle in one of his legs.

You see, Mr Z has inherited my panic attacks. When he was small (between 18 months and the age of three) he used to have at least one, most days. He would drop to the ground, rigid with fear and start thrashing around while turning blue. Then he'd pass out, regain his colour, and go on almost as if nothing had happened. Scared the life out of me the first... I dunno... fifty times they happened. Scared a lot of innocent bystanders too!

Initially we weren't sure what they were. Were they fits? Was it asthma?

We had electrodes stuck to his head, visits to paediatricians and other people before we worked out they were panic attacks. Plain and simple. Over minor things like spilling his milk or losing his truck or stubbing his toe. Often they happened at playgroup or the shops or places he felt out of control. They were often about things I couldn't see/find/work out at the time of the attack.

We worked on relaxation techniques and a plan for when he felt 'wobbly'. I learned to watch for the signs - that restless leg, the sudden stillness - and help him to feel safe before the panic had a chance to take hold. Helping him helped me with my panic attacks, too.

So, when I saw that jiggle in his leg, in that huge dental surgery, I had a moment of panic. What if he started thrashing while that injection was going in?

I acted. I don't know whether I made the situation better or worse. I blurted, "Um... he has panic attacks! If he goes blue or starts thrashing, don't panic, he'll be fine". The dentist turned to me, with fear and perhaps anger (I'm not so good at reading people so not really sure), "Why isn't it in his file? What medication does he take? Why wasn't I told?". Of course, then Little Z did start to panic. By the time I'd mumbled something about it not being part of their form, no medication required, just calm voices and explanations about what was going to happen, he was in full twitchy glory.

I eventually calmed us both down but repeating, over and over, "We are BRAVE, Z. We are brave." I was comforting myself as well as my son.

So.... There's now a temporary cap on his tooth. It's wonky but functional. We have to wait to see if the nerve will die and then go for a more permanent solution.

Little Z seems OK about it all. Now he knows what it will feel like (both of us hate that numb feeling) and look like (injections and all) when it all happens, he says he'll be more brave next time. I believe him.

I wonder what that dentist thinks of me. Probably hysterical mother who caused her son to have a panic attack by mentioning it in the first place. But. He didn't know about the twitchy leg. He doesn't know Mr Z's signs.

I do.

Knowing you're done

The other day a colleague brought her newborn niece into our staffroom. While I watched everyone fussing over the tiny little thing I felt pangs of actual pain in my stomach. So much so I actually got up to have a chat to someone on the other side of the room just to take my mind off it all.

It was the end of a long day and I could have just gone home, but I felt a sort of internal conflict going on in my body - some sort of strange baby-magnetism kept me there, despite my feet wanting to take me elsewhere. M, a new grandmother whispered to me as she sidled past to get a closer look at the little poppet. "It's ok - we know you're a breeder," she winked conspiratorially.

It's true. I think that had I been born a hundred years ago, I would now have ten or eleven children. All driving me insane. Perhaps I may not have wanted ten offspring, but some sort of biological urge would have kept me permanently knocked-up, I am sure of it.

I know that for my circumstances, three is my absolute limit. When Small Boy was born, I wished that we had the opportunity for one more - for a little 'mate' for him to play with. I've always loved that closeness my older two share. As time has gone by, I've realised that one more would have meant that I had no time/energy to do all the things that Small Boy needs me to do for him. But part of me still wonders what just one more would have been like.

I am so lucky - THREE little children to call my own. I know I am blessed with the most amazing gifts that life can offer. I feel greedy even thinking about wanting a fourth when I know so many people are desperate to have even one.

There will be no more babies (Hubby has seen to that). I am perfectly content with my three little people who I love wildly. At least until the next little newborn visits our staffroom ;)

This is a self-portrait I took while 32 weeks pregnant

with little number 3. He was a whopper!

       

 

Houston... we have a problem

I caught up with an old friend last week. A friend I hadn't seen in eighteen months, despite the fact we live within walking distance of each other. I brought fruit, she brought coffee and cake, we both brought kids and met at the local park.

After all the greetings were done, and we let the kids loose on the playground, I saw her watching my Small Boy extra carefully. It's a look I've seen before. "What's wrong with this picture?"

It's kind of hard to blurt it out. How can you tell people your child has a problem without feeling like you are letting our child down? Every time I tell strangers, "He's hearing impaired, I'm sorry," when he takes the lollipop/balloon/whatever they are offering without a "thank you", I feel like making those excuses for him might be hurting his little ego.

I find myself pushing him around Coles in the trolley saying things like, "Oh, you are a lovely boy! You're so handsome and I love you so much" just to sort of reaffirm to him that he is just such a delight to mother. I don't want him feeling anything less than the wonderful, smart little person he is. I suppose I'm putting myself in his shoes. Imagining how much I would hate for everyone to know that I was behind in such important skills - listening and talking.

You might be thinking, "why isn't she worried about him being trapped in a body with no way to communicate his ideas?" and that's because despite the lack of speech, he communicates beautifully. He has an expressive little face with dimples when he smiles. He does some signing on the important things. Apart from this - between his pointing and showing he always seems to get his message across. And when he can't? Well he does it himself. He's been pouring his own milk and cereal for eighteen months now (sometimes at 3am if he gets hungry). He drags a chair to reach for things like the secret m&ms in the fridge. He pours his own water and peels his own bananas. He can even turn on a computer and put his favourite show on iView! So, there's no need to be feeling sorry for him. He's quite content.

So... back to my playdate.

I have a system of sorts. When I need someone to know what is wrong with the picture I sort of casually slipped the following phrase into conversation, "...since the surgery..." For some reason, if you mention surgery, people will always always say, "Oh... what surgery?" That's my cue to let them know about his ears and how now he can hear and how with only a few months of hearing under his belt he's doing quite well with his talking.

It's the only way I know how to put a positive spin on the whole thing.

If we open with surgery, people are suddenly filled with admiration for my brave boy. They want to hear about his successes with his talking instead of commiserating the fact he's behind. I don't want to hear anyone saying things like, "Oh, he'll catch up when he's ready" or saying things like, "Must be because he has older siblings to do the talking for him." I want to hear, "...wow - it must be like a whole new world has opened up for him! Isn't he doing well to be so happy about it all?"

He's ready. He's working hard. I have no doubt speech will happen and the less pressure on us, the easier it will be. It makes me feel so much more confident when people acknowledge the effort he's making, how brave and smart and happy he is.

In the next few months, we find out if he needs more surgery. I believe in the power of prayer... if you do too, please add us to your list? Pray that this first surgery was enough to correct the issue in his ears and the only other hurdle we have is getting him speaking.

Thanks for listening  :)

Long overdue

Wow... it has been a long time since I touched this poor neglected blog! I'm not making an excuse but so much has happened over the last nine months.

In amongst the usual craziness that comes with work and three children, I ran myself a bit thin. And... I started to doubt myself as a mother. I really got myself into a place where I started to doubt my ability to cope, to judge, to understand my own children.

I felt something was wrong with my youngest but listened to everyone who told me, "He's fine. He'll talk when he's ready." I started going to seminars on autism when people told me that his reluctance to talk may be behavioural. But I couldn't quiet this small voice in my heart that told me what I knew.

The signs were there. Not responding to his name. Communicating with his hands and with a series of grunts. Slow reaction time. Siblings who just stopped talking to him. Thank God for a GP who didn't treat me like a hysterical mother and who sent me for another hearing test - this time one that used technology to measure hearing rather than the behavioural tests I was sure the Small Boy was fluking.

I knew it. I knew it. Now I was mad at myself for not making more noise, for not making someone listen to the truth I already knew. My son was deaf.

I saw was because when we were told (two and a half years into his little life) that he was hearing practically nothing, a crazy medical machine was put in action. Suddenly, after being told on a Tuesday that he was impaired, we were booked in for a Thursday exploratory op with surgeon I'd just met in the hospital where every elderly family member seemed to go at the end. At end of term, no less. And with Miss Piggy's birthday on the Wednesday.

I felt like I was being sucked into a tornado - the very same people who told me his mutism was selective were now saying there was a very real and medical reason for his not talking. I started worrying about the affects of anaesthetic, of staph infections, of doctor error. I started trying to convince myself it wasn't his ears. I cried and I cried and I howled hysterically. I rang our GP at home to ask a billion questions. But in the end, what choice did I have? I knew they were right. I'd known before they'd known.

So... my Small Boy is no longer deaf. Thanks to the miracle of modern medicine we have a temporary 'fix' that means he now hears in excess of 95% of the world around him. We have spent the last few months teaching him about the hearing world (along with dealing with floods and tornados, but that's another story). Is anyone out there interested in hearing about our journey? Is there anyone out there with tips on teaching a now three year old to talk? Has anyone got a similar story to share?

I'm doing OK - really I am! I'm feeling positive about my Small Boy and his ability to cope in the big world. He's learned that people talk with their mouths open, that hand dryers (despite their ugly growling sound) won't hurt you and that saying, "Maa," is bound to make his mother cry.

So far to go... yet we've come so far already. Thank you for listening :)

Terrible mother?

I'm not very good at reminding the tooth fairy to leave money, so we've come to an agreement that he*/she will only visit once my children have left a little note. That guarantees I've got at least 48 hours to get my act together!!!

Last week, Miss Piggy's front teeth fell out. Hubby and I were up late trying to work out how to... ahem.. contact the tooth fairy when we realised that in all the haste of writing a letter, our little princess had inadvertently literally lost her teeth!

We searched high and low through her bed, under pillows and stuffed animals, under the bed amongst all the weird and wonderful things that lurk there. Under all the clothing on her floor. Under the mess of hair stuff on her desk.

No joy.

And the realisation that our little princess is as untidy as her mother. Well... I guess we don't call her Miss Piggy for nothing.

So here's what the tooth fairy ended up leaving her:

The following morning in my classroom, when the tale was told (joyously, I might add, by Mr Z) I copped a lot of scathing looks from my students who obviously think the tooth fairy is a little bit of a bitch harsh. Harsh but fair, I prefer to think.

I certainly got lots of messages of congratulation support from FB friends! And a few denouncing the fairy as a 'meanie'.

Hmmm... I'm conflicted. Pure genius..? or pure evil..?!

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* Having seen The Rock in Disney's The Tooth Fairy, my children are absolutely convinced that Dwayne has our house on his route. They've asked for him by name in their notes!

Baby Shows..? Yay or Nay?

You know how I said here and here that sometimes I regret starting things with my first, knowing I'll have to repeat them twice more with the other kids? Like the one-of-a-kind birthday cakes that represent what they're 'into' at the time... or the full-sized quilts for their beds (still got one to go there)... taping the entire Kindy Christmas concert for posterity...

I am just the kind of person who likes to be even-handed with my kids. I know there are times when they have to accept that life isn't fair, but I need them to know that I love them all the same. I like to think of the special things I do for them as evidence of my love. I admit, I get sentimental and a little bit hung-up on 'stuff'. I think losing a parent early makes you want to leave something behind for your kids. As I tuck them under the blankets that I've made, I tell them that each is a hug that mummy leaves with them when she can't be there. The cakes are to prove that I love them enough to sacrifice time for them in the kitchen (everyone knows how I hate to cook). Even though those things take time (eons of time, three times over) I take great pleasure in knowing that one day they'll look back and think 'my mum did that for me'.

My mum always made stuff for us. My dad was often busy with his own projects, but I remember he once entered me into a Agricultural Showgirl Contest. I felt so happy that he thought I was pretty enough and dignified enough to enter. It was one of the moments of my teenage years where I felt I had pleased my dad just by being me - and that I had earned his acceptance and his praise.

I hasten to add that despite this euphoria I also felt embarrassed and worried that everyone at school would find out... I was downright mortified when a boy in the year ahead of me asked me for some lined paper, "C'mon, it's the least you can do, Miss Mt Barker. Aren't you supposed to help the community?" haha. Sooo not funny at the time.

So the thing I struggled with the most is the whole Baby Show fiasco. I wanted to show my kids I thought they were special and unique and amazing too - but somehow it didn't feel right. Don't get me wrong, these aren't those OTT pageants you see on telly - just kids dressed up in their Sunday best, no make up or performing involved. Just a chat with the nice lady and off you go.

The first show I went to, I was just so excited to show off my gorgeous little guy - he was all chubby cheeked, blue-eyed smiles at the time (he's since grown into a gangly, green-eyed, lightsabre wielding jedi). And guess what. He won! My Z is one of those kids who will win you over with his enthusiasm and he came home with the BIG TROPHY. So exciting!

So the next time I went to one, I dressed my piggy-tailed, blue-eyed princess in my favourite little dress (black and white pinafore, I hadn't given into the monster that was pink at that stage) and took my chubby little two year old along to watch. At the door, the lady was charmed by my little man and convinced me to enter him as well - it WAS for charity after all. Despite the fact he was dressed fairly casually, I caved and handed over my ten bucks. Big mistake. Of course my wide-eyed, enthusiastic little boy came home again with the BIG TROPHY and my little princess came home empty handed. I was devastated but consoled myself with the fact that she couldn't possibly be old enough to understand that she hadn't been picked as the prettiest/best dressed/nicest eyes/blah blah blah...

However... kids are kids. Sigh. Mr Z *loved* playing with his trophies and soon enough Miss Piggy started to get upset that she didn't have one. So last year, we made a last-ditch effort to win her a trophy. I dressed her in a gorgeous red dress with a white crocheted cardi, combed her lovely wavy hair and put a skinny side-braid across the top of her head. She looked like a fairy princess - very far removed from the girl who usually gets told she looks like she's been pulled through a bush backwards at the end of each day!

And guess what? She got shy. She couldn't speak to the judges, she just stared at all the other pretty girls around her and looked scared. I felt sick. How could I do this to her at such a young age? Make her feel so inferior and worried and wonder if she was cute enough. It was absolutely awful. We went shopping and I bought her ice-cream to make up for the ordeal I had put her through. I told her that she was gorgeous and that she was the nicest girl I knew. I prayed that I hadn't hurt her fragile little ego.

And when we went back to hear the verdict they announced the boys first. This time her blue-eyed, blonde haired LITTLE brother had won the grand champion trophy. Along with three smaller ones.

I felt even sicker. Should I leave? Should I stay? I didn't know WHAT to do.

The girl's trophies were lined up to be announced. She squeezed my hand tight and I could feel her straining to hear her name. It broke my heart.

But... a miracle happened! Nicest eyes... my Miss Piggy! They loved her beautiful round eyes that had changed from a bright blue to a deep green the Summer before. She was so proud as she marched up to the stage to collect her trophy. I've never seen her hold ANYTHING so tight. I prayed a quick thanks before rushing to congratulate her.

And then I vowed never to go to a baby show again.

Don't get me wrong, they are a FANTASTIC fundraiser for all sorts of charities. They are a nice morning out with other mums (usually great cakes too). They are just not for me!

How do you feel about baby shows?

Losing touch?

I love technology, I really do ... I believe it enhances our lives but I also believe in keeping more of the more traditional skills alive (says the girl who has a computer in the kitchen and married a man in a Star Trek suit).

In the Herald Sun earlier this week I read about a new iphone app to help mothering newbies (read story here). It's designed to remind you when to feed the baby, record sleep/growth patterns etc and give advice on baby friendly shops in your area. I was almost tempted to download it only 1. I don't have an iPhone and 2. I don't really have a newborn any more. So why was I so tempted to download it?

There's been a lot of research showing that people are losing the 'art' of basics like cooking, changing a tyre and all those things our grandparents could do in their sleep... I don't so much think that we've lost the 'knack', but I do think that we've lost all faith in ourselves as capable human beings... we're now more likely to ring an expert rather than muddle through and trust ourselves to get it right.

It's so easy to second-guess yourself when it comes to mothering. After all, your job is to keep your most precious posession (your child) not only alive, but developing into a socially conscious, capable human being. And mothering has now become a 'closed door' type of vocation.

When I was pregnant with my first baby, I read every book I could lay my hands on regarding childbirth and child rearing. As I had very limited experience with babies and toddlers, I relied on the experiences of doctors, midwives and parenting experts. And I found that my experience was NOTHING like the book!

Whereas a hundred years ago you would have helped your sister, neighbour, even mother (-eek!) give birth and care for infants in your teen years and right through your own reproductive years, nowadays the very first birth you attend is likely to be that of your own child. Women of today are unlikely to have seen the trials and hardships felt by other women in their own circle of friends and family - never seen 'the blues' first hand, never heard someone yelp as they attempt breastfeeding, never seen the destruction an unsecured nappy can unleash on a living room rug... So it's very easy to feel that you have it (mothering) all 'wrong' if it's not as rosy as it looks in the Huggies commercial. When you are experiencing the pain and confusion of childbirth and child-rearing all alone behind a big door, you tend to beat yourself up about your inadequacies and try to hide them from everyone in the 'outside' world.

This third baby has been really liberating for me (most days). I haven't felt the need to pick up a 'guide' to parenting, ring 13HEALTH or hide my emotions/flaws/inadequacies from everyone. I just do what I can, forgive myself my shortcomings and try to do better every day.

I finally TRUST myself to do an OK job. I wish I could have felt this in control with my first two experiences of mothering a baby! I still make plenty of mistakes, but I'm learning to celebrate my successes as well... and I'm so thankful for other mummies who are so open and honest about their own shortcomings (you know who you are) :)