on sliding doors and borrowed time

The past few months have been filled with messages for me. Wide-eyed stories of shockingly fast illnesses, parents of young children snatched away, heads shaking in dismal helplessness.

We are tenants, here, in this life. We don't own the time.

The only permission I needed to live my life with joy was the knowledge that the time I have is a tiny speck of sand.

So I am.

I am going to work hard to feel

abundance

vitality

sanctuary.

I am joining the Desire Map journey with a dear friend. Not a speck of time will be wasted! I intend to suck the marrow out of my life, tiny speck that it is.

How do you want to feel?

I've found myself saying, just lately

Wow! How did that pumpkin get there?

Yes, darling, grown-ups have stomachs, too.

Guys! You have got to remember to put away your textas!

Does anyone know where I put the keys?

Does anyone know where I put my glasses?

Does anyone know where I put- is anyone listening at all?

Thanks little mate, I think this dress is the most beautifullest, too.

I'm in here. In the bathroom sweetie. Just in here. Yep going to the toilet. Poo. Oh, hey, you got the door open, that's cool. No thanks, I don't want any sultanas.

I'm not missing bread at all! (eye twitch) Or pasta! (twitch, twitch)

Where are your pants?

I'm not sure which minion is my favourite, kiddo. Maybe Kevin?

Just lay down and close your eyes! It's time to rest and relax! Right now!

I think a diamond gem would have more power than an emerald in a battle.

I want to marry you again.

(breathe  it all in, these fleeting moments disappear like the grains of sand forming the seashore)

for me?

I have keenly attuned my brain to ignore any longing or desire to do stuff that is just about me for the past couple of years. With all the kid stuff happening around us, I have found it easier to be resigned to living a life around them, to avoid disappointment. I've learned a weird acceptance with a day that revolves around meals cut into small pieces and naptimes, and that's cool.

But just lately, there is a shift. I returned to work, just one day a week. I felt that clever, passionate part of my brain spark, like the engine of a car having sat idle over winter. It's creaky, and a little rusty, but it's still there!

With this change has come a side-change in me, and how I think about myself. I have suddenly realised I can do some stuff for myself! And I've been struck with an urge to make outrageous goals for myself.

For example: Swim the length of my beach point-to-point. Considering my absolute lack of fitness and skill, a one-kilometre swim is a perfectly achievable goal, right? Well, it will be, given time and some hard work. I have begun swimming lessons- they do those for adults too! Although I felt a bit silly to begin, I am really grateful to take the opportunity to get a good technique to build upon. I even hopped in the pool to do some training laps when my big boy had his lesson at the weekend. It's a little thing I guess, but I'm celebrating this change- moving my body into its next season, where it won't be used to feed or grow babies again, but is now free to do other interesting stuff.

So I'm off to my grown-up swimming lesson this morning. I am going to swim that beach. I know this because I am working towards it. And also because there are the best hot chips in the kiosk down the other end.

top tips for enjoying a girls' weekend in wine country

I was so excited to be going away with my girls, that I told someone It's so long since I've been away with friends! Yes. Well. I had never actually been away on a girls' weekend. I was not into doing my hair as a kid, I can barely coordinate an outfit that is clean, let alone stylish. I hated dancing, preferred Lego, or those little cowboy and Indian figures, or reading. I'm not a tomboy, it's just that frivolous, competitive female relationships kind of freak me out. I have three true friends. One I have known since birth, because she is also my baby sister. One I met on the first day of Uni. And the last I met on her first teaching day. I don't clean my house for these few people, nor do I expect them to let me know that they are 'popping in'.

But, since the great sea change of 2010, the opportunity for pop-ins has been greatly reduced. So my very clever husband, along with their very clever husbands, organised vouchers for us all for mothers' day to go away together for a weekend. To the Hunter Valley. Mmmm...wine. And cheese. And wine. And while we were there, we somehow hit upon a magical combination making for a really great weekend.

1. Go with people you trust. Because at 1am, there are really only certain people who should see you singing Bon Jovi ballads into a wine bottle, writing indiscernible to-do lists, or hysterically laughing at screaming goats.
2. Take a pregnant friend (congrats, sis!). Driving? Check!
3. Stay somewhere awesome. I can absolutely recommend the villas at the Crowne Plaza Hunter Valley, and Pure Traveller for organising a great deal.
4. Leave the mum guilt on the freeway. Pick a point in the journey (Brooklyn bridge for us) to leave concerns about the kids behind. Maintain this inner bliss even when greeted with text news about pregnant cats and vomiting children.
5. Eat, and then keep eating. Don't you dare even think about dieting. There is cheese, and pate to be consumed, folks! And breakfast!
6. Do a 'proper' tasting session. We happened to visit Lindemans for a booked-in, paid-for tasting (thanks to one of the clever husbands), and it was fabulous. None of us being particularly knowledgeable about wines, it was a great start. Matt, our tasting guy (there must be a more appropriate term here) was really relaxed, and quite OK with the fact that our little group was more Kath and Kim than Pru and Trude. Just so you know, $260 a bottle chardonnay tastes marvellously expensive. And it turns out, I'm a spendy drunk!

I had such a glorious weekend, and approached the following fortnight of rolling illnesses and mundane cleaning tasks with vigour. It has left me with a renewed appreciation of my dear friends and our clever husbands. Oh, and port and blue cheese. Who knew?

hi-ho, hi-ho

It's back to work I go! Actually it's been two weeks since I returned to my job. That one that I left four years ago to make a sea change. That one that I wasn't going back to because I would be embraced by my new town and would have local job offers to trip over.

The good thing is, I loved that job when I left, and I still do. I'm good at it, I like the bit where I get dressed, wear shoes the whole day and talk to grown ups. I teach small children, so there are all the obvious rewards that go along with that (there is nothing like teaching a kid right at that moment where reading kicks in, it's my absolute favourite).

After four years, though, I'm a little different. In lots of good ways, but in some ways that have me questioning things that I would have done or accepted four years ago. My first day back felt like a kick in the face. Such was the realisation that all of the relationships I had spent lots of hours, days, weeks and years building up with kids and their families had evaporated over time, and I was starting afresh. I have a lot of work to do, to build those relationships up from the ground. It will not be easy, but I know that learning won't really start to happen until I can get an 'in'. So I am drawing on the patience I have learned through yoga. I am planting that Mona Lisa smile on my face, and approaching each difficult moment with an acceptance that it will all take time. And all I really have is turning up each week.

It's fortunate timing that my school is heavily invested in building relationships with students at the moment. We were shown this video as a reminder of the importance of the relationships in a child's life. *(Trigger warning for violence, persevere if you can, there is relief at the end)

 



I am enjoying the bonuses of returning to work, that aren't directly work related. Yes, the commute is an hour and a half each way, but I get to spend that time with my hubby. Yes, I'm away from the kids and home for a day, but it means that the kids and grandparents get to spend time together (which is making everyone very happy). So although being so incredibly anxious about how on earth I would be able to balance and juggle, it turns out that things tend to balance themselves, if I just let them.

when you run out of babies

Today we celebrate our little one heading out of babyland and firmly planting her competent feet in the toddler arena.

I have been a little grumpy. She has been a tad unwell. I made a chocolate cake, iced it like my mum used to, and just went with it.

We had a little party over the weekend, entirely un-pin-worthy. It was family and friendfamily, kids we have all known since pre-birth. Party games consisted of small children (and perhaps some adults) hurling themselves down a sheet of plywood on a hill on various wheeled devices. Food was home-made hamburgers and milkshakes (not a stripy straw or small glass milk bottle in sight). We thought it was time to call it a night not long after the disco ball and glow sticks came out. All perfectly lovely and totally lacking in cool.

My pregnancy and birth of this little one was a changing time for me. I am amazed to reflect back and see that we do things quite differently, as a family. We are different parents to our three, than we were to one and then two. We have changed and grown with each new child born, and now we face a new era.

A end to baby times. No more candy-striped bunny rugs in plastic bassinettes. No more fuzzy soft heads or transparent toenails. No more exhausting nights and exhausted days. I know we are firmly in Toddlerville now. She has refused to take off her new pyjamas for the last two days. She has long blondish hair that falls in her face and which she swoops out of her eyes with great flair. She can tell me My tummy hurt and Stop it, Mummy. Shhh when I sing silly songs. It's a good place to be. I am seeing brief opportunities for self-development; I had forgotten that existed!

I am looking forward to more fun and surprises with this girl. I am excited to see her wicked humour develop further. I know she will take enormous physical risks over the next year, and I know that I will probably helicopter less than in previous toddler times. I know that she will be watching me closely and listening to me carefully, so I will endeavour to show her love, patience and kindness.

Happy second birthday, Baby Mine.

navigating the blind corners

I wonder what's coming next? As the weather is changing around me, I feel as though I'm stepping around a corner, into a great unknown.

My dear friend and I joke all the time about parenting young children; the moment you get breastfeeding under control, they start to need food. They finally sleep through the night, then begin teething. Decisions are made, love is given, under tired eyes and on shifting sands.

I have finished having babies. There. My littlest, surpris-ey girl is almost two. Will soon be out of her cot, and after three babies and three different homes, I never got around to decorating the nursery. The shame! I learned early that my parenting energy and skill is limited: I can choose to spend it on making it appear that I'm across things, or I can invest it in just plugging away. Getting small people out of bed each day, making breakfast, wiping noses, cooking dinner. Teaching, loving, instilling. It's difficult to remember that this time is short. I seem to be continually being delivered the same lesson: shifting sands.

As I am tip-toeing over shifting sands yet again, I'm finding it all too easy to get caught up in doubts and worries about what my next contribution might be. I am no longer the proud mama holding a fresh baby. My kids are growing up, worthy of space to develop their own identities. I felt a gentle unravelling this morning, when my nearly-four-year-old came out of his room fully dressed. A few of the strong stitches binding me to those tasks of filling the needs of others, unpicked.

Gradually, suddenly, our babies will become independent beings. If we do our job well, we will make ourselves redundant. I know I am other than mama. I know my darling and I will hold hands when our babies are grown up. Just as fulfilling needs of little people takes energy and effort, so does developing myself and my other relationships. And the sands are shifting just a little, just enough to allow a redistribution of my energies.

As for those corners? Who knows what's around there. That's the fun of running on shifting sands, right?

when Joe was Giuseppe

When I first left school, I studied a year of a Bachelor of Arts at Sydney University. It was the most interesting year of my life, learning Philosophy, Anthropology and Linguistics in dusty halls and roaming through sandstone archways entrenched in history and tradition. I was enamoured with the work of Margaret Mead, watching people of traditional, untouched cultures.

It wasn't until I stood pressing roasted tomatoes through a mouli over the weekend that the almost forgotten lessons of that year had a personal reality for me. I have no idea if my family of previous generations made passata this way. Probably not, as I took the recipe from the internet. I love hearing about the house that my mum grew up in, with Nonna and Uncle Hugo and the chickens and the veggie patch in the suburbs. But the stories could be from any family, really. A work of fiction.

My self is missing that piece. The piece that speaks loud, passionate, musical Italian. The piece that welcomes a family to the table for a long Sunday lunch with too much food and plenty of wine. My great-grandfather came to Australia from the tiny southern Italian island of Lipari, before the turn of the last century, as a fourteen-year old, with his family. Do I really have a right to lament the loss of a culture left behind more than a hundred years ago? Is it reasonable to believe that language and traditions could have continued over that time, throughout all the changes of our Australian social landscape? Do I have the right to feel ripped off that I have to refer to Jamie Oliver or Stephanie Alexander to learn to make fresh pasta and passata?

After all, for my ancestors, this was a choice. They left their home, packed up their family, and took a long trip over the seas to a new life.

With my grandfather-in-law's passing last year, knowledge circulated that he had been proud to discover his own lost Aboriginal heritage. Very little is known as his grandmother was of the Stolen Generation. Whisked away from her language and traditions and given new ones, by force. She passed on her beautiful skin that has paled over the generations, to the point of almost disappearing. I lament the loss of her stories, her language and her traditions in the same way that I lament my missing Italian piece. I am strongly drawn to researching my family histories. I want to travel to the places that my childrens' ancestors came from.

So what are a couple of people with cultural chunks missing to do, when confronted with the heavy task of instilling culture and heritage into three small, bright, incredible children? Well, we shall have to just make it up as we go along. We will, and do, choose the ideals and values we hold most true(because even when language and cultural tokens have long gone, these remain) and use them as a point of reference for all that we do. We will continue the beautiful traditions shown to us by our parents and grandparents, like cheese and bikkies with afternoon tea, or working with timber to make beautiful things, or going fishing, or playing canasta, without concern about their cultural authenticity. We shall build our own traditions, like lighting fires to toast marshmallows in the backyard on Saturday nights, or cooking a late barbeque breakfast after nippers, or making pizza on Friday nights.

And we will continue to search for the stories of our past. Because they matter. I will do my best to find out all I can to help my babies understand their role in one of the world's richest and most endangered cultures. I will continue to dream about climbing uneven stairs to a cottage at the top of a seaside village in Lipari, as I do exactly that, walking home from the school run many, many kilometres away.

Now, who would like to come to our home for Sunday lunch? There will be too much food and plenty of wine.

the parenting party

My man is my partner in crime in the parenting party. The Wayne to my Garth. The Ernie to my Bert. Our parenting journey (Journey! swig) has turned us into something on the other side of the young sweethearts we were on the day we married.

We look at each other differently, now.

We exchanged glances of sheer determination and togetherness when it became evident that falling pregnant was to be more of a challenge than we imagined.

Two years later, we locked humbled, hurt eyes as we shared the pain of a miscarriage, and giggled at the leaky pen spoiling the doctor's fancy white leather chair.

I drew strength from his gaze when birthing our babies, all three of them. I saw a change in the way he saw me, and I knew the love was cutting deeper now.

We shared a slightly bemused look as we brought each child home, crossed the threshold and it became real, each time. A bit like the look I imagine you would share with someone about to parachute out of a plane with you.

Lately I've found my darling and I exchanging a glance over the dinner table, or over the kids' heads while we are out and about. It's the look of a well-practiced military team, knowing each others' signals and next move.

I figure this stage of parenting young children is a bit like the best party you ever went to. When you wake up, there will be large chunks that you can't remember with the clarity you would like. There will be things you did that you do recall, but cringe with the memory. There will be stuff you remember (such as dancing on the bar) with fondness for your own awesomeness, but that others don't recall with the same humour. There will be things that seemed completely insignificant to you, but that will be key in the minds of the others at the party. And inevitably, there will be a hangover of epic proportions.

I like parties, but they are best when you get to share them with someone who knows all your insecurities and quirks. Someone to share in-jokes and people-watch with. Someone to hold your hair back and tuck you into bed at your drunkest most vulnerable. Someone who, when all the fun is over, the guests have left and the clean-up is done, will still share a joke and a knowing look.

And hopefully hold hands on the lounge to watch silly romantic comedy films.

So many more steps to come on this journey. I feel humble, loved and unable to express the depth of my gratitude for a true partnership. Cheers, my darling.

waving, not drowning. ok. maybe drowning a little bit.

I knew it was coming. I had stopped sleeping at night, but falling asleep in the day. I felt sluggish, and snippy. Everything I looked at reminded me of yet another in the overwhelming basket of tasks I was yet to finish. I had a big, bad case of the I can'ts.

But most especially, was the look in my kid's eyes. That look that betrayed what he was trying to hide: a fear that the ground was shifting beneath his feet. So I pulled on my big girl pants and went to see the doctor. But there was a wait. Our waiting list is about three months the receptionist said I can give you some paperwork to take home if you like?

Sobbing on the floor of the public toilet next to the fruit shop, with two toddlers stroking my back? Not my finest hour. But an important hour, nonetheless.

The following week my mind was brimming with Christmas preparation, job applications and a couple of sick kids. When I took them to the walk-in clinic, I threw my name in, too. An ear infection and some croup were sorted out. The doctor was kind. She waited for me to talk, and she listened. She talked to me about my treatment last time. She gave me a prescription, a referral and some hope. And two weeks later, the fog really is lifting.

Sometimes, I can't do it on my own. Sometimes, I can't fix it. Now though, I know that somebody will grab my hand, I just have to stick it up to start with. I have some work to do now, starting with taking it easy on myself. I'm looking very forward to feeling deserving again! And feel very, very grateful that I can access help where I live.

How are you doing today?

The sun has gone down on the first day of a new year. A glorious day, contrasting sharply with the way I felt yesterday.

I really don't do the last day of the year well. I spent yesterday swinging between obsessive cleaning and chucking out anything in my path. Sorry kids. One shelf of the pantry is impeccably clean, but I can't find a set of house keys. I can't remember how I felt on the final day of 2011, but this time around, the end of the year filled me with nerves. Like if I get excited about the new year, it will kick me like a startled horse. It always sneaks up on me, the new year. We only waved off our final beautiful house guests on Sunday, so we decided to stay home and see the new year in. Just, together. We ate party food, watched the nine-o'clock fireworks with the kids, I made myself a vodka, lime and ginger beer and drank it in a few gulps before realising I had used alcoholic ginger beer. We went to bed and missed the whole thing. Perfect.

I woke up in the new year and baked a loaf of bread. I replanted one of my indoor pot plants. I collected some seeds from my garden. Nasturtiums and coriander. I fed my kids breakfast. And I thought, Hey, 2013, I'm not scared of you. I don't know what is around this corner, or any corner in our lives, but I do hope it's filled with more of the magic of today's ordinary. Strong, competent children splashing in the waves in the morning, a simple meal for lunch, restful afternoon naps, a late afternoon park play.

As we left the beach this morning, I saw a family of Willy Wagtails playing in the dunes. A family of five. And I know we belong here.

our children in crisis: the power of we

Did your child sit down to start their final high school exams last week? What a rough week for them- all their hard work throughout school, all your support in getting assignments done, studying for tests, overcoming challenges with peers, culminating in one big pressure-point week. Were they stressed? Too nervous to eat the breakfast you prepared for them? Did they chatter too much in the car on the way to school, or not enough? Such a momentous time, one of the rites of passage into adulthood, and they will get through it because you have been there all along, you are there today, able to provide love, support and security.

image

One child didn't make it to their exams. He was arrested the night before with three other mates, on a charge of robbing buses over a period of time.

Another child sat the English exam yesterday, after an altercation with the emotionally abusive father of her six-month-old baby, from whom she had been hiding for a month.

Some of our children, our Australian, lucky country children, are living extreme lives of chaos and anxiety. Cyclical poverty is just the undercurrent, the common thread. Good people are trapped by circumstance (there, but for the grace of god, go I), beautiful children are born. Beautiful children are damaged into adulthood. The opportunities aren't the same. I have worked with lots of good people. Good parents and their good children. Little kids with blackened, or removed, front teeth from a simply lacking diet. Your diet probably would be lacking too, if your town had no food shops (unless you count the vending machine in the pub), and you had five kids to cart on public transport and extremely limited funds. Kids who found it more comfortable to sleep on the dirt under the house when mum's friends came over. Kids who could barely look at you sideways, or would erupt in the most violent outbursts imaginable, if you looked at them sideways. If you are unaware or doubtful of the shaky ground on which some of our children live, please watch the Four Corners episode about Claymore, one of Australia's concentrated social housing areas.

As I agonise over the decision to buy store brand milk or make the switch to organic-unhomogonised, I take a moment to be grateful for the luck that saw me born in the time and place where I was. To have had attention and language as a baby. To have been fed and read to as a three year old. To have been asked How was school today? To have been safe and unhurt. To have been loved and nurtured. I feel a shudder of helplessness. Or maybe it's just the cold of the milk fridge. Not very far from my privileged, but ordinary, upbringing, there are kids struggling. I don't know what the answer or solution is. Obviously, I believe education is one of the keys. The only thing I can say for sure, is that it is compassionate, empathetic people who make a real and lasting difference in the lives of kids who are struggling. Of people who are struggling.

Want to help? Withhold your judgement, but give your compassion freely. Close your eyes for a moment and really imagine, how much of a priority you would give to your child's homework if you didn't have enough money to replace the blown light bulbs. You may like to sponsor an Aussie child, through the Smith Family. A monthly donation of $39 makes sure a schoolkid in our lucky country has breakfast in his belly, pencils in his bag, the opportunity to attend excursions, and a person involved in their life to support them at school. A couple of keys, to open the door out of poverty.

(Blogging for BAD, inspired by Eden)

style and nonsense: sole love

With friends like these, who needs...friends? Folks, meet my new best pals, Mary May. These gorgeous girls came to me from the amazing Sole Society, after I won a contest on the gorgeous Beetle Shack. Lucky, lucky me. Being the classic martyr mama that I am, I don't own fine shoes like these. So it stands to reason that I haven't taken these babies off. They are so comfortable, after molding themselves to my feet. Proper, good shoes, made by hand, with quality materials.

I'm wearing my new favourite skirt- vintage, tribal, high waisted, found in the op shop for six bucks. I also won a pair of Stu Wedges in Pine, which are yet to make their debut, and are equally incredible. Thank you, Em. Thank you, Sole Society.

looking for opportunity

I have a three-year-old. A three-year-old middle child. He is doing some very typical three-year-old-middle-child things. And I have found myself responding in ways I just don't want to. Distracted. Impatient. Angry. Not amongst my favourite parenting attributes.

At the end of a half-hour three-year-old-middle-child tantrum yesterday morning, whereby the entire street heard his heartfelt desire to put on mah flashy shoes I exhaled deeply and thought for a moment. In emotional terms, a tantrum is exhausting, draining. In logical terms, the tantrum can be an opportunity to teach my child and build on our relationship.

I want my child to treat others with kindness. If I respond to his uncontrolled, confused anger with my own anger, he will repeat the cycle over and over.

I want my child to know that he is loved, unconditionally. If I hold a grudge against him, after he has probably forgotten the tantrum himself, he will feel confused about my love for him, or, worse, let down by me.

I want my child to understand acceptable boundaries of behaviour. Socially successful people understand these boundaries, and treat others in a respectful way. A three-year-old is involved in an ongoing process of learning to be socially successful. I must wait, gently, for him to calm down and participate in appropriate behaviour. There is no forcing a three-year-old.

None of this is easy, or natural. After years of teaching young children, and now working in the home raising my own, I have decided I have far more patience for others' children. Probably because I have a lot more invested in my own children. Sometimes a tantrum is a great opportunity to develop, sometimes it really is the wrong time or place for anything other than getting to the other side whichever way you can. But before I take it as a personal assault, I'll look logically at the next tantrum, and if I can see the opportunity to show my boy that he is kind, he is loved, and he can behave in an appropriate way, I'll take it.

hello, sunshine!

That first day, where the warmer weather catches you by surprise. I've been waiting for that day, keeping aware, cleverly dressing in layers so as to not get caught out, sweating in a too-hot knit and long pants.

It caught me by surprise, anyway, over the weekend. Taking the kids down to the beach, and setting them free on the sand, letting them get wet carving channels in the sand and transporting water in coffee cups. Stripping them of too-warm outer layers, knowing there was enough warmth in the sun to dry the rest.

Meeting friends, old and new, chatting about this and that, marvelling over the amazing little humans around us. Feeling truly blessed in the warm sunshine. Gratitude to be in this place, by the sea.

Welcome, Spring, I've been waiting for you!

weekends are for...

kite-flying

apple pie jam-making

new-old toy cleaning

sorting

hills hoist-drying

receiving

swinging

garden tea-drinking

and gathering. This week from Avoca Beach Grower's Market. $26 for (all organic and local) spinach (silverbeet), leeks, dutch cream potatoes, iceburg lettuce, baby bok choy, coriander, a red capsicum, six fat carrots, a head of broccoli and some snow peas. Two big punnets strawberries from Windsor $13. Granny Smiths and Pink Ladies from Batlow $6 per bag of 8.

What was your weekend for?

stick a fork in me

I'm done. Breastfeeding, that is. My body has fed it's last hungry baby. And you know what? I'm tired.

I also feel a bit sad, and proud, and happy and lost.

But mostly just frigging tired. After what feels like an epic seven years (not really) wearing clippy bras and flashing my boobs at weddings, I wore a bra with underwire in it yesterday. It felt pointy and disappointing. I kind of thought I would be like a gorgeous forest woman at the end of this journey, leaping through wildflowers, hair flowing freely, not a care in the world. But the reality is, I kind of feel like turning into a trackie-clad hermit, eating a family clock of chocolate and staring at photos of my newborns. I'm pleased with how breastfeeding worked out for me, and each of my babes, for the most part. With retrospect, I am very aware that I did my absolute best with the knowledge and experience I had at the time.

Baby 1. Breastfed for somewhere between three and four months. I was surprised at how easily he took to feeding, and sleeping. It took me too long to realise he was sleeping so well because he was really, really hungry.

Early fusspot days. After a couple of weeks I could breastfeed and answer the door at the same time.

If your baby looks like this, go and talk to your doctor or early childhood nurse.

It broke my heart when he took a bottle of formula with what seemed like relief and gratitude. It still breaks my heart to look at this picture. Don't be sad though, 2005 Me, this boy will be a healthy, strapping seven-year-old in the blink of an eye.

Baby 2. A study in perseverance. That little guy and I worked like troopers, through illness, death in the family, moving, surgery, oh my! And then, sometime around 11months, he woke up and just chucked it in. I felt a little ripped off, quite frankly.

Baby 3. Is now 14 months. And has slept through the night fewer than five times. I have been up for a feed 2-3 times a night forever, now. Despite the fact that she no longer wants a breastfeed at any point during the day. I walked the edge of tired for so long, and tipped right over into exhausted when a bout of flu hit me a couple of weeks ago. Fortunately for me, my darling was on holidays, and took over the nights while I was busy coughing up my lungs. And it was then that we realised: she will never go to sleep through the night of her own accord while I continually feed her to sleep. So, I stopped feeding her to sleep, which really amounted to stopping feeding her altogether, as that's really the only time she had been feeding.

Breastfeeding comfortably in public- all in the attitude.



Like anything with parenting, I found that breastfeeding was not as natural and instinctive as I had thought. I needed lots of help, with PCOS contributing to a low milk supply. I was(am!) also extremely lucky to have wonderful support from my darling, and other members of our family. I never ever had a bad experience in public, in fact I fed all my babies in all manner of public places and never heard so much as a tut. 

I know I am going to deeply miss this special part of my parenting journey, I already do a little bit. But I am so very excited to be a better, less tired and grumpy mama to all of my babies. They need me back I think. And I need to get to the shops and buy some bras- stat.

potential

We have moved into a new place. The process of moving just a couple of streets has taken an alarming amount of time and a difficult toll on all of our health. Cleaning two years worth of crud from the walls of our old place was quite a task- I became convinced that my children had spent the whole time walking around with a fistful of half-chewed lollies. And a permanent marker in the other hand. Sneezing, directly onto walls. But it is done, now. We no longer live in the little semi we landed in, just to try for six months. What adventures we had there! Now we seem to be fighting the uphill battle to wellness. I am sicker than I have been in years, and I'm blaming all the snot on the rather dirty reverse-cycle air conditioner we may have used a little too enthusiastically in our first week in the new place.

But despite the cleaning, lurgies and looming unpacking (I only found my shoes yesterday- amazing how versatile gumboots really are), I cannot dampen my enthusiasm about this place. We are different in this place. The boys are acting like children, pulling on their boots and playing in the yard. I am constantly scolding them for dirty hands and fingernails, but I secretly love that dirt.

Enough space for our furniture. We haven't used our dining table since we moved to the sea. If anyone came to visit, they used to sit on an esky. So people generally didn't come to visit. Looking very forward to setting this table for guests again.

A country-style kitchen that has been freshly painted white. With a brand-spanking oven. The great big window overlooks the backyard and peeks onto the 'main road' of our little village. I can watch my small people playing outside, and watch the comings and goings of the place.

A beautiful big bay window in the lounge room, and a smaller version in the master bedroom. I've thought bay windows the epitome of fanciness since I was a kid, so as far as I'm concerned, we've made it. Also, the lounge room window overlooks the ocean. In a dappled way, through some branches of gum trees. And is an awesome place for a Christmas tree, no?

In the yard, we discovered a section of the garden that must have been a successful veggie patch. Remnants of strawberries, curly parsley and rosemary are there, along with a piece of wire trellis attached to the fence- maybe for beans? I have a deep excitement about this little patch of garden, but have no idea about what to plant there. Can anyone help? We are on the central coast of NSW, no frost, morning sun. Do I plant now or wait until winter's end?

a new season

Well, in the last month we have had sickness, general glum, birthday parties-that-weren't-really, and tumultuous seas. Oh! The churning water and howling winds!

I sent out an invitation to the universe. And then I surrendered. And waited. And you know, I'm not very good at that. Asking, and waiting.

And then, as I sat watching those rough seas, waves crashing over one another, I saw my little friend, hopping about the grass. Willy Wagtail.

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In the hours before the births of each of my babies, I saw a Willy Wagtail, visiting me. I only realised afterwards, of course. The first was walking around the block, ten days past baby's due date. Willy hopped alongside me for the whole walk. The next was having tea on the veranda of my mother-in-law's house- Willy was hopping amongst the pink camellias. Then Willy visited me as I had coffee with my friend, by the beach. She had just taken photos of me and my belly, and I knew that I would meet this baby in the next day or so.

So, in the absence of any impending birth, I wondered what news Willy was bringing me.

And the phone rang. It was my darling, telling me to get packing- a house we had applied for, but had been unsuccessful, was now available. And (I'll forgive you for thinking I'm making this up, but I'm not) a rainbow appeared.

So, now I am putting our things into boxes and looking forward to stretching out a little. Having a yard for the kids to play in. A space in which to sew. Our giant table, made with my love's hands, to fit friends and family around. A bit of earth for a veggie garden.

A new season.

I'm not a religious person, but feel myself becoming more and more spiritual as I get older. I believe there are subtle ways the world speaks to me, and that Willy Wagtail is a messenger in my life, letting me know good things are coming. Do you believe in signs? In animal spirit guides or totems?

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this morning

This boy smiled a wiggly smile. I wonder if that tooth will still be there after school today?

This boy informed me that Soolky Bunny is, in fact, a girl.

And this girl, she pointed to a toy on the floor, which I picked up to pass to her. She made me kiss the little fairy first.

And I stopped at the beach between the school run and swimming lessons. I got out and let the wild, strong air invade my lungs and I invited all the good things the universe has to offer. Last night at yoga I bent and stretched as the wind howled and brought the sea crashing against the windows. And I felt more calm than I have in a long time.

I will be kind, loving and compassionate.