hello bloglovin'

You in?

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

See you there!

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?

new chicks on the block

I am a proud mother hen of around three weeks. We have settled the girls into their new home, at the coop within the EcoGarden at our local neighbourhood centre.

Neighbourhood centres are a bit fab. Ours is set in a little community hub complex, nearby a preschool, long day care centre, community health centre, youth centre and mental health outreach. What a great place! I went there last year to attend a weekend organic gardening course, got chatting to another lady, we discovered the unused coop and the plans began. We are both in positions where keeping chickens at home isn't possible right now, so taking out a lease of the EcoGarden's chicken coop presented an ideal solution.

The rainy Friday arrived for me to collect our 12-week-old pullets from the breeder, who does a regular off-the-back-of-the-truck (literally) order and pickup through a produce store a little way from home. I stood in the fat plopping rain, waiting in line with my rapidly-soaking cardboard box. I laughed nervously as the farmer put my twelve ordered ladies in the box, couldn't help but think how undignified it was to hold them by the feet! The reality of caring for real, actual livestock struck me when I picked up my heavy, warm, life-filled box, only to smear chicken shit all over the front of my shirt.

Three weeks on, the girls are growing, enjoying a range of kitchen scraps and becoming used to small children in gumboots. They are getting named as time goes on, the white one with caramel is called Butterscotch, one of the black ones has been called Shadow Hen, I picked the greyish one as Ethel, one of the red ones is Rosie, and my little guy has named the fattest black hen Larry.

We visit daily to check their food, water and clean what needs cleaning. The kids are so very enamoured with the whole thing. We are all learning so much. I am already deeply affected by seeing the range of activities undertaken by the girls throughout the day. Connecting my new understanding and respect for chooks with choices I make when shopping for eggs (only for a little while longer!) and chicken meat is quite confronting. But so very worthwhile.

Rosie wonders...'Who IS this awkward bird?'

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.

nourish: sugar-free, dairy-free ice cream

I've been inspired by recipes around the internets for 'ice cream' using frozen bananas, or coconut milk. Trialling our littlest poppet on an A1 beta-casein free diet (well that's specific, isn't it?) has worked a treat in the rashy-skin, ear-infection department, but led to no joy in the treat department.

I like to give my kids ice cream. Because I love them with food sometimes. So I had a go at making some frozen goodness that wouldn't send my little one into an itchy mess.

I give you:

Banana-strawberry-mango Coconut 'Ice Cream'

In a food processor, I whizzed 3 ripe bananas, a nice punnet of strawberries, the flesh of two mangoes, a 400ml can of coconut milk* and some honey to taste- about a tablespoon.

I poured the mixture into some muffin tins, then popped in the freezer to set.

Back into the blender to whizz the frozen mix into smooth, creaminess.

Enjoy!

*Full-fat coconut cream would have been even better, I think. Or better yet, the coconut fat collected from the top of an unshaken can of coconut cream, especially if you aren't using banana.

2 out of 3 children approved of this recipe. Thankfully one of them was the dairy-free kid.

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.

blatant self promotion with added giveaway

I have a little business. I sew vintage loveliness, specifically bonnets, using real vintage fabrics. I'd love for you to check out a giveaway I am hosting at Tuppenny Lane.

See you there!

darkness and light

Darkness doesn't exist. It's the absence of light.

So when I feel this grey envelop me, I feel unworthy of it. Like it is making me not exist, too. And that's true, a little bit. At this point, I'm here, living just on the edge of my life. I feel better than I did, and the taste has spurred me on to even greater improvements. Thanks for the virtual rub on the back I felt from comments on my last post about this.  I have in fact received a diagnosis of garden variety depression. I'm treating this the same as I would a middle ear infection. Because depression is normal like that. Normal people get it. To recover, I have to modify things around my symptoms a little, follow a course of medication, and put some measures in place to ensure my whole health. Just like any other illness, right?

I am not deluded enough to be on the search for 'happiness' (whatever that is). I don't believe that happiness is a condition, the opposite condition of depression. I think that depression is poorly named. It should be called something else, something that indicates the temporary loss of ability to cope with the difficult or stressful situations. Because it is temporary (with treatment). I can already feel my treatment working. I'm sleeping a little better, the nightmares and daymares are much less frequent, I'm not as snappy and wound up. I'm excited to do stuff. I'm also exhausted at the end of a day or an outing. Faking it 'til I make it is taking it out of me! Anxiety still has a strong grip- I bailed on a night out with some lovely ladies because I just couldn't. But not as often.

There is no point to writing this today, other than to put a marker in time, to remember how I was feeling at this point, to say, things progress and the river carries me forward.