Issue.

Because I love 'em to death, and they sh*t me to tears.

Sweeter faces never peered from Raffaello’s cherubim.
Renoir never rendered eyes like hers; a boy as fine as him.
There’s no sculpture ever chiselled to a more exquisite form;
Alabaster cannot capture cheeks as soft or hugs as warm.
Oh! Those perfect, pinkish piggy-toes! Those little bendy legs!
Those round bellies braced by ticklish ribs, like squirming, fleshy kegs!
For the love of all that’s holy, sacred, blessed and serene,
KEEP THOSE PERFECT LITTLE FINGERS OFF MY FRIKKIN’ TV SCREEN.

When my son was but a shadow of a clutch of cells inside;
My own mother said, “You’re going to be a MUMMY!” and I cried.
I was daughter, sister, niece and friend, but this was unexplored:
Surely being someone’s Mum is life’s most wonderful reward.
Sure enough, when ‘Um-mum-mum’ escaped from toothless baby lips
And ‘I love you, Mum’ was whispered, something nice in me did flips.
Whether spoken, yelled or whimpered, ‘Mummy’ whisks dark moods away;
BUT FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, DO I HAVE TO HEAR IT FIFTY TIMES A DAY?

From that first drawn breath, that plaintive gasp, the rending of the cord;
I vowed always to ensure they were protected and adored;
That for all my years upon this Earth, ‘til mortal forces win;
We’d be ever joined, if not by warm embrace, by love and kin.
I will never not be part of them, they’ll never part from me;
Our unyielding bond shall not be breached by distance, land or sea.
From the instant of their birth beyond the day they’re fully grown;
IN THE MEANTIME, COULD I PLEASE JUST USE THE BATHROOM ON MY OWN???

WHA HAPPEN?

Y-U-No write bloggy bloggy?

Auntie Shirl is busy. I quite like being busy, particularly when it pays by the hour. That's only part of my reason for not tending my darling wee blog for a while, and for missing its fifth birthday.

I'm sorry, blog. Happy Birthday.

A List of Excuses, for the Purpose of Making the Author Feel Vindicated

Big jobs part 1
Work has been hella busy. How busy? Busy enough for me to use the word "hella" instead of bothering to find a less irritating adjective. I've been writing a course for Big Client, which was delivered late last week after about a month of revisions, run-throughs, more revisions and trying to demonstrate the difference between 'keeping learners interested' and 'reading legislation word-for-word'.

Big jobs part 2
My favourite client, who throws me sporadic-but-extremely-interesting work, sent me a reasonably big job with a reasonably short deadline. The topic is confidential, but rest assured I spent several late nights learning loads and loads of detail about something I'm still not interested in, then squished it down to about a thousand words.

Little girls turn 3
In a few weeks, my baby girl who gets quite miffed if I call her "baby girl" will be turning three. She's extremely excited about it, and will run up to me with three fingers carefully displayed and shout "THREE! BIRTHDAY PARTY!" at random points throughout the day. The sensible part of my brain took a little holiday and I decided to have a party at home. It will only be small, with about 6 wee guests, but it still means invitations, food planning, finding an entertainer (NOT this guy) and organising pressies.

Late, late, late thirties
One of the best things about having a twin sister is sharing birthdays. When that birthday is a Big One (for example one with a '4' in it), that also means sharing party organisation. In the period Before Children (BC) when I had time, money and young eyes, designing invitations was one of my favourite things to do. It still is, but doing the design for this one required saving up for the latest version of Photoshop, then trying to snatch moments here and there after kids' bedtime to do a proper job. And Jo, the occasional, gentle "It would be nice to have invitations soon" had the desired effect. And yes, I will get to work on the guest list and the speech as a matter of priority.

So. Enough. Big Client will be calling for a meeting later this morning, and I want to squeeze in a gym session before then. Mmwah.

The Daughter-saurus #5

Christmas greetings from Amelia, age two-and-a-half.

Turtle bells! Turtle bells!
Turtle bells! Turtle bells!
ALL THE WAAAAAAAAAAY!

A juxtaposition

When what you do messes with what you cuddle.

This one is for all those awesome worky-mummies who don't have time to read some strange woman's blog, but especially for Mama Mogantosh and Salsa, who know what I'm talkin' 'bout.

As dawn’s first horizontal breath lights distant hills she smoulders,
And slowly lifts the old, cold night aloft upon her shoulders,
She holds a glowing promise (Just a minute, Mummy’s writing),
Like a humble spray of thirsty kindling (Shoosh now!) wants igniting.

Cool shadows are dissolved by creeping rays (Don’t touch that, please),
Dappling littered forest floors (I said don’t touch!) and huddled trees.
Once-frigid stones and brittle bones (Did you just hit your brother?)
Are warmed and thawed (Just sit) and then (Right there) they warm each other

In ignorance I lie (Did you stick Lego up your nose?)
Closely tucked in (Blow) the place where (Blow again) the dreaming goes.
(Could you just give me five minutes?) Tiny servants of the sun,
Something something ‘bout the morning (Oh for goodness’ sake, I’m done.)

I hate to blog and run, but...

I'm sorry, I don't have time to think up a witty sub-heading... maybe something about skidmarks...

I'm lucky enough to be completely swamped with work at the moment, which means hardly any time for blogging. But that doesn't mean I haven't had many things to blog about. Consider this a brief bullet-point festival of half-baked bloggy notions, that I'm posting now before they ooze out the sides of my overstretched brain:

• My brother and his lady friend had a baby a week ago. Welcome William!
• Mitchell is awesome and starting to write words and is a different robot, alien, animal or Magic Thing every five minutes
• Amy is awesome and is getting all girly what with dragging her doll around and making it pretend meals. She also brushes my hair regularly, which is one of the reasons I had kids in the first place.
• We're off to Western Plains Zoo in a few days. Mitch is very excited about seeing giraffes, but a little disappointed that there probably won't be otters.
• I'm writing a speech for my fantastic father-in-law's 70th birthday next weekend. It will be delivered to a small crowd that includes some Very Churchy Folk, and will include the word 'intercourse'.
• Cold-canvassing is the marketing equivalent of simian poo-flinging. I'm looking at you, Australian Gas Light Company.
• If you ever feel the need to thank God or the power of prayer for your recovery from illness or injury, please don't forget to also thank the people who studied and worked extremely hard to fix you up with real things.

Mmm. Miscellaneous. Bye!

Deus ex machina

My 'Get out of hell free' card
On our way to the supermarket today, Mitchell pointed to the epitome of architectural incongruity that is the St John the Baptist Catholic church in Woy Woy.
"What's that?" he asked.
Suddenly I was flung headlong into my first Atheist Parenting Challenge; something I knew was going to happen eventually, and for me, unchartered territory.
At around Mitchell's age, I started attending a Presbyterian pre-school and Sunday school, and was introduced to God and the Bible in a gentle, unassuming way. With adult hindsight, I'm sure this had more to do with a desire for peace and quiet at home on the part of my parents, rather than any kind of religious conviction. Nevertheless, it left me without a precedent for answering any questions of a churchy kind from my own offspring. I decided to keep it simple and see where the conversation led.
"That's a church", I offered plainly.
"What do churches do?" Mitch asked curiously.*
"Um... a church is a place where people go to talk about God," I replied, hoping it was satisfactory.
"Are there machines in there?" he asked, with growing enthusiasm.
"No".
"Oh."
And that was the end of that. No machines, apparently, equals no interest. If things stay that way, this atheist parenting business is going to be a cinch.

* There are SO many possible answers to this question.

Ahhh.

The kids are in bed.

This is how it feels:

*ahem*

Not for me a cache of jewels, nor shoes with four-inch heels;
I'm not concerned with how a silk-lined ermine jacket feels;
No undulating semi-rural properties for me;
No gold-leaf-sprinkled truffles will accompany my tea;
I'm not sure what a 'town car' is; nor 'age-defying serum';
And as for the High Roller set: I don't think I've been near 'em.
No masterpiece in gilded frame will hang upon my walls;
I've no designer lingerie, just mismatched socks and smalls
I'll never own an aircraft, neither sub- nor supersonic;
Just give me peace and quiet and a scrummy gin and tonic.

The Daughter-saurus #3

Dwiving Daddy to Distwaction

As I've previously mentioned, Amy's mastery of English is... shall we say... pending. She's got all the non-verbals right - her intonation and gesticulation are spot-on, if a little insistent and chubby. The only thing she's really got to work on now is the pronunciation of words. A mere trifle, really.

Usually hubby and I can work out what she's trying to say, by playing charades, making educated guesses or, as a last resort, holding up every item in the room consecutively until she says "Yay!" And like many other mummies, I'm a lot better at deciphering Amese than her father is. Except for yesterday.

I'm currently working on a lovely contract with my old employer (with money and everything!), in which I'm required to travel to Sydney once a week to make an appearance at head office. There were a few teething problems when I started, but Stocko is generally pretty awesome in the kid-minding department, and instances of exasperation are getting fewer and further between. Yesterday, however, I was sitting at my desk when my phone rang. It was Stocko. No hello - just the familiar sound of Amy's wail in the background, and Him Indoors asking desperately, "I give up. Babe, what does 'Mah-bwee' mean?"

We never did figure it out.

They're alive, and I'm pretty sure I know where they are.

It's not about what you do, it's about finding someone who does it worse.

Since kids were first invented, mothers have been wondering whether or not they're doing a good job. That's why sales of beautifully designed but basically useless parenting aids are so enormous. That's why I live in the shadow of the possibility of Government Kid People taking my beautiful wee ones away and locking me up. That's why I'm thinking of changing my kids' names to Worry and Doubt.

But before one goes out and spends hundreds of dollars on Mummy-facing prams, polysyllabic flash-cards or genetically-modified replacements, one must remember this:
Someone else is doing a crappier job than you.

I know this from hearing Paramedic Hubby's stories of kids with three-day-old fractures.
I know this from friends who've done Family Day Care and had kids turn up without shoes or breakfast and a scar from "playing with Daddy's razor".
I know this from school teacher friends who chase homework from kids who spend their after-school time cooking dinner for their siblings.

Sometimes, too, I'll get a first-hand glimpse, like the father and daughter who just strolled past my front window on the way home from the local primary school.
She was very upset about something, and sobbing to the point of hyperventilation.
He was saying, "Shut UP! All this sh*t about a f*cking pushbike! Jesus!"

Makes Mitchell's stumbling over verb-tense agreement kinda pale in comparison.

The Daughter-saurus #2

They're words, Amy, but let's just keep it between us.

Having a three-year-old (happy birthday plus eleven days, Mitchy!) who is teetering on the brink of Not Being Quite As Obnoxious, I'm really cherishing Amelia's 17-month-old-ness, because now I know. I know that it's only a few months until my precious little cling-on with wobbly legs becomes an all-kicking, all-screaming, all-possessing two-year-old. And one of the things I'm enjoying the most is the emerging language.

I couldn't tell you exactly which language is emerging from Amy - it sounds like English. That is, it's constructed of the same phonemes. But I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who understands it. When, for example, I point to a picture of a turtle in a book and she says, "Toe-too!", I look to whomever happens to be visiting as if to say, "See! She can say turtle!" and I get a look back that says, "Uh-huh. She's very special. Yes. Let's move on."

Nevertheless, I would like to dedicate this First Post in Bloody Ages to the cataloguing of my daughter's little collection of little words, whether I'm imagining them or not. Before I forget.

"Bow" - Bowl.
"Bowwwwwww" - Ball.
"Na-na" - Banana.
"Da!" - Daddy.
"Mimi" - Mummy.
"Da-deh" - Teddy.
"Roll roll roll roll roll" - Roll.
"Eye" - Eye.
"Ya" - Ear.
"Toe-too" - Turtle.
"Nonononononononono" - No.
"Boo!" - Boo!
"WAAAAAAAAA-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" - Mummy, Mitchell just snatched a toy out of my hand and pushed me over and my head hit the floor. Could you pick me up please?

These pudgy little piggies were made for walkin'

Stagger, stagger, wait, smile, stagger, plop, ray!

As the carers at kindy, the mummies at Playgroup, the creche staff at the gym, my mother, my sister and anyone who will listen will tell you, I've been announcing that Amelia was going to walk before her first birthday since she was about ten months old.

I was wrong.

I forgot that it is the Most Random Baby In The World's job to keep me guessing, so she chose April the 16th, her birthday, to take her first few steps. And do you think she was pleased with herself? She looked like the cat who caught the canary, brought it back inside to its owner only to find its bowl full of cat biscuits, full-cream milk and four more canaries.

Proud, proud mummy.

We marked the birthday occasion last weekend at a quiet morning tea with Nan, Pop, Grandpa, Reni, Auntie Jo and Auntie Robin, all of whom brought lovely pressies, including the coolest jeans I've ever seen - baby-sized or otherwise.

Mummy and Daddy presented Amy with Bunny 2, an imaginitively-named toy rabbit that I was given (alongside Jo's Bunny 1) at about the same age. Apart from Mitchell's middle name of Thornely (which may or may not get him beaten up at school), Bunny 2 is the first thing that I've handed down to the next generation. And I know it looked like I was crying, but it was just that Bunny had been sitting in a box for 30 years and I get a bit of hay fever. Really.

Now let's just take a moment to see what 12 months can bring...

Small. squashed.

All big and pot-bangy.

Now in the interest of balancing the kiddie see-saw, Mitchell has had a few lovely breaks from saying "NO!" to everything and correcting his parents ("You DO want to squash me, Mummy!") in order to display his entertaining and frankly astounding view of the world. Some examples:

• Whenever we pass a particular tree on the walk to the gym, he reaches out towards some fallen flowers and yells, "want a frangi-penny! Want a frangi-penny!"


• He will only be happy if his right shoe is put on before his left shoe these days. My growing concerns about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder are somewhat balanced by my bursting pride at him knowing his right from left.


• Reciting house numbers on long walks (see OCD comment above) remains a favourite pastime. I may have to start a new route, however, since he seems to have memorised which numbers on which houses are displayed, and which are not. Hence, on the way past the primary school, he'll tell me that "44" comes after "52", which it doesn't in the grown-up world. But sure enough, between number 52 and number 44, there are no house numbers displayed. Smarty-pants.

Oh, listen to me, all braggy braggy and such. They do horrid things too:

• Amelia is playing yo-yo with her secondary incisors. They seem to appear one day and be re-covered by gum the next, each occasion being announced loudly several times during the night. I've got a lot to thank Science for, and Baby Nurofen is currently at the top of my list.


• As hinted earlier, Mitch is about as contrary as a toddler can get, but only around his parents and his swimming teacher, it seems. If disagreeing was an Olympic sport, he'd be short-listed for 2012. He's a little bit like Jim Trott of Dibley in his delivery.


• If I am in the same room as Amy, she will hold my legs. It's all squidgy and gorgeous, until I want to go anywhere or do anything. Then I have to either walk very slowly, or prepare for a big wail.


• When not training for the Olympics, Mitch is trying for the record of the Latest Commencement of Toilet-Training Ever. I must have read about twenty-five articles or book chapters about the 'signs' to look out for that a toddler is ready for toilet-training, and I'm lucky if I can tick off a single one. He occasionally shows interest in sitting on the loo, but it's usually to distract Mummy's attention from a less-desirable option, like having a bath or going to bed. And the moment his bum-cheeks hit the seat, he says, "finished Mummy!" and I'm obliged to congratulate him on perching there in the first place. Sigh.

Ok, enough. You're all up-to-date. Now I'm sure I can find other ways to avoid doing work...

She's teeny AND weanie

Getting milk from a different set of cans

After nearly ten months of teasing, Amelia the boobaholic has finally, convincingly and repeatedly drunk formula from a bottle. Only four months after we initially intended!

What's more, the wee sproglet is not merely tolerating the stuff; she's literally gagging for it. It's like the Pretend Milk Fairy came into our house a couple of weeks ago, waved her magic wand and turned strange-smelling white powder into chocolate-flavoured chocolate. I only need to peel the lid back from the can and Amy's clawing her way up my leg, giggling excitedly and flapping her hands around like a 9-kilo hummingbird.

I'm bloody thrilled.

Now... tonight is the second night in a row that Amy has gone to bed without boob (as a result I can barely see the keyboard for swollen norks), and I reckon she'll be completely weaned by the end of February. I will, of course, miss those special couch-cuddles, and I'm not looking forward to watching my cushy boosies turn slowly southwards; but the rewards will be great. My posture will improve, my hormones will settle and maybe, just maybe, I can go out at night-time. Unbelievable.

I want to breeeaaak freeeee...

When domestic bliss = anthropomorphosis

When one has misplaced one's canvas, then ham and cheese will do.

Sometimes it's easy to tell that I've been shut in all day because of bad weather, trying to keep two small kidlets amused. For example, when dinner looks like this:

The Mitchionary #5

Unfortunately, we taught him everything he knows.

This instalment of the Mitchionary is quite simply to record the following, which was suddenly uttered in the car on the way home from the beach:

"What was that, Mummy? Sound like a fart."

And for the record, it wasn't.

When it rains, it pours. And crawls. And bites. And drinks from a bottle.

A downpour of daughtery development.
Any idiot knows not to turn one's back on a baby for too long (well almost any idiot - I'm talking to you, crazy lady with a pram who stopped in the middle of the road to scream at your smackie boyfriend yesterday. Aaaaah, Woy Woy...). This week at our house, every blink threatened to be an opportunity to miss a major milestone of Amelia's. A quick recap:

Thursday: Tooth Number One made an appearance. Not without two nights of announcements, mind.

Saturday: Proper, forwards, tummy-off-the-floor crawling happened. And, in the not-worth-doing-unless-you've-got-an-audience style of her mother, the gorgeous wee thing waited until no fewer than thirteen members of her extended family were standing around the lounge room having pre-Chrissy afternoon tea.

Monday: She. Drank. Formula. For the first time. After three months of trying. Almost a whole bottle. Her eyes rolled back with drunken pleasure and everything.

[internal monologue]
Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease don't be a fluke. Please be the start of something. Please let me join the ranks of People Who Hire Babysitters And Think It's Normal. Please don't stay on the boob until you're two.
[/internal monologue]

Anyway, I am once again a proud, excited, lucky Mummy. At this rate she'll be sneaking rocket fuel out of the house and coming home in a divvy van by Easter.

Now, in the interest of impartiality, I should also mention that Mitchell correctly identified a hexagon today. With only a smidge of brainwashi... erm... training.

The Daughter-saurus #1

My daughter does da-da
Hurrah! Amelia started proper babbling this week, with unmistakeable "Da-da-da"s all over the place. I had forgotten how rewarding and explodingly gorgeous it is to hear intentional and articulate sounds coming from someone who previously only farted, grunted, coughed and wailed her bedroom walls down.
As far as her vocabulary goes, we all know that an alveolar plosive is simpler to form for a 7-month-old than a bilabial nasal, right? In other words, 'da-da' more easy than 'ma-ma'. So there are still good things to come. Are you still reading this?

Richie's comeback

You look through here, and push this button...
An update on my Richie Cunningham Syndrome - a few short but heartfelt whinges to Stocko produced a few gorgeous results:

Now, if I could just get Mitch to co-operate, I might be able to get something resembling a family portrait happening...

The Mitchionary #4

My little sponge.
We've been watching our language around here, because it doesn't take long to realise how attentive and non-selective a two-and-a-quarter-year-old can be. Having said that, I was pretty impressed when Mitch refered to Karl Stefanovic as 'a nob' a few weeks ago. Here are a few poetic examples of what our chewable little bloke has sucked up from books, telly, music and twenty million pieces of junk mail (known as 'Mitchell's letters'):

Helmet like on a bicycle with Daddy and Mitchy don't hurt your head no
Helmet.

Like Roary the racing car neeeeeeeeyowm
Car.

Like Thomas woo-woo
Train.

Portant paper
Bank statements, bills, the ferry timetable etc.

Chippy-bikkie
Rice cracker

Bikkie-bikkie
Biscuit

Plis-mahi/Plis-dahi
A well-mannered suffix delivered in haste and designed to deliver a much-wanted item from either parent; for example, "Nuther chippy-bikkie plis-mahi"

Ab-see
The first three letters of the alphabet.

Watch-a-binsie...?
A question about the initial letter of words, for example, "Big A, Little A, Watch-a-binsie A?"

The Richie Cunningham Syndrome

What's her name... you know, Mitchell and Amelia's mother?

I've just had a spare second to consider blogging, and noticed that my picture (up there, to the right) is way out of date. So after wondering for a moment why no-one from my vast and various readership has requested a new photo (maybe they all did at once and broke the internet), I went searching for a recent shot of my two kids and me.

Nothing. Not a sausage.

I am officially suffering from Richie Cunningham Syndrome. Once upon a time I was in front of the camera on a regular basis. I even made a habit of jumping in front of the cameras of complete strangers (the thrill of which has diminished since everyone except my mother-in-law bought a digital camera).

But now I am constantly behind the camera. I have a squillion photos of my kids, and none of me, because I'm the one pushing the button and yelling, "Mitchell, first I take the photo, then it appears in the viewing window!" And as a result, despite the fact that I feed them, cuddle them, get up at night to settle them, clothe them, take them to Playgroup and sing songs about everything in the world to them, as far as my photo files can tell anyone, I hardly exist.

Ron Howard! That's his name. Phew.

Sugar and spice and all things oh, gross.

My little girl-shaped texta.

It's been a while since I've posted anything about wee Amelia. That's not because she hasn't done anything; it's because she's been doing a lot (right now I'm typing with one hand and holding on to a squirmy, gurgly, inquisitive baby who is simultaneously tring to ride an invisible bike and play an invisible piano with the other), and that doesn't leave much free time for blogging.

The poor sausage has had a marathon cold of late, and this morning after putting her down for a 'nap' (read: put her in her cot to flip over and spin like a helicopter until she gets uncomfortable and cries), I noticed that my right shoulder was peeling.

"That's odd," I thought to myself, "I don't remember getting sunburnt!" Then I realised that at some stage I'd given her a cuddle on my right side and she'd left a delightful snail-trail of snotty evidence. Bless.

Still, it's difficult to stay grossed out by someone who looks like this: