Lets Do The Time Warp Again...

Week one of being back in the (paid) working world has come to an end. Re-entering the remunerated workforce (do you get the theme, I’m fairly insistent I work anyways, regardless of being on a payroll or not!) has been a bit like stumbling in to a time warp. Take for instance my 2008 calendar, which had been excitedly flipped to 18 July 2008, and proclaimed in red pen it was my last day before Maternity Leave commenced. There is sat, still on that date, as if life had stood still while I was gone. And a bottle of dodgy wine, purposely left behind and hopefully bequeathed in my absence to any takers, still sat, uncorked and collecting dust. Like Kylie sang loud and proud in the 90’s, I felt like I’d stepped back in time! The big bad world in the city had continued to keep marching on too. People still push and shove for rare seats on the train, freaky unhinged types still harass lunchers gathered in Hyde Park for money and those filthy manky Ibis birds still skulk up on unsuspecting eaters and try to steal the food straight from your hands. I never knew my brain could hurt quite so much, so soon either. During day one alone, two dips in the medicated pain relief pool were required to stem the threat of my head spontaneously combusting. And on day three I suffered a coughing attack so severe I found myself with tears streaming down my face and breath dangerously out of reach from my body. Having a lingering flu has made the re-entry a little more trying, but it can only get better from here, once my health decided to pay a return visit to my body! Oh and if my son can get those next teeth through fairly soon, that would be a blessing too. He who usually sleeps so soundly at night chose this week to experiment with some long and torturous screaming sessions at rather ungodly hours. But still, I survived the day and again can only look forward to it being easier in the future. So I guess the main question is, did I miss my little man? Actually yes and no… Day One was far too much of a blur to think of much else but by Day 2 when I noticed some little ones around his age playing in the park, I had to squash down a pang of mothers guilt so strong I thought tears might spring to my eyes. And on Day 2 when I found myself alone in the office for an hour, the sound of silence (so unheard of in my life) was almost deafening to me! Whilst my brain and my feet are currently vying for the prize of which hurt the most (heels, people, how do you wear heels day after day after day?) I am pleased to report we have all survived and made it thru the other side intact. I think this is due largely to Tone playing “house husband” so next week when we are all trying to get out the door in the morning should be interesting… I only hope I manage to do so without forgetting to change out of my ugg boots and assemble an outfit in a valiant attempt to be on par with the glamazons who decorate our building every day…(a whole other story...)

All good things...

Just like when the credits roll in a Brad Pitt chick flick, all good things must come to an end. And here it is then, time for me to bid adieu to my Maternity Leave, the bubble about to burst entirely come 8.30am tomorrow morning when I weave my way thru the rat-race en route to my first day back as a member of the (paid) working world. So has it been all that imagined? In some ways, yes, and in other, it’s a big oh-no! Being a homebody I had long looked forward to the idea of having 12 months off after bub but oh, how different it is when reality kicks in to full swing! Like being a doctor on call 24/7 – you must be at your peak for any situation at any time of day (minus the attractive salary though). The “year off” morphs from being time away from the world in which you are remunerated for those tasks you do, to going to sleep at work, waking up at work, living at work, working weekends, public holidays, graveyard shifts… No switching off for you come 5.30pm thank you! Previous to parenthood, and peering through rose coloured glasses, I’d envisaged dabbling in all sorts of fun creative projects while on maternity leave. Not so! It was, initially just about surviving and spare time was earmarked solely for sleep! Even this blog, conceived of some 6 months back, took a back seat in favour of so many other tasks that required being done first. But those are the sacrifices we make the world over when we make the choice to bring another life into this world and there has gotta eventually come a time in life where you stop acting selfishly and start working all energy towards another little soul, right? Right! But all that being said and done, in other areas, I truly made the most of my maternity leave. With my penchant to come down with cabin fever after a few weeks walled up at home, it was convenient that we could take ourselves off on little trips here and there when the need arose. Any chance we had, we snatched up a cheap mid week flight and winged our way to Coffs Harbour for some “rehab” (read: Grandparents swooping in and doting on the Grandson while the new Mummy got some much needed rest!) or sidled alongside Daddy while he travelled somewhere for work. Oh yes, I am living proof you can make 12 small trips away in a year on a strict budget, let me assure you off that! (Though we thank K Rudd for the fancy Fiji getaway – couldn’t have done it without you PM!) Admittedly, while being a "working Mum" will no doubt create yet another chaotic dimension into our already hectic lives, I cant help but be excited about it. To think, I will be able to eat lunch without a little person climbing up my leg, demanding insistently that I share, even though he’s just polished off 2 courses of my home cooking. Oh, and to go to the bathroom in peace, what joy that will bring this! And there is the oh so delicious thought of a lunch hour to look forward too – I may just get back on track with socialising and doing a spot of shopping in peace! So yes, while we have survived the year emotionally and financially, its definitely time to return to the paid working world. The bank manager and the brain both agree it’s a necessity!

The husband has just enjoyed his first “daddy” b’day and while remarkably restrained when you consider you have an 11-month-old baby’s needs and routine to take into account, it’s safe to say he has enjoyed his special day in any case. He commented this morning (whilst cuddling his clever son who slept 12 and a half hours without uttering a single peep) that his best gift is given to him every day – having his little man in his life. A big softie with his son? Oh yes. But also the most amazing Dad there ever could be! Its funny thinking back to Tone's last b’day, me being 36 weeks pregnant and feeling like I was about to burst. Little could we have known what lay in wait…. Certainly many people tried to tell (read: warn) me, but you cannot truly know til you are living the life itself. And while I may have taken some extra time to adjust to this “new normal” as Tone labelled it early on, the husband just fell into his new domestic daddy role with absolute grace and ease. Some people are born to be parents, and my husband is one of them. He adjusted effortlessly to sleeplessness, serious responsibilities and surviving the early weeks, which were consumed with all things baby. He pulled the slack on many occasions when I was just so dead tired or overwhelmed, and constantly kept us smiling and buoyant with his everlasting support.

What a man, what a man, what a mighty good man… Happy birthday babe, thanks for saving our sanity on so many occasions! We adore you xxx

The Curious Case of Catnapper Harrison

Riddle me this: you have a son who is the King of all Cat-Nappers, struggling each day to put together a decent stretch of daytime sleep, instead preferring to nap only in short bursts (and therefore also drive his Mummy mad when so many other kiddies can successfully snooze in long stretches). Why then, when we put our son into Daycare, does he miraculously learn the skill to sleep for over four hours in a seven hour day?!

The mind boggles, it truly does. So many mothers have previously felt duty bound to forewarn me how little their loved ones sleep once day-care commences. No problem, I thought. I know for a fact my son can still operate on two 45 minute naps in a 12 hour period if need be, so I was not perturbed by this usually unwelcome information at all. In fact, I thought, almost with guilty relief, for once its going to be someone else’s problem trying to keep Harrison happily amused for all those sometimes endless hours!

Just goes to show, they are ever changing little creatures. I nearly fell off the chair the first time I heard he’d slept for TWO AND A HALF HOURS in one stretch one morning. In 11 months I do not think I have EVER experienced such a mammoth day sleep from him in the supposed comforts of home. And then the next day, just to keep playing to suit, he put together 2 hours in the morning, and was working on another two that afternoon when Mummy strolled in at 4.10pm to collect him, thinking he’d well and truly be awake from him 2.15pm nap. Seems not!

So I put this miraculous feat down to one of three factors:

1. Such is his desire NOT to be in Day-care that the only alternative is to doze away the day. I can only imagine his line of thinking goes something like this: “Maybe if I keep pushing out the zzzzzz’s for a few hours on end, this place wont seem so bad, nor the day long. All the sooner for Mummy to come back to rescue me!"

2. Perhaps the vast array of social interaction and copious distractions work a treat to tire out my over active child. Sleep then would be a grateful relief after being so busy, busy, busy

3. He’s just doing it to taunt me as payback for putting him in Childcare. Not even one year old and already playing emotional mind games with Mummy.

Back on the home front and I am yet to experience one of these sleeps of myth and legend that I have heard so much about. But I tell you, he has created a rod for his own sweet little back. Now I know he can do it, I’ll be doing all in my power to encourage this cracking pace he has set at school is continued in the home… Wish me luck!

The Donna Day

Yesterday I did the unfathomable; I indulged in a day devoted entirely to myself. A Donna Day. Mothers the world over would no doubt be divided into 2 camps over this issue – shock at such blatant shirking of parental duties, or sheer envy at the luxurious thought. But I argue, don’t we all deserve a day devoid of responsibilities? I think yes! Okay, so it was hard to switch off, and the lingering guilt never completely abated, but my God, at the very same time, it was bloody nice to relax for once! And I mean reeeeeelllllaaaaax! I treated myself to a long overdue facial (which happened to be heaven itself, if you are interested), returned overdue social phone calls and hired a long sought after DVD (Edward Cullen, sigh…). And hard as it was, I resisted all temptation to tend to the piled high washing, ignored the still half unpacked suitcase, and turned a big blind eye to the various assortments of mess that were still left scattered from my child’s play the day before. Not an easy task for this reformed neat freak to do! Blissful as it was, I noticed I couldn’t help but peek at the clock and think about my boy and wonder how his day was faring. As he was FAR from happy about being left at Daycare that day! 3 phone calls in the 6 and a half hours did do a lot to ease the remorse though! There is also the fact I actually got a chance to rest up and rid myself of my cold – something I NEVER get to do. So while my brain was still slightly admonishing such indulgence, my body (and my restored health!) is at least thanking me.

So I say to any mother reading this, TAKE TIME OUT WHEN YOU CAN! Its as rare as a precious gem you stumble across in a garage sale so if the opportunity presents itself, grab it with both hands and banish any guilt from your mind. After all, who knows when such a time may show itself again????

The Cold War

So it would seem that old adage about putting your kiddie into childcare and them being subsequently exposed to all manner of sickness does indeed ring true. Because sure enough, two days under our day-care belt and the whole Webeck family are brandishing head colds from hell.

We are back in the land of the living – but barely! And it all began after Harrison and I hitched our wagon to Tone’s Brisbane work trip for 6 days. Oh yes, its all fun and games going away until someone gets sick. Or in this case, some-three-people end up ill. But, such is the matter made from myths and legends, that parents, like the great Phoenix, we rise from our ailing ashes and amble on!

Take for instance this past Tuesday. Its 5.55am in Brisbane, my alarm springs to life signalling this day must begin. Which is fine except only a few hours back I was getting rather personally acquainted with the bathroom tiles and toilet bowl. Which (without spelling it out further) signifies a mammoth lack of sleep and a matching cold and tummy bug to boot. No problem, except I am due on a plane in 2 hours and have to get packed up, checked out and to the airport, all with sick son and husband who is also not running at 100%.

The son, being unwell, naturally does not wish to be fed his breakfast in the car en route to airport. Mummy, also being unwell, naturally does not have energy to fight, instead indulges in some slight cursing under her breath at the timing of this illness. Daddy, in the front, and safely away from the commotion in the back seat, wisely offers choice words of comfort to wife and child before zooming off down the Coast to work (read play golf).

So, then, picture this. 5 foot tall mum, barely able to stand straight with fear of retching, has 10kg son strapped to self in Baby Bjorn Carrier. With free hands she pushes 7kg pram and 10kg luggage, with nappy bag barely shrugged on to her shoulder, negotiating oncoming traffic and fellow passengers, and all the while acutely aware her plane will board at any time. Oh the joys of the cold war, a battle fought on many fronts…

Check in done, we approach the treacherous security station. Now, in Sydney its insisted that you remove the Baby Bjorn Carrier from your self and allow it to be X-rayed, because, oh, I don’t know, its an obvious place to conceal a weapon?! Give me strength! Anyhow, dutifully, I commence laborious movements and untangle myself from various hand luggage and son only to then be told by Guard “in Queensland, we don’t make mothers do this”. Helpful yes, BUT PERHAPS ABOUT FIVE MINUTES EARLIER, when you were standing there watching me painstakingly remove this device that on a good day I need a university degree to work out how to use!

None the less, we arrive at the Gate where I heave myself and Harrison towards the criminally cheerful attendant, wondering whether I have time to get a piece of toast to feed my supposedly famished son. “Sure” she says, all smiles “10 minutes til boarding”. But of course, moments from dragging my feet to the food queue, they call our flight to board, asking for people travelling with Children to take first preference. I sigh and readjust my ever increasingly heavy son; toast will have to wait.

On board and all is settled. We’ve unpacked all our required bag of tricks for the 90 min flight and I’m gratefully resting my head on my beautiful boys soft skin. That is, until a slight commotion breaks out in the aisle near me. Apparently someone has sat in the wrong allocated seat. Boarding Passes are being checked. I almost shake my head in pity at the silly person who has done this.

Apparently that silly person was me.

So there we go again, me mustering my invisible well of strength and scooping up all our goods and dumping then unceremoniously in the seat in front. I then spend the next 90 minutes both remembering to breathe and holding my breath all at once. The sick bag is being constantly kept within reach, but gratefully not needed to be used.

You can be thankful for small mercies. The plane was on time, my boy was mostly well behaved (minus the smearing of half a blueberry muffin on to my lap) but come baggage collection time I was spent. With no energy left to even stand, I crouched down with the pretence of whispering something into my son’s ear, but all I was truly doing was storing some energy to try and now get all our worldly goods home.

But we made it. And after putting my son straight to bed, I collapsed in one giant crumpled heap on the lounge room floor, relief flooding through me we'd made it this far, relatively intact! And, despite the fact later that afternoon I rang my husband tearfully telling him that my wallet had been stolen (it was in fact sitting on the dining room table, a minor detail I noticed AFTER I cancelled my debit card) and almost crashed the car when parking in our garage (mental note, keep applying break, don’t for some reason switch to accelerator when brick wall is approaching) we have survived to tell the tale.

Murphy’s Law will have it that we’ll no doubt continue to be on the battering end of more foul colds before this year is out. There has been 5 in 9 months at last count for me alone, and all at a time when I can LEAST afford to be sick. There is no languishing in my sick bed, sleeping away what ails me or dozing in front of bad daytime TV. No, instead life must go on as my boss (Harrison) insists that sick leave was not a part of my contract when we negotiated our terms of agreement. Certainly its fine for him to be ill and have me tend to his varied ailments (we’d agreed that upfront and signed it off) but for some reason he’s not so sure about Mummy taking time out to tend to her own wounds inflicted in this oh so cold war…

And then there were tears...

Day two of Daycare has dawned, and the highly anticipated tears finally arrived. Not a flood, mind you, as originally expected, but enough for the Mother Guilt to momentarily kick in. Oh and there was the subsequent attempt by Harrison to claw his way up my leg with the intention of being cuddled and (I strongly suspect) carried back out to the car. Not fun for this Mummy, no, but at least I know he does prefer my company after all! Was a tad concerned after yesterday’s valiant display of the stiff upper lip… Thankfully the fantastic carers on hand swooped in and sorted the situation, as only they could. Cue distraction in the shape of yesterdays favourite toy, and all sobs subsided nicely. And to complete the separation sequence nicely, with the mere mention of morning tea he was willing to be wrenched from my arms and seated happily, awaiting the arrival of food. But back to Day One briefly – we received a lovely page of photos of Harrison interacting and playing nicely (no evidence of any child being clocked by his lightning speed “Helicopter Harry” hands, thank Goodness!) and report card recounting his “great first morning”. It also reeled off a list of achievements and host of friends names. Phew, our money is not going to waste! As a reward we are spiriting him away to sunny Queensland for 6 days. Well, that and the fact his Daddy has to go for work and Mummy wants to celebrate Al’s 30th and see 3 of her fave gals! So he will have 144 hours of my undivided attention to make up for the two mornings of missing Mummy!

Mere Male...

 

Dear MALE midwife "expert" in the UK:

It has come to my attention that you call yourself some sort of specialist in the arena of childbirth. Which is strange, seeing as though you are a MAN, and therefore could not have experienced anything on par to the pain this excruciating experience holds.

In fact, pain is not a strong enough word.

Perhaps I’ll paint you a picture instead: a 100kg man kicking you repeatedly in the family jewels (say for oh, 9 hours) with steel capped boots, whilst someone else whacks you continually in the lower abdomen and back with a baseball bat that has been roasted in an open fire. All with the aim of passing a 4kg watermelon with a supposed smile on your dial.

We’ll see then if you’ll be requesting some strong pain relief. My bet is you’ll be begging for mercy!

So how dare you?! Only a male (and therefore incapable of ever knowing the excruciating pain that is childbirth) could advocate something so preposterous!! Leading up to my own labour experience, I did all the right “drug free” preparations. Yes, that included forking out $300 and 5 Thursday nights of my free time for the privilege of attending a “Calmbirth Class”. 

I then subsequently spent another $200 on apparently imperative labour enhancing extras and diligently prepared for the event as if I was studying for a medical degree and about to deliver him myself at home. But when Mother Nature fails to read your birth plan, and all chaos and trauma unfolds, then I’m afraid you don’t have much choice but to accept her path and follow. And if that includes the whole gamut of drug options on offer (all which were gladly accepted by me), then why would one refuse? Because as I recall, there are no medals offered after the miracle event for those who have run the marathon free from medical intervention. 

Yours in epidural elation,

AN ACTUAL MOTHER!

Debut of the Daycare Daze

The deed is done. The dastardly and dreaded daycare drop-off numero uno is officially over. Outcome? A tad bewildered, slightly perplexed, but importantly, no cascading waterfalls of tears. I on the other hand have shed a couple - all in the name of that inglorious innovation “Mother’s Guilt”. I suppose I should be pleased he did not have to prised from my leg like some protesting hippie chained to a tree. And I really ought to be glad there were no floods of tears but the teeniest part of me wonders why not???? Is it truly such a treat to be taken away from Mummy for a morning? I guess when there is a motley crew of excitable kiddies waiting to greet you at the door, and a vast array of new toys on offer and new environment to be explored, there is really no reason to get upset. Right??? Well, that’s what I am telling myself anyway. Plus, like any man, the way to his heart is through his stomach. And there being food on offer as I left proved the perfect distraction tool for my culinary loving little one. His big blue eyes did follow me all the way out the door, wide eyed and of course curious but my little champ stayed strong. And despite my threats, I bravely did not sit myself on the park bench opposite the Centre, disguised behind sunglasses, a magazine and hot chocolate, and wait out the 4 hours in anxious anticipation, on hand in case I was needed. No, I managed to keep it together til I came home to a comforting hug from the husband and a few reassuring words. Of course I have already rung to make sure he is still ok (yes, I have only been home half an hour but its at least put my mind at ease, I think…). And still, no tears! Seems I have one very independent son who’s Mummy is already surplus to requirements!!!! Lets just wait til his morning nap time; I gather they’ll garner some longing tears for Mummy then! Now, time to keep busy (so I stop watching the clock) and savour this rare peace and solitude while it lasts...

D Day Cometh...

I don’t know if it’s an icy fist of fear that is clenched around my heart or the cold hard excitement of having a few hours to myself on a weekday that is making me feel this way. You see, tomorrow is D-Day: Harrison’s first day at Daycare. The one part of me is eager for this next chapter of my life to unfold; that I will be back contributing a part me to the world that does not revolve around all things baby. The other part (more dominant at present with the event looming large) is wondering how on earth I am going to walk away from my beloved beautiful little boy and leave him (no doubt in tears) with a bunch of veritable strangers? It almost feels criminal, akin to abandonment. Harrison, how do I explain thee???? “Sorry, but Mummy is going a little brain dead and feels like life has morphed into some sort of Groundhog Day. You don’t mind if she leaves you in the care of complete strangers while she tries to patch up a personal void in her life?” So here is what I keep rationalising, in order to keep me sane.

1. He is not the first child to be left in DayCare, and he wont be the last. Hell, even my nephew who cried for the first year of being dropped off eventually got over to enjoy his time out from Mummy.
2. Socially, this is where little kids get the opportunity to flourish. At home, I cannot guarantee him three days week of group interaction. And as he adores other kids and has a habit to smile and offer baby chitchat to complete strangers in the supermarket, I imagine he will be relishing the social aspect in no time at all.
3. Arts and Crafts in my house? No thank you. I live in a unit and have barely the space to keep his toys in some sort of orderly area. Plus I am a (semi-reformed) neat freak and the idea of finger painting in my own home leaves a chill down my perfectionist spine. I’d happily participate in someone else home, mind you… just not my own!
4. It also comes down to the fact that I really have no choice. Barring a lotto windfall to pay off the mortgage, it seems I should re-commence contributing to that once more. Plus the selfish part of me wants to buy clothes again. Nice clothes. The novelty of donning only comfy attire 7 days a week has finally worn off. Time to bring out the heels and handbags again people!

But yes, as much as I talk it up, I know I’ll be no doubt paralysed by tears and fears as I make the slow walk back to the car come 9am tomorrow morning. I’ll do my best not to hide behind a disguise of sunglasses and a magazine in the park across the road…

The Big Bad World Of Birthday Parties

We got ourselves a good first glance through the window of a whole new livewire wide world today: the arena that is children's birthday parties. 

So the lessons I have learned are (many, and) as follows: 

• Fruit is superfluous. Yes, do the honourable host thing, plate it up and put it out, but don't be disappointed if you clear the table at the end of festivities and find its all there, completely untouched. Why on earth would a 3 year old munch away on a piece of banana when there is fairy bread on offer? I am an adult (who therefore should know better) and I too thumbed my nose at the healthy selections in favour of the sausage rolls. 
• You ought to also best steer clear of noisy, novelty horns, no matter even if they come with the complete Thomas The Tank Engine Party Pack. Not only do they damage the hearing of everyone in the vicinity, but they can also prevent an 11 month old baby from sleeping, (but hey, that's to be expected at a kid's party I suppose!) 
• Someone will always get hurt. In this case it was the birthday boy, smacked in the head by an errant plastic golf ball unfortunately shanked by his now shattered uncle Tone. Honestly, I don’t know who felt worse, Logan with his red welt rising immediately on his forehead, or Tone, ruefully lamenting the freak moment which saw the ball somehow swing his nephew's way. Tears will abound! 
• Without a doubt, you will ALWAYS provide too much food, thus ensuring you will be forced to feed on popcorn and party sausage rolls for a week and your child will be sent to day-care brandishing treats to distribute to all for at least three days running. 
• Who needs fancy party games when there is a treasure trove of new toys to be shared around? The little lads whizzed around the backyard creating a roller derby with miscellaneous trucks, whipping up the sand-pit in a tyre squealing frenzy, while the girls (of which there were only a few), were happy to indulge in bit of face painting here, a couple of trucks "being friends" there.... 

• Got yourself a catnapper like me? Then let me be the first to confirm, after a morning soaking up the atmosphere of fun, your sweet child will then blissfully sleep the whole afternoon away so soundly you’ll suspect someone must have slipped something into his slice of birthday cake! Harrison was just in his element, trying to keep up with the big kids! That's when he wasn't eating grass, mind you... Or being pushed (far too fast, in my opinion) on the swing by his daredevil Poppy... 
• Also, when the mother of the birthday boy happens to be 33wks preggers, perhaps its best to re-consider even having a party after all. If ever an early onset of labour were to eventuate, it would be now. Thank Goodness then for sourcing a team of helpers to halve the load! Daddy, Nanny, Poppy, Uncle, Aunty – and even the next door neighbours – all are a must. 

I swear I am even having sympathy Braxton Hicks pains for you Sis, but then again, that just could be all the party food talking...

The Parethood Apprenticeship

I’ve just spent the past hour reminiscing, lost in the 1st year of my nephew Logan’s life. The alarming thing is how fast the years have flown til now, with him celebrating his 3rd birthday today. The 1am phone call, the dash to the hospital 3 weeks earlier than anticipated, me attempting to blindly read the birth plan my sister so lovingly created (yet inconveniently not required to be used), all whilst trying not hyperventilate with utter excitement at the same time…. Watching first hand, overcome with awe, as new life was welcomed into this world… Ahhh, feels like yesterday! And to be bluntly honest, a MUCH more pleasant memory than my own experience, which I am STILL trying to move forward from! Life truly has been coloured by all things Logan these past three years – allowing me an apprenticeship in the arena of parenthood so valuable that I wonder: without such a trainee -ship what sort of mother would I have turned out to be? Could I have survived those early days without a couple of years of watching first hand how it was all done? My sister has been my God-send; an all knowing, all seeing and overflowing fountain of knowledge that has been drawn from on countless occasions this past 11 months of parenthood. How she coped in those early days without, well, one of "her", I'll never know. Because it's a certainty in my mind that my own journey has been made all the more manageable thanks mainly to the ride I shared with her, raising their son Logan James Stewart.

I've watched, I've listened, I've learned - and I will no doubt continue to do so for many more years to come! Sure, a few times her little bouncing bundle of joy was left in my care he may have gone home wearing a backwards nappy but in my defence, she told me the print goes the front - but what to do when you see a both sides sporting cartoon images? Oh how I roll my eyes with irony at that memory, considering the mountains of nappies I have successfully negotiated since...

I got a kickstart on settling, sleeping, solids and all sorts of things associated with babies. And there was finally an inkling of what it was like to love a child with every inch of your being, but also an insight into how times could be very trying indeed. In fact, knowing that the whole motherhood process was not made from the fluffy fabric that many TV shows would have us believe, helped me dive into my own expedition with a fair sense of realism I otherwise would not have had. It scares me, how fast the clock has ticked by; I have no doubt that time will again do me no favours by failing to stand still as I watch my own son blossom from a bub to a boy. I’ve no crystal ball stashed away in my cupboard, but I can bet that my son is going to be barrel of boisterous energy, just like his beloved big cousin. And in no time at all too. From the moment he gained momentum and began crawling at the achingly early age (in my books) of 7 months, there has not been a backwards glance. Too much to do, to touch, to see, mountains of mischief awaiting his discovery…

And to my delight, I can confirm that if nothing else, I learned one thing: never has my son been seen sporting a nappy on the wrong way. So Logie Bear, here's to you for showing me the reigns!

Here's to you, Logie Bear!

This one goes out to my Little Logie Bear, my gorgeous nephew who turned 3 today. How time has flown, my precious boy! To think, 3 years ago we marvelled at the wonder that was you, soft skin, pink with nubile newness, those wide eyes gazing out at the world framed with your luscious, long lashes. And now you have blossomed into a little man, with the cheekiest of all eyebrows and grins, and a nature so inherently soft and loving (despite the odd road bump on the way to the “naughty chair”) who truly cherishes those he loves. Before you came along, never could I have imagined loving a child as I do you – I guess it’s the special bond we share seeing as though I was there to help welcome you into the world. And now I know first hand what that sort of deep love is like, with my own little Harrison. He adores his big cousin (bossy or not!) as much as we do.

Happy birthday Logan James, we love you xxx

Nothin' quite like Nanny & Poppy!

My son is suffering from acute attention withdrawals today – and all because he is missing his beloved Nanny & Poppy. Having had their devoted and undivided attention since Sunday, Harrison is wandering around a little lost without someone there to scoop him up and snuggle with him at any given moment, or to just simply sit and play endlessly, as he loves. Unfortunately Mummy doesn’t have the time to do just that all day long and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. He is looking for his Grandparents to fulfil this desire as only they can. For example, my overly energetic son always struggles to sit still for the entire reading of a children’s book. So you can imagine my surprise when I walked in the door the other afternoon to find Harrison and his Poppy snuggled up on the lounge under a doona, book in hand and Harrison’s unbroken concentration snared. Maybe it’s the fact I read out loud the correct story as printed where as Poppy tends towards constructing his own hilarious versions to match the pictures on the page (most of which cannot be repeated and thankfully none of which my son will understand!) that garnered his attention so successfully? Or perhaps it’s just that they continually lavish loads of love and attention upon him, like when his Nanny makes funny faces that he cries with laughter at, and then spends the rest of the day trying to copy. This morning, it nearly broke my heart, watching him in the first bleary-eyed moments after he woke from his nap. He stared straight past me down the hallway, little head crooked to the side, big blue eyes gazing expectantly. But no one else came… And he just sat, with that cute little face cocked to the side in anticipation, waiting to see who would follow, because for the last few days his waking had been met with almost carnival atmosphere! I guess we are both a little lost, truth be told. There always seems to be a huge gaping hole in our world when the grandparents have vacated. Not having the luxury of having them live close by means that visits are met with mountains of excitement, but departures dredge up such sadness in us both that we seem to spend the first part of the adjustment period individually moping about the place. I think for me too, having them here means I can get a million times more tasks achieved in a day than when its just Harrison and I home alone, him hanging off my leg like a koala clinging to a swinging tree limb whilst I try to move around the kitchen or lounge room with the aim of getting things done. Not an easy feat, I assure you!

Its not all bad, they are just down the road at my sisters for 2 more days, so we can get our fix again tomorrow and Saturday. Because having one happy little Harrison equals one merry Mummy!

"Celebrity" Shopper?

Yesterday we did the unthinkable and forced our son on to a “semi” or “former” celebrity. Well, celebrity to me anyway, a die-hard football fan from way back. We were shopping for my Dad, when we stumbled upon the shop Lowes. And who should be in there filming one of their famous ads but Paul Sironen and Ryan Girdler… The lovely Sales Assistant caught on the fact I was twittering excitably in the background as she tried to nail the sale. She then proceeded to stride off and ask if Sirro minded having a photo with our son! I tried to subtly point out we had no camera with us but she cleverly commented there was always my camera phone… So it was a done deal. The lovely gentle giant former footballing legend came on over and cuddled my wide eyed little man. Perhaps he was happily obliging because maybe not many people stopped and asked him for photos these days. Or perhaps he was just a genuinely nice guy. I’d like to assume the latter! So does that mean I am going to turn into one of those mums? The type who demands my son sidle up to stars so I can snap shots to be lovingly adorned on the pool room wall? My mother-in-law has many such photo’s that my husband admits he sometimes gratefully, sometimes grudgingly agreed to be in – and one, coincidentally with Sirro as it turns out. Other times he himself instigated the camera action. But he looks back now consents in hindsight that he is glad of the chance to have those memories in print.. Harrison has a lot of catching up to do if he wants to rival the star studded sporting gallery that his Daddy lays claim too. There are happy snaps with Mark Taylor, Muz Fenech, Fatty Vautin, Michael Campbell, Steve Bucknor… And oh the list goes on! But at least, I suppose, Harrison has started his “celebrity” collection and if he is anything like his sport loving Daddy he too will no doubt amass an array of pics as the years go on…

Only problem now, I have no bloody idea how to get the photo off my camera – which roughly means once the phone runs out of contract in about a year, so too will the photo!

I'll have what she's having...

I don’t know about you, but I’m fairly precious when it comes to my favourite foods. Which translates into, “I want to savour every last morsel and I don’t want to share”. No, not even with you my son and light of my life. Perhaps its because I relish food, and the whole eating process, when it comes devouring something I have been mentally drooling over for some time before hand.

Sadly this kind of purely selfish behaviour now is no longer to be tolerated. My son has seen to that. If I am eating a Chicken salad sandwich then he wants to be eating it too. Similarly it could be any type of food, including ones not designed to be digested by his little tummy, but if I am caught putting hand to mouth then you can be sure he’ll come clambering over with the sole intention of sharing in the delicacy on offer.

And he is getting greedier (if I can be forgiven for using that word on my precious boy!) Saturday for instance we lunched at Taren Point, a farewell for friends leaving, and I did happily oblige in sharing my hot chips with Harrison. The problem arose however when I proceeded to break off a tiny amount for him to chew on. He swatted my hand away and lunged for the other hand, which was still holding the far more sizeable chunk of chip. I fear the split between sharing is no longer 80% - %20 but moving at an ever increasing speed of 50% - 50%!

And it’s not just me who has to hand over half my food. On particular morning teatime at Playgroup, a sweet little girl was happily chewing away on her mushy pear. Sensing something sweet on offer, my son came crawling at high speed from the complete other end of the room and invited himself up on to the unsuspecting mum’s lap, mouth rounded in anticipation like a little sparrow awaiting its first meal! At least he has a healthy attitude towards food, I hear you say. I couldn’t agree more and am very grateful for that. It’s just that no one should get between my vegemite on toast and me. Not even you George Clooney and now, that means you too, Harrison Webeck!

Poo Pandemonium

We’ve had a crap related catastrophe of epic proportions today. I can’t believe I am about to type this but… I think my son may have sampled some of his own poo. Cue mortified screech!

Now I can’t be sure, but from my frantic angle at the time, it was a close call. Let me explain how the poo pandemonium came to be, before you call DOCS on me.

Its Saturday evening, and Harrison and I are home alone after the husband has gone to footy. My son, during his dinner, has emitted some serious grunting and groaning, which was not the surprising feat. Oh no, it was more after the fact, as I scooped him out of his high chair and felt a distinctly wet patch against my clothes that I remembered he wasn’t wearing one of his more foolproof Nappies. Mistake Number 1.

Mistake number 2 was made some time before, when holidaying in Fiji. Whilst allowing 41 nappies for a 6 day holiday should have been an ample supply, it of course proved to be none too many for my serially soiling son. Fast forward to the last day and I am forced to make a fleeing trip to 5 different shops to purchase some Huggies to get us home. Unfortunately for me, only a flimsy variety were on offer, and in the interest of getting value for money, I have been using them at the end of each day when I can always guarantee no nappy will last on my son for more than 2 hours. Mistake number 3.

So there I was, home alone, trying to run an emergency early bath for my son, and keep him sitting in a safe spot. Cue Mistake Number 4…. In the madness of trying to juggle the act of getting the bath run, the towels ready, his pj’s out, not to mention the stack of wipes I knew I’d be needing to clean up the offending mess, Harrison Houdini escaped and proceeded to toddle off down the hall towards me. No problem, only that he stopped suddenly and turned ever so slightly, in a manner which made me nervous. Something had caught Mr Curious’s eye. And before I could lunge and scream “NOOOOOOOOOOO” he’d picked up a perfectly rounded teeny pebble of poo and proceeded to pop it into his mouth. AAARRRGGGHHHH!

My hand swooped in and swooshed the offending particle out, but I suppose I cant be sure if I got it all, God forbid. He did screw up his face, as if to say, Hmmmm, this isn’t Mum’s cooking…. Which is a good thing I gather, otherwise if it tasted the same as the meals I lovingly made for him, I’d give up and turn to the pre-packaged variety! But it was then, in the distance I saw another, larger suspicious specimen which had somehow also escaped the confines of his feeble Fijian nappy. Diving in a manner which would do a Baseball player racing for the Home Plate proud, I pounced before he discovered it as well, thus avoiding Mistake Number 5 being born.

Then to the mammoth task of cleaning up the kid. It was EVERYWHERE. I barely knew whether to just toss out the clothes or attempt a clean up. In the interests of his limited wardrobe I responsibly chose the latter. After all, I am totally impervious to poo, so cleaning it up hasn’t been too bad. Its just trying scrape it off your son’s flailing feet, and seeing it land in every which direction on the nappy change table which can be a bit disconcerting.

I think The Husband jinxed us as he left for the football today. He jokingly warned his son not to poo in the bath (a habit Harrison has grown accustomed too, for some reason, when its just he and I here). Little did we know the crap catastrophe was going to be of far greater proportions!!!

Now then, if you will excuse me, I think I have earned myself half a block of Cadbury’s and a glass or 2 of wine…

You sure can stumble upon some strange people in a Supermarket. Today for instance, there I was, standing in the frozen veggies section (yes, shock horror, I do buy the non-fresh variety at times) when suddenly I sensed someone standing right up close behind me. I turned expectantly, only to find an old lady, whom I can best describe as “eccentric’ right there in my personal space, staring pointedly at me, as if to say “well, are you going to move out of my way today or some time into next week?”. Being the polite person I am, I offered a smile and duly moved Harrison and myself from her way. But then, to my great surprise, she took only one small step forward, basically standing in the same warm spot I’d just silently been asked to vacate! I myself stood frozen in horror (like the peas and carrots before us) for a few moments at the audacity of it all. Sure, I’ll move my 8 kg pram, which was holding my 9.5kg son, not to mention the couple of kilos worth of groceries crammed into the hand basket that was balancing precariously atop the pram as I pushed it, just so she could step that extra 5cm along. She then proceeded to ignore my presence, choosing to stand and stare vaguely into the frozen food section while I huffed and puffed my way along to the bread aisle. But it’s not just the supermarket in which I, in the role of Mum, have encountered strange, un-child friendly behaviour. There unfortunately does exist a breed of people who just make no allowances for parents pushing prams. I remember one occasion months ago when I was visiting friends in the City; it was as if we were lepers, with so many shops only accessible after climbing half a dozen stairs or so. Needless to say we didn’t spend any of our money there! And then there were the crowded street corners. Certainly they weren’t created with mother & child in mind… Why else would my pram and myself barely squeeze on to the sidewalk, squished in with the lunchtime throng that had spilled out to soak up the summer sunshine. City folk (of which I was formerly one) stride with a sense of purpose – a mere mum and her stroller (the size of a small car!) prove no obstacle. It was if we were playing dodgem cars with them, ducking and weaving our way through the seemingly oblivious masses, making large allowances for them, so that they didn’t have to step out of our way. God forbid…

So do me and my kind a favour when you see us coming. Don’t hesitate to take a sidestep out of our way; it’ll make our day!

Hi Ho Hi Ho, Its Off to Orientation We Go!

Today we marked off a major milestone in Harrison's little life - "unofficial" commencement of Daycare. OK, so yes, perhaps it was just Orientation taking place and yes, it consumed only one hour of aforementioned little life - as opposed to the 25 a week it soon will feed off - but to us, it felt like a landmark occasion.

Getting to this point however has taken some groundwork. Me being, well, me, put my child on their waiting list when the young one was but a bump on my body. Perhaps the 50 badgering calls over the last 4 months helped our cause too. Pays off though, being so anally organised, and annoying, as we got him a place in perfect time for me to return to the (paid) working world. You see, garnering a childcare place at your choice of Centre, when you live in Sydney, is about as likely as winning the recent Oz Lotto jackpot. But win we did and we are extremely happy with the choice.

But oh, the paperwork...! Who knew there was so much detailed information to be ascertained??? Certainly not me, who rocked up casually earlier in the week to fill in a form or two, only to be greeted with an application "novel" akin to applying for college or to live permanently in a foreign country! But one supposes when it comes to the most precious asset you have, one should be grateful rather than grizzle about the in depth knowledge they ask to be provided before accepting your child into their centre.

So, its done and dusted, this Orientation gig and we the parents, while slightly overwhelmed by some aspects feel largely secure in the knowledge our boy will continue to blossom in this new environment. The whole hour we were there Harrison barely gave us a backwards glance, quite content to amuse himself with the exciting array of new toys on offer, and to suss out the other kiddies at play.

Whether or not he was trying to exert an early presence, we are not exactly sure. All I can say definitively is that he picked the youngest, and also least mobile child and proceeded to dive for it's dummy and when not successful at removing it, gave the poor little guy a few touch up whacks on the face for good measure. Arrrggghhh... Cue mortified embarrassment from Mum and lightning speed discipline and distraction techniques from Dad, and we decided to go before our "visa" was revoked!

Playgroup - Paranormal or Phenomenal?

What would you think if you stumbled upon a motley crew of adults and little ones, congregated in an old church hall, complete with mis-matched and mostly ratty rugs on the floor and virtually covered with a thin veil of ice due to lack of heating, where the many and varied attendees sit in a circle and chant occasionally... Welcome to the world of Playgroup, people!

OK, so perhaps that paragraph above paints Playgroup in an unfair light but truth be told, that was exactly how I felt the first time I walked in on an afternoon session, which was smack bang in the throes of sing-a-long time. I was left bereft of breath and sense, as if I had entered a parallel universe! Of course, all in attendance in the merry little singing circle wore bright and happy faces and clapped in utter delight - when not clapping each over the head accidentally with toys. I knew not what went on in these seemingly kiddy cult gatherings and was so freaked out by the almost surreal cheesiness of it all it took me three weeks to venture back!

But then, I got over myself. Its not about me anymore; its about Harrison. He ADORES the opportunity to play with kiddies his age, and relishes the change of scenery and abundance of different toys to be enjoyed. And its quite a sociable atmosphere, almost like Group Therapy, I'd imagine, where we gloat or groan over the many misgivings or magic milestones of our bundles of joy. However Harrison, like me, doesn't appear overly fond of the singing aspect, squirming no doubt in embarrassment at Mummy's slightly off key voice and failure to know the words to all the songs, and spends most of his time trying to escape the confines of my cosy lap for the serenity of the toy pit in the middle of the circle.

And it can be a battlefield, oh yes. For instance my son came home sporting a bite mark on his arm and a nasty little scratch on his chubby tummy thanks to one little boisterous boy (who of course meant no harm!) and has also endured his split (not metaphorically, thankfully!) of toys being dropped on to his head and squabbles over sharing.

But in all fairness, he has been on the dishing out end of some none to delightful behaviour. There is one poor cutie pie kid in particular who he all but stalks, such is his intense desire to play with whatever it is he has! But it's all a part of the blossoming process and as long as no serious harm comes to anyone, we can largely let them be. After all, we wont be able to fight there battles at daycare or school, will we???