Hurricane Harrison strikes again....

Picture this: a Doctor’s waiting room, brimming with potential patients, three of which are babies. One sits quietly on its parent’s lap, munching happily on a sandwich and daintily sipping a drink. One sleeps soundly in its pram, oblivious to all going on around it. And then there is the other one… who proceeds to treat the confined space as a personal playpen, or amusement park of sorts, sprinting from end to end and vociferously letting its presence be felt. Well, you can guess which child was mine. Hurricane Harrison strikes again! Some simply label it “spirited”, others heartily remark he is just mischievous. I class it as bloody exhausting… and at times, plain embarrassing! But enlighten me please, how do you exactly reason with a one year old? Sure, its all fun and games to witness until someone’s baby is trying to sleep next to my son; his eager little personality keen to explore what’s under the cover in the pram next to his. And amusing, yes, til you spend half an hour chasing your son away from the door way in an attempt to avoid him being trodden on by incoming appointments, or that nasty staircase that lays in wait. I’m sure the other parent was looking at me with a slightly smug expression as his toddler sat perfectly still in his lap, content to eat and not terrorise the other patrons, unlike my son… And the other patients find it entertaining for, oh, the first 10 minutes (watching me run myself ragged is obviously such a joy) but then they usually turn and I’m acutely aware of the icy stares of disdain that are cast my way. I fear things will only exacerbate from here… He is only going to grow ever more curious, ever more adventurous, so perhaps I must just come to terms with the fact I am mother to a boy who is, by nature, a playful, overly active little person who has no concept of understanding the joys of what its like to be “still”… The upside is it’s a cracking good way to stay in shape, but the antithesis means I’m always bloody tired and almost dread the event of going anywhere in which entails my son sitting still in his pram for a period of time. So do I just accept and embrace this penchant for inquisitiveness and impishness? Sure Harrison is only 12 months old and, being a boy, he genetically predisposed to high levels of energy to burn… I just don’t want to be “that parent” who never gets invited back anywhere because she has a son who is harder to reign in than drunk Sydney Roosters football players! Ah well, at least life will never be dull with my beautiful, busy boy…

The Big Birthday Bash

I see now why birthdays are only an annual event.

Besides the fact they signal you losing yet another year of your life in a busy blur, but, as I have discovered this past few weeks, when a child's party is involved, the energy you require to pull off the event successfully takes about a year to replenish again!

 K-n-a-c-k-e-r-e-d… That just about sums it up.

The planning prior to the party is enough to drain your energy reserves and then you still need to show up and give it your all! Finally, after the festivities are finished, you need to dig deep and seek out some long lost liveliness to embark on the clean-up. Hence, we are now spent…financially and emotionally!!!

Just look at the simple fact that its taken me a week to write this blog entry… Not to mention the small mucus-y matter surrounding my boy picking up two nasty bugs and taking ill. Funny that he is only aged one and already guilty of over indulging and partying a little too hard at his "do", resulting in taking sick leave the following week!

But the most important thing, all tiredness and illness aside, is my boy enjoyed an absolutely awesome first birthday. Not that he’ll remember it sure (that’s what this blog is for!) but I’ll never forget the look of pure glee plastered across his cherubic little face, the whole day long. Whether he was being pushed about on his big cousins trike, happily gorging himself on a vast array of usually unavailable “naughty” foods”, or playing with his little friends, he was never without a smile on his face…. Oh, except for the nasty tumble he took trying to negotiate a speedy exit from the shelter en route to chase a ball…

But as the old saying (and song) goes, its his party and if he wants to sob a little, then so be it! And the blessings just continued (and no, I’m not referring to the mound of gifts he (we) gratefully received)… The weather Gods smiled down on us, drenching the park in a deliciously warm winter sun. Everyone who rsvp’d actually attended, and appeared to enjoy themselves. Our various pockets of people we know all intermingled with ease, and, besides the birthday boy, the other absolute star of the show was the beautiful 4 day old Mason whose brilliant mother, my big Sis, didn’t bat an eyelid about dragging her acutely newborn bub out for the day. What a champ (both of them!). When Harrison was that age I hadn’t even ventured out the front door, let alone into a park full of people!

I think we’ll be implementing a rule of sorts that we only subject ourselves to party planning every second year, because I think by then I might be recovered enough to consider another one!

Boys will be boys, will be boys, will be boys...

Welcome to the world Mason Grant Stewart, the newest addition to our ever-expanding extended family. With a splash that signalled his entrance into existence (yes, water birth), just before 2pm on August 18, 2009, one thing became certain… We only breed boys! My sister is now Mum to two most precious little guys, my sister in law is the doting Mum of the adorable Aidan, my husband is one of three boys, my sisters husband is one of two male offspring, and we have our little Harrison… You do the math! If we want girls, we have to import them into the family. Marry in, that sort of thing… If there’s enough, that is! Because while we’re on our way to ensuring the male population lives on, there’s bound to be a female drought in about 20 years time when it will be the fairer sex of slim pickings. Even the Mums I know in the area I live; we mostly all have boys. Attending my first ever Mums Group (therapy) meeting, there was nary a pink frilly dress in sight! And already the boys seemed to sense this lifelong battle that lay in wait, all appearing to clamour for the attention of the few (and far between) little ladies that lay in their midst. But back to my little Mason, some people assume my sister will be disappointed to have reproduced yet another male to carry on her husband’s family name. She’ll concede a little girl would have been lovely but does it make her want to go back and try for more? Hell no! She’ll tell you – she is more than happy to play Mummy to two blessed boys. It’s her lot in life to be surrounded by gorgeous men...and her husband (just kidding G, if you read this!) It makes me wonder; and to be bluntly honest, is it really wrong to actually want to have two children of the same sex? Why is it expected that we yearn the pigeon pair, the “one of each please” mentality that myths and movies portray as the “perfect family unit”? What’s so wrong of being Mum to the same sex? For one thing, its economical - you’ve purchased all the blue clothes, boys toys and down the track splitting yourself in two on a sports filled Saturday morning to take one to netball and one to soccer isn’t going to be an issue. That alone has got to be a silver lining people! And sure, the second child may live in a permanent shadow of comparison to its older sibling, not to mention be forced to don hand me down clothes until old enough to purchase its own but I imagine there is more a chance of them being great mates in life rather than the male spending his time trying to shield his little sister from all his big burly heart breaking mates.

So to the beautiful baby boys in my life, Harrison, Logan, Aidan and Mason, may you long enjoy many matches of backyard footy/cricket/tennis (or as the husband hopes, countless games of golf) and be the best of buddies – without any girls to complicate matters!

The "forgotten" but fabulous year it was..!

We’ve done it…! Survived our first year playing parents to Harrison that is. At times I thought we might be lucky to survive the night, after some of those early, horrendous sleepless ones (ie, his VERY first night home from hospital where a total of 45 minutes sleep was recorded in about 13 hours!) but here we are, almost smug with ourselves as we reflect, one year on at the magical milestone as our bubba transitions from baby to toddler. I’m not sure what my favourite moment could be pinned down as… It’s a bit like trying to pick a favourite parent or sibling – a bit morally wrong! His first words (bub bub bub) were very special, aged almost 7 months – and some times I do not think he has stopped talking since! The repertoire sure has grown since then – the favourites at present all share an unfortunately similar theme. There is the very insistent “no no no no NO”, the demanding “Don’t. Stop” or bosyy “don’t touch” (wonder where he got those from???). But then there is the one that makes my heart melt: “Mummy!”. Walking through the door Wednesday night I was greeted by my beautiful boy who turned to me excitedly and almost squealed it in delight… Made me dissolve instantly into a big squishy blob of love! Crawling was another major milestone that crept up on us unawares but the jury is still out as to whether this was a favourite moment or not... I had NOT been encouraging this feat AT ALL. Bad mother material? Probably. But I knew instinctively that the moment my son was let loose with free reign of movement, my life (and my house and my worldly possessions in it) would never be the same (or safe!) again. Not even seven months old and he started moving around with reckless abandon. And oh, then there is his crawling style which has caused much laughter accompanied by shrieks of shock. Bum pointing directly up in the air, like a shiny signalling beacon, legs straight as pins, he looked something similar to a caveman getting about the place. I get so used to his unique style that I momentarily wonder why people are laughing at my son…. Then I click and remember his oh so strange (but individual!) style of getting from Point A to Point B. I won’t lie – I often reflect that I lived most of my early months in a complete fog, far removed from the real world and didn’t take to parenthood as breezily as you assume beforehand that you will (and that, it appears, most other people seem to do!). Perhaps its because we don’t have doting grandparents living close by, offering help on tap like some do, or perhaps it was just because of the totally traumatic birth and after effects that made our start rocky. Maybe its because having a baby seems to make you (well, me) extremely vague... But the main point to make is, WE GOT there, and are all the more stronger, prouder, wider (and tireder) for it. The first smile, the first giggle, the first recognition that he gave that I was his Mummy and he loved me unconditionally (not judging that I couldn’t breastfeed, not caring that I sometimes got it wrong, and certainly not critiquing my skills as a new mother) made the tough times melt away and leave me with precious memories of my most beautiful little man.

So, to my sweet little Harrison, happy first birthday!! We are so blessed to have you as our baby boy, and have no doubt you will continue to bring us much love and joy as the second year of life rolls on. Toddler-hood, here we come!

Kingdom Of Singledom

Last weekend I conquered one of my all time great parenting fears – I had to go it alone, fly solo with my son for four days, without the usually highly anticipated buffer of Daddy-time built in to the end of each day. It became clear early on the only way we were to survive our solo stint (and subsequently, me stay sane) was to store my energy reserves and focus exclusively on my son. Basically this translated in to me declaring, “chores be damned” for an entire weekend and I took to the lounge, trashy mag in hand, during each one of Harrison’s day time sleeps like a sloth instead of racing the clock to tick off all the items usually found on my to-do list. So yes, by the end of the four days my house resembled that of a break and enter – Harrison has spread himself far and wide flinging items with great delight the whole unit over. And of course, it did rankle my nerves but I knew all my precious energy needed to be conserved, and to be quite honest, although I had to work hard to ignore the ever increasing mess around me, it proved to be a nice break from the mundane. Entering in to day three of our solo stretch and the perfect little man that had been my son for the last two days suddenly morphed into a little monster. And while we’d been out an about just the two of us, it became increasingly clear someone was getting sick of the sight of just one other face (could have been either one of us really!). So we packed up our little pantomime and moved it on to the Stewarts were Harrison soaked up the undivided attention of his devoted big cousin Logan. It was here things really unravelled when we got the scary phone call about my Nan being gravely ill, and it certainly put all my earlier silly fears into perspective. That night I shared a room with my son, and at 5am when it became clear he wasn’t happy about sleeping in a strange room, we cuddled in my single bed, me seeking such great comfort simply by listening to the sound of his breath and having his little hand curl around my finger. Worst thing about that though was, my wriggly son, whilst manoeuvring his way around the single mattress, in order to get comfy, found that the only way he’d sleep was to lay diagonally across it. Great for him, not so for me who was forced to virtually cling to the side and lay there wide awake trying not to fall off the edge!

So to single parents the world over – I stand before you and bow in sheer admiration! Sure, I survived, and secretly admit we had a lovely little time just the two of us (but, husband, when you read this, don’t go getting any ideas about taking off again soon please!). Perhaps the thing that worried me the most (besides the scary episode with my beautiful Nan) was the lead up to being left to go it alone. You imagine all sorts of worst-case scenarios coming to fruition. But when the inevitable day dawned and daddy had to leave I just told myself to suck it up and march on. And if that false bravado failed me, I just had think of the box of Magnum ice creams awaiting me at the end of the day to make me smile once more.

Injection Rejection...

Oh the trauma of the 12 month needles… Whilst we have ridden this immunisation merry-go-round 3 times before, I cant say it is getting any easier! I know the facts – it’s a damn side more malicious to in fact avoid vaccinations – but oh, when can they work out a way that’s a little less barbaric than piercing my baby boys oh so soft skin with an icy sharp needle? And THREE times over this time too… It was almost a delayed response, after the first needle went it. But my cheering and shouts of how brave my boy was soon gave way to some serious soothing as his precious little face simply crumpled in an instant from sweet smile to screaming and sobbing within seconds. It’s little wonder the Panadol has come out this morning. I’m sure if he was allowed a stiff drink he’d have put his hand up for one of those too! Harrison was giving his guilty Mummy the loveliest cuddles this morning, and all because he had no idea what lay in wait. I think I’ll be faring less favourably in the affection stakes as the day wears on as the look of utter hurt that flashed across his face as his tears splashed my hands, broke my heart into a million little pieces. Its akin to a beseeching plea “But how COULD you? What could I have possibly done in the short time I’ve been awake this morning to warrant such a world of fear and pain?”

Overly dramatic? Probably…. And I am sure it really is worse for me than it is for him! Next time, its Daddy's turn to take the injection rejection!

The first "First"...

Our little Harrison enjoyed another First yesterday. His first “first” you could even say… Well, to be precise it was his first little friend’s first birthday party. Little Kylenn Farquarson clocked over on the calendar to turn the big 1! True to form, the feeding machine that is my son soon gobbled up many of the kiddie culinary delights on offer – including many of the chips either discarded by the birthday boy on to the mat below. Not fussy at all, it would seem, whether its served up on a plate or purely discovered on the floor! And amazingly, although he consumed a sickly amount of sugar filled treats (as is to be expected at a first birthday party!) he came home and slept so soundly! Who said sweets are the root of all evil and send kids hyperactive??? Perhaps he is the just the exception to the rule then… Kylenn, the birthday boy, is the elder statesman of the two boys; by three days to be exact. And he has been one of Harrison’s little best buds since they have been about 3 weeks old when his Mummy, Dinielle, and I stumbled upon each other in Mum’s Group (or Mum’s Group Therapy, as I liked to call it!) both still sporting the exact mental and emotional scars from an identically traumatic labour. And what’s more, as we found out that same day, we lived in the same street, separated only by two blocks of units. The boys have thrived together, along with their other little friends, and its so hard to believe they are all turning one! Watching them play with another little mate, Xavier, some three weeks younger but so much more mobile on his legs, you couldn’t help but wonder, where have all the days, weeks, months of fears, tears and of course cheers, gone??? But, we are all older, wiser – and tireder – 365 days on, and, I am sure we could all agree, relishing this next phase of life as our bubs blossom from babies to toddlers. Bring on the fun of the next 12 months!

The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

What a week it’s been in the world of the Webeck’s… There has been quite a gap between blogs, mainly because life has been like riding a roller coaster of extreme highs and intense lows these last 6 days. It was when Harrison and I were in the midst of surviving the solo parenting gig (more on that another time) when we got the call that utterly changed the shape of the week that was. My beautiful, beloved Nan was so very nearly lost to us this week. The worst of times was looming large on our doorstep as we were told in no uncertain terms to prepare for the inevitable. No longer a case of “if”, but “when”… But someone obviously forgot to tell Nan because she, so full of spirit, courage, and quiet determination brought about the absolute best of times, all in a matter of days. If you endure childbirth ten times over – yes 10 – I reckon you learn a thing or two about pain and adversity. My much-loved Nan bore the sheer pain of this natural, yet barbaric act (my opinion anyway) and all back in a time when there were no drugs to ease the agony. Well I say it’s set her up for this moment in life now. How else do you explain to me, her mystified but utterly grateful family, to baffled doctors and nurses who basically told us to shed our hope as we shed our tears…

Big lesson people; despite the warnings of the so-called experts, we should never give up on the living, even when you are told they are knock, knock, knocking on Heaven’s door. And don’t stop hoping and praying for a miracle. Because the lady I kissed goodbye on Tuesday afternoon, with her snowy white hair sitting spritely atop her head and rosy red cheeks flushed with love, smiled at me with tired, but determined eyes. My absolute inspiration, I can only hope I can instil such resolve into my life and the future of my son.

Time and a place for personal space

I’ve noticed personal space has become a thing of the past since producing a baby. And for someone who is quite protective of her own little individual realm, it’s been quite the learning curve!

Call it too long living in the city, but I have grown accustomed to NOT chatting to complete strangers, or making small talk with people in the supermarket/ doctors/trains…. The list goes on! I’m well used to walking with my eyes averted, focused only on the direction we’re headed, and wont offer a glance in the peripherary unless its related to incoming danger. Jaded, most likely, but I imagine, just far to familiar with the trait of keeping to oneself….

So you can imagine my surprise at having people wanting to talk, to interact, to even know personal details, when it comes to me and my child. Pushing a pram appears to be akin to sporting a neon sign that states I am available for a chat and no subject matter should be off limits! Yes, part of me does find it heart warming when people take the time to coo in Harrison’s direction and tell me how gorgeous my son is (you aren’t preaching to the converted people, I am his Mum, I am OF COURSE going to agree with this!) and I have no beef with them rolling off the generic questions of age etc, but its when they want to dispense advise about eating, sleeping, feeding, and how mothers who don’t breastfeed are basically setting their child up for a lifetime of insignificance and failure that I tend to get a bit aggressive. Or when a mother launches in to her own tale of survival in the early days of motherhood, complete with sagas dedicated to her stints with depression, fights with the now ex-boyfriend and rounds it all up with a not so brief history of her new lover who she met through facebook etc, etc, you can see why I’d sometime prefer to just be left alone. And this was all just in a queue at Centrelink trying to lodge a form for the Baby Bonus when my child was but 2 weeks old!

I don’t, however, mind old little old ladies pulling up alongside me for a chinwag (as happened yesterday in the Doctors waiting room) because they remind me of my Nans and I seem to have a soft spot for them. I recall early on there would be some confusion as to whether it was a boy or girl they were fussing over but I hope it was more something to do with failing eyesight as I have never suspected my son look anything like a little girl…

Come to think of it, it all started while my son was in utero. Seems even just being pregnant will get the opinionaters out in force. I used to have to virtually plan a military precision operation in the mornings when I was with child because there of a surly man who caught the same train as I into the City, who insisted on sitting next to me and sounding off about his 2 year old daughter and how difficult it is being a Dad, getting decent childcare, dealing with lack of sleep and privacy… Oh yes, all that a 7 month pregnant first time mother wants to hear, to be sure…!

I should also note I AM more than happy to share my personal space with my son. I knew early on this was all a part of the parenting agreement and have no issues with being the human hankie/jumping castle/climbing gym because well, to put it plainly, I love him. Cant really say the same for the complete strangers who sidle up to us seemingly out of nowhere and commence sprouting their often well meaning, but not asked for, opinions.

And yes, yes, I know, most people are just being NICE, but like I say, I live in a city where this sort of thing just doesn’t happen when you don’t have a child by your side. And having lived in the Capital of All Things Impersonal in London, I can’t help but have inadvertently adapted this supposedly unfriendly trait. I’ll always be polite, but please, people, remember what your own mothers told you – if you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all!

Absense makes the heart grow fonder

I’m at the end of a rare week in my life – the first in so many which has not solely resolved around my son. I guess that’s to be expected when you return to the paid working world. But oh how strange it feels! I never realised but my identity must have become so unconsciously intertwined with that of Harrison’s that I started to feel, well, a little naked without him! Even on Friday, when the lovely husband granted me a wish for an afternoon of peace to myself to do as I pleased, I felt people were looking at me like I was skiving off work! Why else would a person be seen stretched lazily in the sun at the park reading a book when all and sundry were chained to their desks in the working world? Little did they know I was recovering from a brain overload and lack of sleep… Yet somehow I couldn’t shake the label being stuck to me was that of pure recklessness, like some naughty school girl who’d skulked off before the bell! I felt I needed my son by my side to show some legitimacy to me being away from work on a weekday...

But, as the old saying goes, absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder! I already find myself looking at my son through different eyes. I’m aware how more precious our time together is; now it’s been limited to 4 days a week. We shared a cuddle in bed this morning, the three of us, and instead of longing for him to snuggle in for an extra 20 mins sleep, and squeezing my eyes tight in the vain hope of such a rare occurrence, I instead found myself absolutely transfixed with watching his little hands waving about the place, his face alight with awe. Mores the pity though I didn’t watch carefully enough because soon one of those seemingly loving hands proceeded to clock me one right on the nose. Par for the course, one supposes, when you are in such close confines… And now, come the end of each day, I can actually feel what its like to miss my little Harrison, to get excited to see him and look forward to spending time with him, instead of wondering exactly how we’d fill in the hours each seemingly endless day. I also get a taste finally of how Tone feels when he comes home from work; how Harrison's megawatt smile infused with utterly unconditional love, can melt your heart and make you forget the outside world even exists. Three days a week too I can now look forward to that adoration too!

Show Me The Money

Today I read, with great trepidation, that it now costs approximately $57,000 to raise your child til they turn 5 years old… My response? Is it any wonder I think I will stop at just having the one offspring??!! There being no money tree flourishing in our (barren) courtyard, I can’t help but wonder, who on earth can afford to go back for more? Shall we just leave large families to the rich and famous and those who can shell out vast sums of money without needing a bank loan to finance the family tree? How did it all get so damn expensive? Do we really need everything we have acquired in the course of bringing home and raising baby? I am sure there is some sales mantra expertly instilled in to the staff of every baby store which whips any expectant mother who enters its doors in to a sort of guilt induced shopping frenzy, leaving hours later laden with an assortment of fancy gadgets you’ll likely get out of the box and lovingly stroke til Bub arrives, and then forget instantly how it even works once the reality of baby bring home kicks in. One word for you. Ebay. But I’ll bet you it will take 6 months before you even register this as an option and another 6 months to find the time to do it. Oh yes, now is the occasion in which to be creative with the cash flow my friends! Yet, back in the day, where life was blissfully uncomplicated by the restraints of technology and having to “keep up with the Jones'es”, people like my beautiful Nan & Pop proudly managed to produce a family of 10 and no one went hungry. Perhaps we will have to sell up and find a farm to be self sufficient on like they did, as Lord only knows how else you feed a family of so many. So does this day and age really make it harder to have more children? We’ve never had so much opportunity and access to money, yet our family are perceptibly smaller. Maybe we just have too much distraction to digress from the recreation of procreation? Who knows… All I can say is if its an outlay of that much per child in such a short amount of time then perhaps we’ll have to get Harrison contributing to the family income some day soon. The husband will have to commence honing those super sporting skills that see kiddies signed up to superstar sports teams at an embarrassingly young age and I’ll have to parade him shamelessly around train stations, shopping centres and coffee shops where all the other glamazons of the world were “discovered” in the midst of living their normal life.

But then again, as the husband stated last night, as we three shared an impromptu giggle and cuddle on the loungeroom floor, Tone said he’d never felt so “rich”. How true… Material wealth, be gone with you! Genuine riches, no matter what the so-called costs, truly do come from the simple things like the innocent laughter of your son when he sees you smile. And the best part (barring any unforseen major dental operations); it wont cost me $57,000 for five years to bestow on him just that.