Take The Pressure Down

Was it John Farnham who sang something about taking the pressure down? Well, thank goodness, we’re finally listening Whispering Jack! You see, time has been my enemy ever since my son was born but I am fighting back, trying to reclaim a sliver of self imposed extravagance, in the shape of “free time”. And as such, I have indulged it what I once considered the ultimate form of elitism – I have hired a cleaner!

 Oh I do feel so decadent and devious all at the same time, PAYING someone to do something I know how to do myself but what it has done, is bought me something utterly priceless – a few hours of freedom! Pre parenthood, I always offhandedly commented how there never seemed to be enough hours in the day. Looking back, I shake my head incredulously and wonder what the bloody hell did I ever do with my time??!! I must have had seemingly endless silken bolts of freedom to do with whatever I so chose; yet I can’t quite recall looking at it with such delicious intent as I do now. Perhaps that’s because I don’t have much – if any – in a day, week, month now so when it comes my way I treasure it with such reverence it could be the Holy flippin Grail!

 I’m not alone, I know; parents the world over, and especially those with more children than just one, are surely in worse shape than me, but you still cant help but feel the pull of the tide washing over you and forcing you beneath its murky depths when you think about all the things you must attempt to achieve in your week. Throw rejoining the workforce back into the mix and you suddenly seem to have inherited another few juggling balls to handle. Try fitting 15 loads of washing, dusting, vacuuming, mopping, cleaning bathrooms, cooking a weeks worth of frozen lunches, dinners and fruit snacks for your son – oh and of course looking after your child and keeping him entertained of course - into 4 days and tell me how much spare time you have left over for little old you? And that’s just the selfish part speaking as you also want to do something frivolous with your little family away from the home.

You see why I say you might just drown with the thought of all of that hanging over your head? Or am I just stating this all in a vain attempt to justify this excessiveness to myself? Whatever the case, the fact remains that now I no longer feel the heavy burden of chores hanging over my head, I’ve welcomed the return of the eminently more cheery and relaxed me! I can breathe again people, I can breeeeeeaaaaathe!

So K Rudd, you should be proud of me – not only am I saving my sanity I am stimulating the economy. I’d call that a win/win situation, wouldn’t you?

Mummy's boy...

I’m being haunted. No, not by some spooky ghoul, but something more akin to a frightening vision for the future. And it’s all down to a saying I heard recently… “When you have daughter, she is yours for life; when you have a son, he’s yours til he gets a wife”.

With the screeching sound of blood rushing to my head, the beginnings of a blind panic start to set it. What, I wonder fervrently, you mean to say I wont eternally be the axis on which Harrison's world spins? But I want forever to be the one in his universe where he seeks solace and safety! I want to be the protector, the nurturer, the defender and all-round champion of his every cause! The Mummy who makes him giggle with such complete abandon crashing out likes waves on the shore, one after the other, after the other, making my heart swell just like the sea. How could someone be so cruel as to one day take it away from me?

Melodramatic – yes. But unlikely – no. Yet thankfully I assume I have about 12 years until which I will be turfed out on my unconditionally loved ear, likely replaced with anything remotely cooler than me.

So here I sit now, in my silent home, nostalgia taking its turn to wash over me. How these moments, so simple, a mere moment in time, can occur and then vanish in a heartbeat. Just like quicksand, I feel I lose my baby more and more by the minute, interchanged now with a blossoming boy who is beginning to know his own mind. I fear I will soon no longer be the apple of his eye, his beacon of light in a dark night, his one, his only, his everything. Where he’ll no longer laugh so wholeheartedly with me, instead glare witheringly at his daggy mum, or pointedly shut his bedroom door in my face, an unspoken order that he’d prefer to be alone, instead of planting one of his sloppy gummy wet kisses on my cheek.

I want Harrison to always know that it was me, who, on the days he was unwell that he clambered up to, sobbing his little heart out, and, after being soothed by his Mummy, soon settled into a slumber with his head nestled soundly between the crook of my neck and my shoulder. These particular moments in time, as rare as heat in July because of his mostly rambunctious nature, are the ones I treasure the most. The fleeting, heart filled instances of such unconditional love and trust are the memories I pack neatly away in the tissue papered recesses of my mind, to lovingly, gently retrieve and revere when times are tough, or I need an excuse to make my heart swell and my smile shine.

Yes, we may have endured a rocky beginning but there has never been a moment where I haven’t been absolutely besotted with you, my baby boy. And of course, I do know I will always be your Mummy (although I suspect you’ll stop calling me this in about 6 years time, once the school yard influence kicks in!), no one can ever truly take that Mother mantle away from me. Inextricably interwoven - for life...

Temptation thy name is... anything that is NOT meant to be touched!

Can someone answer me this seemingly age-old child-rearing question? Why is it that children (namely, my son) can be in possession of the equivalent of a department store full of toys, yet has spent the whole day long deigning it necessary to amuse himself with all matter of taboo items? It makes you wonder why you have spent a small fortune amassing such a vast array of colourful, creative (and lets face it quite noisy) playthings when it is quite simply anything I have prohibited him from playing with that offers most appeal. Lets see what’s taken his fancy so far today:

• My exorbitantly expensive face moisturising cream
• The TV remotes (although we have given him one of his own that I am certain he has sensed does not work and therefore has ditched it in favour of pressing a medley of buttons on the ones that do actually operate!)
• The switch to turn off the deep freeze (which he kindly defrosted without our knowledge a few weeks back and thankfully, was in a rare, almost empty state)
• The stereo and all its gloriously fascinating buttons
• Wii Fit console and remote (who knew switching it on and off could prove such a riveting delight?)
• Our collection of DVD’s (quite fashionable as Frisbees, he will have you know)
• My Mobile phone (which obviously tastes so good, seeming as it always went stright in his mouth)

• The PC mouse (which I think he also thinks is a mobile phone)
• My handbag, and all its contents, including, in particular, my wallet, ipod, perfume and security pass for work…

On and on and on the list goes…. And if you are wondering, no, these items do not lay in wait on the ground, glistening in anticipation to be played with. Instead they are all in their place, yet my sticky fingered son still seems to be able to worm his way into reaching them and, like lightening, attempts to make them his own. Honestly, Harrison is a one man hurricane, tearing through my house and making it his daily mission to up end any shred of shipshape order I’d like to kid myself that it has. Oh yes, my days of being able to keep an organised home evaporated at about the same time the first twinge of labour set in. When I mentioned to the Early Childhood Nurse at Harrison’s 1yr old check up, that my son appeared to have a penchant for playing with all things forbidden, her solution was to remove every single item from reach. Handy – IN THEORY! Whilst in reality (where I reside) I knew that this would not make life easier. For one, where does one store all items under the measure of 75 cms that suddenly have to be culled from overly curious hands? And also, enlighten me as to what happens when you want to visit other people’s places? Call in advance and advise that as you are your rather rambunctious son are about to arrive, that a swoop of all things illegally enticing to a one year old please be removed from sight and then lovingly restored to their home upon our departure? Invitations out would certainly dry up. No, much more sensible, albeit stressful at present, is the path that we teach our son the difference between right and wrong, ours and his. Yes, guffaw at my naivety if you will, but we are intent on our mission and live in hope that one day soon the message starts to sink in… Til then, if you are looking for me, I’ll be the one possessively patrolling the borders of my prized belongings…

One Small Step for a little Man, one giant leap for Parentkind…

Yes, just like the Moon Landing, which celebrated a special anniversary not so long ago, we too have experienced a momentous occasion on par with such ground breaking histrionics – our baby boy has taken his fist steps! Ok, so slight exaggeration in importance comparison perhaps, but we certainly feel equal adulation and excitement at this milestone feat. I’m not sure there is a greater landmark moment on the developmental calendar for a child, as to taking their first tentative steps. Indeed crawling was not met with as much exaltation (although maybe that was just me, as I saw my serenity at home being virtually shattered) and nor did I greatly encouraged it as I was instead looking forward to the oh so cute “sitting up” phase where bubs are happily propped up with various toys splayed within reach, and contentedly so they sit, quite at ease with not being able to move. We seemed to skip that step instead for crawling at just before 7 months of age. And Hurricane Harrison has not stopped discovering all sorts of mischief since! Walking though, this is another matter. We have actively encouraged it, making a game out of this exercise, as we know how much our little guy laps up positive reinforcement and relishes the praise bestowed upon him. He thinks he is talent itself and even gives himself a little round of applause to congratulate his cleverness. 6 steps in total have been achieved so far and while he was yesterday quite happy to attempt to continually break his personal best, he has woken today without quite so much enthusiasm for his new skill. Poor Nanny & Poppy who called on Skype to watch their precious grandson strut his stuff, barely managed to string together 2 steps. Oh well, cant guarantee toddlers (which he is officially a member of the club now!) to perform on cue. We do realise that life is about to leap into dangerous territory. The days of the other 50% of our household goods being safely out of reach are now numbered and we will no doubt do battle trying to get him to gladly travel in the pram these days, when he realises he has two perfectly good (albeit slow) legs on which to take him where he needs to go.

So if we didn’t know it before, we soon will REALLY know we are alive! This one small step for Harrison will be sure to translate in to much mischief making ahead.

The Viral Vicious Cycle

What a week it’s been in The World of the Webeck’s once more. Not only do we both seem to be reeling from rather stressful weeks at work, but too, the dreaded day-care curse has struck again and Harrison (and, therefore, his parents) are enduring another illness as it takes its toll. It’s so heartbreaking to see him so utterly miserable, and to cry so earnestly to ensure his feeling of wretchedness is conveyed - as if the streaming nose, flowing as freely as Niagara Falls, wasn’t evidence enough… The Husband is unwell too, much to his disgust. He is, to quote him “sick and tired of being sick and tired” and I heartily echo his sentiments as well. Is it the lot of parents that we just continually ride the rickety roller coaster of sickness and health, veering wildly from illness and melancholy, to relative well being? I wouldn’t dare assume 100% health was within reach any time soon either. Leading the busy lives that we do, seemingly spending all our time rushing from one thing to the next might be good in terms of stress induced weight loss but always leaves us a few rungs below the height of the health ladder.

And then when you factor in the variables such as train travel to work (germs), working in air conditioning (airborne germs) and Harrison attending Day-Care (ultimate breeding ground for germs), I expect we’d better just get used to being victims of the viral vicious cycle!

Daddy's Day

What a difference a year makes…. This time 365 days before, as the husband’s inaugural Father’s Day dawned, we were bleary eyed and somewhat bewildered (well, perhaps that was just me) parents to a 2 week old baby boy, struggling (again, probably just me) to adapt to our “new normal”. So much so that I sent my poor husband shopping in search of his own Father’s Day gift – yes, his very first and supposed to be ultra special Father’s day… and here I was, not even able to venture to the shops to lovingly select the present myself! Forget Mother of the Year, Wife of the Year was not out of reach and threatening to be awarded my way. And as for embarking on an adventure out into the big bad world with child, I’d been far too preoccupied to contemplate that. Yet, with my own Dad making a beautiful surprise visit from Coffs Harbour to see me, an end had to be put to my self imposed hibernation. It appeared car trips could no longer be avoided...

It was a momentous day, complete with a military precision routine rolled out just to get us out the door, and Qantas baggage handlers required to transport all of our oh so necessary baby paraphernalia 15 minutes down the road to my sister’s place. But we did it. And most importantly, I’d survived the outside world with child! One year on, and the tables have truly turned. For instance, we drove to the Central Coast to mark the day – big progress! And I am pleased to report that not only were this years gifts (yes, plural, to make up for last year!) purchased well in advance for the upcoming celebratory day, but we were in much more merry states than this time a year before (does it sound like there is an echo in here if, for the record, I state that possibly just relates solely to me again?). But lets not get too ahead of ourselves and break out the high-fives all round. I still managed to muck up the timing of posting my father-in-laws gift – so, yes, room for improvement still exists. He’ll now be enjoying an extending Father’s Day this year, his gift likely to land on his doorstep Tuesday instead of Sunday… Dejavu would have it that its my big sister’s turn to ride the newborn roller coaster this time around, but by the time Sept 2010 creeps off the calendar, she too will look back tenderly at the tiring early days of tending to your new child’s all consuming needs and remark how far they have all come. A year seems to be such a good gauge when it comes to scoring your levels of survival…! So to the men in my world who make up Father figures to myself, my child and my husband – thank you for being the foundation on which we raise our own son, and for making our worlds lighter and brighter, just by being involved. Big love to you all on this special Daddy’s Day xxx

The Gift of The Gab

I think my son may have kissed the Blarney stone in a previous life…. Barely past the age of one and the extent of his vocabulary simply amazes me! I guess when your Mummy & Daddy are quite partial to repartee, one supposes it’s a given you’ll inherit the gift of the gab. Not to mention I was saying my first words at six months old so I guess my son (distinctly “Webeck” in so many ways”) was well overdue to take after his Mother just a little. After uttering his first “Bub Bub Bub Bub” aged almost 7 months old, Harrison has not ceased with the chit chat since! He’s followed up with a string of the usual suspects (Mum-Mum, Dada, Nan-Nan, Poppy and all the accompanying abbreviated and lengthened versions of each) and now is adding “No no no no no!” (one to rival that of Gus Gould lamenting a rueful decision on Friday Night Football), “Stop it”, “Don’t Touch” – yes, as you no doubt correctly assumed, they are all phrases he hears on a regular basis. But the cutest ones right now are “Tiger” - as in Woods, his Daddy’s golfing hero, and in the bath just before he even said his own name “Harry” ! Bless…. Mental note however, must start watching what I say, lest he drop a few choice words at Daycare… And even the garbled babble that you accustom with toddlers is something that brings great delight to my boy. He’ll happily warble on with unintelligible accounts of whatever he is doing, as if providing a running commentary for me as he goes about his day. Ray Warren watch you’re back! Either that or a life on the public speaking circuit awaits… Silence is no longer golden; its just completely absent from our lives! But we wouldn’t have it any other way.

My most heart-warming memory however was a few weeks back after walking in the door from a challenging day at work. My son swung around to greet me, emitting an exultant “Mummy!” before clambering excitedly over to me for a cuddle. Oh it made me melt, not only that he was so visibly excited to see me, but that he had placed just who I was in his world…. Mummy…