Australians All Let Us Rejoice

Paying homage to our heritage on our
ANZAC pilgrimage

So as I sit here on this balmy public holiday dedicated to celebrating all things Aussie, I’ve got to thinking, what is it exactly that makes me so proud, so humbled, to bear the emu and kangaroo emblem on my passport?

For me, it took a stint of living outside our Garden of Eden that is Australia, and some vast travels abroad to truly appreciate the beautiful backyard we lay claim to.  18 months based London and backpacking through Europe, experiencing how other cultures exist made me acutely aware I was blessed to hail from a whole other world.  Indeed, so many people would ask, in the depths of the depressing London winter “Why on Earth are you living here when you come from Australia??!!”  And the answer was always the same.  It’s not forever – I knew I could go home to my piece of paradise in Oz any time I wanted.  Basically, the joke was on English aristocracy – sending out the great unsavoury elements of society on a flotilla of boats as punishment for feeding their hungry family…  Looks like we got the last laugh that time Poms!

I blame the Heathrow Injection for the
 double chins.  The silly hat however was all me

I’ll never forget the night we too got our own back, freezing our butts off at JJB Stadium, Wigan, watching Australia smash the Brits in the final match of the 2001 Rugby League Test Match Series.  After being vastly outnumbered and enduring a barrage of unfriendly banter from the locals, flatteringly labelling us criminals and demanding we set sail for home, my flatmate Chris finally stood tall and garnered the rowdy crowd’s attention with one simple statement: “Well at least we only had to steal a loaf of bread to get out of this shithole country.” And... silence. Enough Said.

You can probably guess which one is flatmate
Chris, he is the quick wit

Some of the other factors that fostered this appreciation for Australia, whilst o/s was the drunken dancing and singing loud and proud to Men At Work’s “unofficial” Aussie Anthem Land Down Under, or standing in awe at the paradoxically serene ANZAC Cove, tears of pride streaming down my face as we stood shoulder to shoulder in silence listening to the wails of The Last Post play.  Or perhaps it was upon my return, and the plane winged its way over the stunning Sydney Harbour and I involuntarily gasped at the spectacular beauty of it all, as if seeing it for the very first time that combined to make me one helluva proud Australian.

From every compass point this Great Southern Land offers up Mother Nature’s gems, be it the majestic Twelve Apostles, the picture perfect Whitehaven Beach, or even the simple ones, the precious ones to me, like the sprawling, stunning view of the Pacific Ocean from Sawtell Headland, or just lazing about at Park Beach, in Coffs Harbour.  Even the breathtaking panorama from my parent’s front balcony, watching the sun creep out from the horizon, lush rainforest at my back and the sparkling sea winking at my front failed to entice me until it was no longer my ever present backdrop of my world.

 I’m patriotic and unashamedly so.  We live in a land overflowing with liberties, love and laughter and have a history that is peppered with heroism.  Gallipoli, whilst a devastating example of war, gave this country its first taste of courage and determination and 96 years on we are still heralding the bravery in battle of these valiant men.  And thanks to their valor, we are free, we are fun, we are fearless.  We are Aussies!  And we inhabit the best damn country in the whole wide world.

A place for giving heartfelt thanks, ANZAC COVE

  

Of course, the recent Aussie Oprah-ganza has done much to refuel this fire of nationalism.  Witnessing the jewel that is Oz through the eyes of the 145million others almost makes you want to pass out with a patriotism overdose.  The chorus line of Aussies singing the definitive, emotive closing number, left me, heart swelling and tears welling and truly defines the way I feel today about this Land Down Under that we can luckily call home.

I Am. You Are. We Are Australian….

Please, read and heed...

 

I’m offering up this post, heavy of heart, in the hope of helping a fellow blogging sister in need.  You see, it’s a delicate subject matter that is the hot topic of discussion, one that is haunting me and persuading me to pass on the powerful message she would like to world to hear.

Lori, the witty, warm writer of one of my favourite blogs, RRSAHM is living what would be my ultimate worst nightmare.  She is surrounded by the splintered shards that used to be her heart, her life.  And it all simply all shattered in seconds, the aftermath of a tragic moment in time. 

Please, I implore you to take some time to read her blog, although, I have to warn you, there is some seriously heavy reading found here.  Its real, its raw, and it’s the devastating and direct reality that follows the tragedy that is suicide.  In heartbreaking honesty, Lori is trying to comprehend, through the compelling medium that is writing, this nightmare that has been thrust upon her.  She has a poignant, yet powerful message for all men – and indeed ANYONE who is suffering in silence.  Speak. 

This is something we should all read and heed – because of this one act, so out of character, a little boy will no longer have a father to look up to and a little girl wont have the honour of being walked down the aisle by her proud Daddy….  His wife, now a widow at the young age of 29, will never smile the same.  Her husband, she writes, was so busy taking care of everyone else; he didn’t open up when he too needed to feel the warm hand of support.  How many men do we all know and love that are frighteningly the same? 

It may be cold comfort to Lori at this time, but from this excruciating loss, I hope we all learn lessons to avoid this wasteland of extreme distress and regret being repeated.  I pray one day she can look upon this wreckage of her world and use this as a tool to empower the masses to articulate any anxieties, instead of burying them deep inside – before we have to bury them far too soon.

PS The awesome aussie mummy blogging community has been instrumental in initiating emergency fundraising for Lori (a stay at home mum), and her small childen to help ease the financial burdens she now unexpectedly faces.  Please, if you can spare some change to bid on the vast array of items up for auction, please click here .

Spellbound by Shantaram

“And from the pink and purple palette of the perished evening, a blue-black night rose up around us as we rode.  We plunged with the sea-wind into tunnels of light.  The robe of sunset slipped from the shoulders of the city.  Lisa’s hands moved on my hard skin like the sea; like the surging, swarming caress of the sea.  And for a moment, as we rode together, we were one: one desire, one promise dissolving into compromise, one mouth tasting the trickle of danger and delight.  And something – it might’ve been love, or fear – goaded me to the choice, putting whispers in the warming wind: This is as young and free as you’ll ever be”. Pg 581, Shantaram, G.D. Roberts

Is that not just the most perfectly crafted paragraph you have ever had the pleasure to read?  

In case you do not recognise the author or title, I’m referring to the book labelled simply “A Masterpiece” by The Age – Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts, an epic 933 page tome which paints an indelible picture of paradoxes about this, his life story. How a man with a nurturing heart, but hardened soul came in search of freedom.

Ironically, for a man who was guilty of committing crimes against society, both here and abroad, you truly cannot help but be charmed by Roberts.  He’s the first to admit he isn’t perfect, and the undertone of the entire book (yes ALL 933 pages) seeks forgiveness and acknowledges the hefty price he has pain in a personal sense for his crimes.  Succumbing to a heroin addiction at a young age, it ultimately cost him his freedom, and after staging a daring escape from a Victorian maximum-security prison in 1980 (right over the front wall, if you don’t mind) all contact with his loved ones, including his young daughter.

We meet Roberts when he is searching (furtively, as he is Australia’s most wanted fugitive) for his place in the world; and it comes in the shape of the thriving cultural metropolis that is Bombay.  A vast array of characters infiltrate his well written world; you’ll warm immediately to the unforgettable Prabaker and surrender a smile each time he charms us with his effusive behaviour; Karla will leave you with a million unanswered questions, while the slum dwellers steal your heart with their humility and simplicity.  You will mull over the makeshift family connections that he establishes with father figure Abdel Khader Khan, and his brother in arms, Abdullah Taheri.

The reading journey is a long one, full of tempestuous twists and turns – and much gritty detail which can make for weary reading at times.    

But, if you have a spare month or three and feel the need to tackle a hefty, eye opening tome, I beseech you, let it be Shantaram.  This powerful piece of prose will send you on a spellbinding cultural and emotional sojourn that will leave you breathless by book’s end!

2011 – The Year of Getting Comfortable With Being Uncomfortable

A classic example of getting comfortable
with being uncomfortable - I LOATHE snakes

Hand up who honestly enjoys the notion of being “uncomfortable”?  Like me, I’d imagine many of us would prefer the safety and familiarity of our comfort zone, decked out with your favourite drapes and snug sofa chair, where the world is but a place of static “sameness”, as opposed to diving head first into the great unknown.  But no more!  Because I have stumbled across a saying so powerfully apt that I have vowed to make it my mantra for the year ahead:

“The more willing I am to be uncomfortable, the more I find myself growing, accomplishing and transforming… The less willing I am to be uncomfortable, the more stress, resignation and suffering I experience” Mike Robbins, (extracted from www.oprah.com) 

While I realise we are already more than half way through the first month of 2011, I believe its not too late to offer the above statement as my pledge for the year ahead.  If nothing else, the tragedies that have unfurled with ferocity this last week, with the devastation, death and destruction of the QLD flood crisis, along with the mummy blogging world mourning the untimely passing of the young husband of Lori from RRSAHM and, along with Lulu from Imperfect Life (a mere few days after we the unexpected death of her sister), have sent a fierce shockwave reverberating through me, subconsciously whispering to that I must resolve to do it all a little differently this decade.  Like precious crystal balanced precariously on this precipice we call everyday life, each morn I wake I become more and more aware how fragile it is, we are, and of the undeniable fact I am not living what Oprah would call “my best life”.

Don’t get me wrong, (I see the above claim needs qualifying!) I am happy!  I have such amazing blessings swirling through my world with a devoted, darling husband who is the anchor of calm in the tsunami of life, an adorable son who I cherish beyond words, and an enormously supportive network of family and friends.  We have our health, a roof over our heads, and an income to keep us sustained.  Never fear – I will not make like Elizabeth Gilbert and embark on an “Eat Pray Love” mecca of my own making!   

Instead, I simply want to start to look at the world through a reinvigorated, refreshed perspective.  In my personal life I plan to try my hardest to live with an open heart and stop letting life’s negativities poison their way into my streams of thought.  After all, as Oprah imparts “you become what you believe”.

On the work front, I hope to make some inroads into the eventual change of direction this part of my world will take.  This is not the career I dreamed for me, and although I take full responsibility for the choices that have been made along the way, and concur that while I do believe everything happens for a reason, it is not too late to take the road less travelled.  Change is long overdue in this dusty, long dormant corner of my world, even if will take quite some time to fully eventuate.

Here’s hoping that endless possibilities await the eager mind and enthusiastic soul.  Like the ultra exciting Aussie Mummy Blogger conference in March 2011 where I hope to learn how to spread my blog writing wings; or perhaps learn to stand up paddle board (even though I’m terrified of what might be lurking unseen in the ocean beneath).  Even just forcing myself to write more, or make a choice to re-enter the fray of study – although it will make me uncomfortable (not to mention even more time poor – or just poor full stop!) but, hey, that’s the whole point of this exercise!  I must make a conscious effort to defeat the lurking demons of failure and face the fact I’ll never get anywhere by ensconcing myself in the comfort of the known.

Whilst I have long waged a private war against my inability to finish most of what I start (classic Aries, anyone?), and suffer from an affliction that sees me paralysed at the mere thought of making a decision, I hope by posting this blog you will all be at liberty to hold me to task, should I (likely, at some stage) stray from this newly paved path of optimism.

So, now more than ever I feel my new theme song’s chorus ringing loudly in my ears as I embark on this sojourn of uncomfortable self discovery in 2011 - “its my life, and its now or never, I ain’t gonna live for ever… I just wanna live while I’m alive…”

For Lori - give sorrow your words...

Recently I wrote a blog about the lovely Lori from RRSAHM who was living my worst nightmare – as a result of a tragic accident, her husband was fighting for his life in ICU and she, mother of their two small children, was asking for prayers and love to help her through this toughest of times.

Now, the unfathomable has happened.  She is 28 and she is a widow.  Her children, aged 4 and 1, have no father.  She is a stay at home mum.  She has bills to pay, a mortgage to meet and mouths to feed.  If you can spare some change, or alternatively donate to an online auction that is being established to raise funds for her future, please click here .

Some may find it bizarre that one could be so affected by the tragedy of someone I only know through the blogosphere.  But I’ve been a fan of her witty, honest writing for almost a year and, because the Mummy Blogging world is built on blog posts laced with raw honesty, it does indeed feel like she is a friend.   Her candid offerings have long been a favourite of mine to read.  

And truthfully, empathy is an amazingly powerful equaller.  I cannot help but wonder “what if it were me?”.  Like I’ve said in my previous post about this most awful situation, life is a gift, not a given and we could all be minutes away from losing the one we love the most.  Morbid, I know, but if it stops you from saying that harsh word in anger to your husband, or to hug your child that little bit tighter when you put them to bed tonight, then its worth it.

I know I looked at my own husband a little differently last night.  I couldn’t tell him enough how much he meant to me, and I followed him from room to room like a lovesick puppy.  And I smothered Harrison with kisses every chance I got (much to his displeasure), and looked over him as he slept and said a prayer of thanks that my own little family was safe.

So Lori, please know it truly does break my heart when I think of the nightmare you are living and wish you nothing but peace and love as you battle through the quagmire that is grief.  I’ve lit a candle for you and held you all in my thoughts and my heart and will continue to do so.  Please keep the words flowing – your writing will no doubt be a saviour during these dark days and a balm to your searing soul.  Just as the great Shakespeare wrote “Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break.” 

When a woman ruled rugby league

Once again the cool cyber kids, Nuffnang, have tossed out another challenge to the blogosphere, in honour of the new animated movie, Tangled, released into cinemas nationally from Jan 6, 2011.  You can click here to get a sneak peek of Disney’s next big hit.

Tangled sees the classic girl vs boy theme played out, prompting Nuffnang  to ask its faithful followers to regale them of a personal good vs evil  female vs male encounter.  It didn’t take long for me to think of a similar scenario – you see, this is a contest I have waited 20 years to enter!

Allow me to set the scene as I cast my mind’s eye back two decades (eeek, when did I get so old??!!) to 1991 and the crowded, chaotic Year 7 Maths Classroom of Toormina High.

Although in the midst of my “armadillo phase” (often hiding behind the thick veil of my long jet black hair) I became aware of an enticing conversation swirling around in the row directly before me. Two of my classmates, Terry & Paul, like me, were oblivious to the fractions we were meant to be solving; instead focusing on a frank discussion about rugby league.

You see, I had a secret weapon up my sleeve.  I had no choice but to interject.

Paul scoffed “what would you know about Rugby League anyway?  You’re a girl,” and abruptly turned his back on me.  And with that, I declared a war of ‘anything you can do, I can do better’!

“Go on, ask me anything,” I shot back in defence, “or if you like, let me ask you a question or two.” 

 “Who illegally tackled Ellery Hanley in the 1988 Grand Final but got away with it?”

“Tell me all the Grand Final contenders and winners from 1977.”

“Who kicked to Ettingshausen for him to score one of the most amazing tries of the 1990 Test Match Series?”

Oh yes, the humiliation ambush had commenced!  Like a semi- automatic machine gun set to ‘Scatter’, I fired off round after round of rugby league trivia questions, often not getting a response, let alone a correct answer.  And each time a counter attack was launched on me, I weathered the assault with all the ease of a highly-trained SAS soldier.

Little could they know my love of league had been fostered long ago as an 18-month-old baby girl perched on her Daddy’s lap reciting all the teams names by heart, into the tomboy-ish 13-year-old who harboured a fervent passion for footy.  It was the oxygen that sustained me, and the subject that defined me.  My bedroom wall, covered from ceiling to floor, was a shrine to all things footy. I could sit for hours and re-watch the 15 odd videos I painstakingly pieced together from hundreds of hours of mesmerised viewing.

Terry, the far kinder of the two, looked at me, this quiet, gap-toothed girl with a new found respect, while Paul reluctantly waved the white flag of surrender and grudgingly turned his back on his footy foe.  Not nice to be upstaged by a 13-year-old girl, I’d imagine! 

To celebrate my impromptu footy quiz frenzy success, I then set about writing to my ultimate league Idol and St George Dragons superstar, Brad Mackay (we’ll be here til breakfast tomorrow if I give you the full version of how I ended up with his address so best just leave it with the fact he was the nephew of my Mum’s childhood friend) filling him in on my girl vs boy glory.  And quite possibly prove to him that I was worthy of his attentions…But I digress!

You can see from the letter attached even he himself had a good giggle at Paul & Terry’s expense –the girl had won out over her time honoured rivals in a field traditionally dominated by boys and ruled Rugby League!

Side-note to Brad Mackay: should you happen to stumble upon this (and The Husband sincerely hopes that you do not), forgive me for sharing our private correspondence with the entire online community.  I felt Nuffnang might like proof to back up my youthful battle of the sexes – and who knows, it may just increase my chances of winning this competition!  I’d offer to buy you a celebratory drink if that were to be the case but please refer to abovementioned preferences of The Husband, whom I gather would be greatly displeased with such an invitation. 

Whilst I have no idea what has become of Paul (not a Rugby League historian, one would imagine) Terry, now a teacher himself, and who regularly crosses paths with my dear Dad, still reflects with amazement on that ground-breaking “girl power” day.

So, dear readers, if you too have waged a similar war against your conventional foe but find it too painful to take a walk down memory lane, why not take yourself off to the flicks to see Tangled?  You can at least revel in a fictional – and highly entertaining – battle of the sexes instead!

Sadie The Cleaning Lady Lives

Doing what I do best while the son
(like most men) watches on

Sometimes I think life would be far less stressful if I wasn’t so damn houseproud…  I can blame thank my mother for this hygienic hang-up – one of my earliest memories is of her telling us “The Queen is coming at 9am” in an ambitious attempt to ensure all her chores were done and dusted (literally) by the time the kettle whistle announced it was morning tea time.

I HATE mess; which, is ironic, as if you ask my Mum, I’m sure she’d tell you I wasn’t the tidiest child (and still slip up as an adult).   I vividly recall the childhood memory when I came home and found all the items I’d neglected to pick up off my bedroom floor strewn haphazardly around the backyard.  Yep, she finally followed through on the weekly (Friday) threat that if I didn’t have a clean floor for vacuuming, she’d see to it that all my treasured possessions left lazily laying about would be tossed unceremoniously out.  And by God, wasn’t I surprised that she meant it!  (Mental note to self: must eventually try this trick on Harrison)  

So you could say my cleanliness obsession has, like a fine wine, matured with my age.  Plus there is nothing quite like owning your first home to make you houseproud! 

But alas, the physical act of completing all my chores does not always equate to elation (more like exhaustion).  Sure, I do get a buzz out of standing back and surveying a pristine, polished home – but then comes along the tear away two year old and spills his juice, or smears a strawberry, or upends a box of toys and my sense of achievement deflates quicker than the US Dollar!

Why bother exerting such pain, I hear you ask, if its just all going to go to rack and ruin with every attempt? 

Believe me, there are times, since hitching a ride on the motherhood merry-go-round when I definitely have no time nor energy to dedicate to this mammoth task.  But I think you can only live in your self-imposed “squalor” for so long.  I feel like my skin begins to crawl after a while of eyeing off the films of dust multiplying on the dark wood dresser and my head ends up as cluttered as the kitchen bench (which seems to more often resemble a communal “too hard basked” dumping ground).  Of course parenthood has cured me of some of my previously pedantic behaviour – who has time to sweep EVERY DAY?  Not I sadly…  And some days I am literally lucky to have packed breakfast away by 9am (when we have been up since 5.30am!).  But I never leave the house with an untidy kitchen, oh no.  While I admire those who aren’t constrained by domestic chains such as these (Sheree), it’s a rare occasion that I allow this cleanliness oversight to occur. 

I had a brief idyllic interlude from domestic duties when I first re-commenced my role back in the paid working world but unfortunately for my dish-pan hands, once we moved from a 2 bedroom unit to a 4 bedroom house, it was no longer able to be squeezed into the budget and hence I have found myself donning the “Sadie The Cleaning Lady” gloves once more.  Yes, it’s usually what I end up spending my precious “Donna-time” doing but I figure it’s hard to completely relax in your own home if you feel like the mess is about to consume you like a modern bubonic plague. 

So if you are coming to visit, please know this: I will have worked myself into a stress ball ensuring my house is immaculate, in the vain hope you will buy the story I’m selling that of course dah-ling , we always live this way, with our bathroom mirrors free from Harrison’s toothpaste spit, and not a single cushion/book/dvd etc out of place.  And it’s all because I am house-proud dammit, like it or not.     But, as I tell my longer staying guests, it’s a non negotiable fact that the house will NOT remain in its spotless state as originally viewed on arrival and I will just keep up with the bare minimum so that I can enjoy your company instead…

There - not completely socially lacking, and suffering from OCD am I??

Unannounced houseguests, however, are my worst nightmare.  Because then the “House & Garden” façade I’ve so carefully crafted is shattered…  I wonder how rude they might think me if I stall them at the front step while I do a quick mental scan of the current state of chaos my house might be in.    I recall once The Husband unexpectedly bringing an old friend in to show him our new home – and it was in a complete shambles.  Needless to say, I am still wondering how soon we can invite him back so I can show him I don’t always like in a Shrek inspired hovel.

After coming full circle from the girl who played delinquent with her domestic chores as a child, into an anal clean freak as a young adult and finally morphing into a mum who just does what she has to in order to keep sane, I hope that I can continue to loosen the hygiene noose that I’ve dangled around my neck for so long.  Or at least until I can afford to hire myself a maid again!

The Gift of Life

Life is such a fragile thing – the awfulness of it being we usually don’t realise this until it’s far too late. 

I’m writing this after just reading news that one of my favourite bloggers, Lori from RRSAHM, has undergone a personal tragedy.  While details are sketchy at present, from what we know from her final, brief blog is that her young husband, and father of their two small children, is fighting for his life in intensive care.  He is also the breadwinner, so just what this means for them financially, I do not know.  All I can imagine is, if it were us, I’d be hoping people from my beloved blogging community were also spreading the word for help too.

For many, times are tough, especially after Christmas (I know it all too well!) but if you can spare anything for this wonderful, witty, well written woman and her small family, I know she would be eternally grateful.  And of course, many of you are thinking, well, I don’t know her from Adam, therefore it doesn’t affect me.  All I say is put yourself in her shoes.  There but for the grace of God go you or I.

A Paypal donation widget has been set up on Wanderlust’s blog (click on the hyperlink to access) so if you can donate anything at all, please do.  If nothing else, please, keep them in your prayers and your thoughts and send all the vibes you can muster for a safe and speedy recover y of Lori’s beloved husband, and two children under four who need their Daddy healthy, and home.

Husbands are very special.  No, they aren’t perfect (neither too are we wives) but we do truly need them in our world – and not just to open the sauce jar.  They are the ying to our yang, and even though their personality DNA means they have no idea why we cry so much, or need so many pairs of shoes, they sustain us in ways often unspoken.  In our true times of need its to them in which we turn.   

So now more than ever, hold tight to those around you who you adore.  Life is not a given, it’s a gift.  Be sure to treasure it and those you love with every breath you have xx

The Dummy Addiction: A Duel Of Devotion

I feel like we are coming out the other side of a cold turkey intervention with Harrison.  Yes, it was time to be rid of his beloved dummy, thanks to a trip to the dentist told us he was in danger of getting a bad overbite.  No problem, she said, as long as we were willing to fork out $7,000 for the pleasure of correcting this slight via braces in about 12 years to come.  It was all I could do not to throw the damn thing in the bin as we left the premises!

Naturally, we had a plan.  And like all first time parents with the best of intentions, it of course sounded much better in theory than it panned out in practice.

We tried to explain the situation in the time leading up to “withdrawal day”, and while my clever clogs Harrison could readily repeat to me that yes, we would pay for his special new toy by handing over his dummy to the lady behind the shop counter and that once we had the special toy, there would be no more dummy.  Ever again.  Sounds workable, right?  Wrong.  Try relaying that message to a distraught, sleep deprived toddler at 3.30am and it’s obvious he is suddenly oblivious to the shenanigans that took place earlier that day.

I’ll admit that after sleep 1 (a daytime nap) went well without the dreaded dummy, we were guilty of being a teeny bit smug about our situation.  But of course the enemy was just lying in wait to ambush us when we were at our tiredest…  Yes, it was the night warfare that would prove the worst; and in hindsight commencing on NYE, after an already late night and being out of routine, we truly were the masters of our own decline.

While I have never witnessed first hand an addict go cold turkey on his choice of drug before, and, not having ever been one to be dependent on anything other than chocolate (or Oprah), it was quite a new experience for me to witness just what its like to break a vicious cycle first hand.

Twitching and tossing and turning in our bed like a washing machine stuck on spin cycle, it became clear that one parent was going to have to take the fall, as there was no point both of us being bitten by the sleep deprivation bug come dawn.  Once we sent The Husband off the spare bed at about 4am, Harrison and I re-commenced the addiction withdrawal duel.   All the requisite “coming clean” trademarks were displayed – screaming, begging, torrents of tears, and an inability to sleep properly.  At one stage, in his desperation he even staggered into our ensuite and curled up in the foetal position on my fluffy bathmat.  Kinda freaked me out that one… Now if that wasn’t a hallmark of fighting off a hooked behaviour, then I don’t know what would be!

Finally, he succumbed to sleep; unfortunately for me it involved me as his human pillow (and mostly leaving me hovering at angles that would make a gold medal gymnast green with envy).  And after a torturously slow process of inching out from under him, careful to not wake the slumbering beast (so to speak!) come 5.20am there was peace restored in our world.  Nearly 3.5 hours after the enemy first fired on us. 

Without wanting to jinx ourselves (as definitely done earlier in the process!) things are most certainly on the improve.  Despite me having to explain to Harrison that he was a big boy and therefore did not need a dummy anymore, and him protesting “I don’t wanna be a big boy, I wanna be a little girl” matters are much more manageable.  Now we just need to stay strong in the face of another bad habit lurking in the background of this process and be careful we don’t replace one with another.  Yes, the son of mine who would once rather be anywhere else but suffer sleeping in the same bed as his parents has suddenly morphed into a child who comes visiting in the night and demanding to share our bed, or insisting he is only able to go to sleep if we lay with him and hold his hand….  Hard as it is to reject these rare displays of affection and loving attention (because trust me when I say my son wants nothing physical to do with me until it comes time to go back to sleep) I know it will just prolong the pain. 

While I have to almost be physically restrained by The Husband at times, to avoid nurturing this new nasty sleep crutch, I know has to be a big dose of tough love all around to get through to the other side.  It literally kills me to see that tear stained face pleading with me for mercy, and all I want to do is give in.  But the big picture still looms large in my mind and if it’s not now that we are teaching him these new habits, it will just come back to bite us at another time. 

So send us your strength as we continue to wage war against potentially exorbitant future orthodontic bills, and its apparent sequel, the battle of the shared bed!