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7 May

Kiki turns 1 364 days.

Tomorrow, will be 365, and then you are one.

I can’t believe it. Although I clearly remember the second you were born, it feels like you’ve been here all along, or maybe you’ve just always been with me in one form or another.

You’ve had a couple of colds, you’ve got a couple of teeth, you’ve taken a couple of assisted steps. In many ways, on the grand scheme of babies, you are unremarkable, but that’s only  if you’re not looking properly.

Your great grandmother, Grand Nana, wrote you a letter saying how sometimes you just know that a child is an angel straight from heaven. It sounds a little schmaltzy, but Kiki, you have a light inside you. Such a tiny person, with such a big, shining light.

You just smile at everyone and they can’t help but love you. Your flashing dimples are like a prize that you give freely.

You’ve been known to throw yourself at people for a cuddle. Sometimes you know them, sometimes you don’t. You choose them, though, and make their day.

You’re fierce, too. You defend yourself well against your big brother and I can see you’re fiery. I like that in a girl, although I’m sure by the time you’re 13 I’ll reconsider that sentence, when you’re giving me a run for my money.

My darling, at 12 months you’re trying to walk and trying to talk, and trying to be like your big brother. You love food, often squawking like a gremlin if someone has something and hasn’t offered you any. You’ll put your head down, and determinedly crawl, with the force of a wombat, over to claim some nosh. You don’t care that you only have two bottom teeth. You’ll try anything. Your Papa jokes that the only time you cry is between dinner and dessert.

You have the most amazingly soft skin, and you love to crawl naked on the couch. Up and down. Up and down. Must feel liberating or something because you don’t do it as much with your kit on. I love to cuddle you before bath time. I take your clothes off and just run my hands over your back and arms as you sit on my lap. The feel of you is intoxicating, and fills me with great, big, crazy love.

You have a husky laugh. Sometimes it surprises me because you laugh at the strangest things. I guess you get that from me. One day you, too, will be the only person laughing loudly at the cinema. It’s good to see humor where others don’t. Life is funny at inopportune moments.

kiki turns 1 You’re a very cuddly baby, and when you rest your little head into the crook of my neck, something inside me just melts. These days are going by so fast, and soon you’ll be a toddler, a child, a teen, and then grown. Sometimes it just flashes before me, and I want to hold you tight, envelope you into me and just keep you almost 1.

But then I’d miss all the fun we’re going to have. The learning about each other, and the discussions about life and the fights about freedom, and how much I don’t understand you because I could never possibly have felt like you and all of the crazy stuff that happens before you set off on your own.

I’ll just take a mental snap shot of this moment. I’ll take a gazillion photos, and write a few thousand words so I remember this year.
This has unarguably been one of the hardest years of my life to date, little one. For various reasons.

But let me assure you, that far outweighing the difficulties, this has also been the best year of my life, because you came to complete our family, and in many ways, you completed my heart.

Happy first birthday, Miss Kiki Wiggles. You are truly delicious.

kiki ah 3

Hooking up with Team Ibot over with EssentiallyJess, who is also pretty delicious, coincidently.

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You’re not Wonder Woman, and that’s ok.

19 Apr

Wonder Woman bakes bread too

I had a little meltdown this week. It wasn’t really a private affair.

In fact, it was a little bit public.

Not public like pulled-my-undies-up-over-my head-and-wailed-in-a-supermarket type public, but public enough that a few of my friends rallied and came to my aid as they could sense that my frantic waving may actually be me drowning.

Public enough that some of those friends saw my tears because I felt squashed by the enormity of this playing grown-ups malarky.

After chatting and crying and laughing and drinking lots of tea, I feel like I’m back on top, but I’m left with a residual embarrassment that my friends now may not see me as a croissant baking (yes, I will milk it) super homemaker, juggling children, writing and chainsaws, all without breaking a sweat.

Now the truth is out there.

I am not Wonder Woman.

I would totally have a crack at wearing her outfit, but I would be nothing more than a pouchy-bellied, hairy-legged, mortal wearing a costume.

Why does this shame me?

It makes me wonder about women in general, I mean, what is up with us chicks, and dudes?
Dudes aren’t immune to this overwhelming sensation of being swallowed, surely.

The exhausting newborn phase, the frustrating toddler phase, the mind-bending child rearing business/juggling act while you work, keep the house, tend the garden, have nutritious dinners on the table not just once, but 7 times a week, and keep your sanity in check, day in and day out, is a damned hard slog and no one escapes without feeling like it’s all too hard sometimes.

I must once more applaud the solidarity of the sisterhood (sorry, lads. It’s not an exclusive club per se).
I cried out and my girls were there by my side.

On one sunny morning, on my back deck, 4 of my girls and I drank tea and talked about where we’re all at and suddenly I realised that this shit of mine is not unique.

I am not a rare species, so unusual that no one can perceive my plight.

I am not alone.

My friends were saying their relationships aren’t perfect and their children aren’t perfect. Other people’s lives aren’t as amazing as they may seem on the outside. One friend said she used to hear her neighbour yelling at her kids and wonder how you could speak to your darlings like that…. and now she feel like she has become that lady.

I sometimes feel like that lady.

I am not Wonder Woman.

Do you ever feel like that lady?

Probably, because you are not Wonder Woman either.

I mentioned on my FB page that I felt like I was not coping very well last week, and my online community poured love onto my page. How awesome is that?
Some people I’ve physically met, but others don’t know me in person, but they were there with advice and love.

Some great words of wisdom came from that. I want to share a few, you know, in case you ever feel like going for a long walk off a short pier -

If you start to feel like it’s all too hard, call a friend, and go for a cup of tea.

Take a walk in the sun, or dance to some music that you love.

Honour your feelings. Allow yourself to feel what you’re feeling, but be kind to yourself.

Nurture yourself.

Slow down and breathe.

Have a date night.

My personal favourite was have a whiskey. Whiskey always helps.

I just really want to impress upon you, if you’re feeling blue, you’re not alone.

Tell someone you’re struggling because there is no shame in not being Wonder Woman, and sharing the struggle brings forth wonderful women…. and wonderful men.

Flogging and flashing with some great linky link ups,  With Some Grace,  Hi, Mama G, thanks for having me!

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Three

10 Apr

Three years ago, after 22 long hours, I held my son in my arms, and in that moment my entire life changed forever.

I have always wanted children and known they were in my future and I couldn’t wait to hold him, even before I was pregnant, my arms longed for him.

Even though I had this longing, I don’t know if I was fully prepared for what it actually means. I mean, you know about the serious lack of sleep heading your way, but nothing really prepares you for the endless months of sleep deprivation.
You realise that, unlike a horse or cow, a baby human is completely dependent on you for years, leaving you little space to be you anymore.
You become a new you. Most of the time it is fine, but sometimes I pine for the old me.
My spontaneity has gone. I have become kinda o.l.d.

Today was my big boy’s third birthday. I have such nostalgia today but it’s not for him. It’s for me. My life.

Maybe something has inherently happened at Terrible Twos has given way to Fucking Awful Threes, but the last few weeks I’ve felt like perhaps I’m not quite as equipped for this job as I first thought.

Yesterday I fantasised about going for a walk. On my own. And not stopping…… I imagined the whole scenario.

I’d drop the kids to the neighbours so they’d be safe until Mister H came home and by then I’d have just disappeared. I have always had a sense of the dramatic.
I used to think the missing persons people had met with foul play, but maybe some of them were just tired of picking up after everyone and being pierced with shrill syllables.

I don’t really want to disappear.

It was just a fantasy. Sometimes I fantasise I’m on The Voice too.

I just thought maybe out there on my walk I wouldn’t feel so torn in pieces. Trying to fulfil everyone’s whims is a fuller than full time job but my time card doesn’t get any extra hours.

There is a new tone in Mister Three’s repertoire that pierces my brain and I can’t reason with him. The Super Nanny would shake her head at me, but I really don’t know how to parent this new person in my house.

I love him with my whole, entire being, but he is grinding me down.

I also wasn’t prepared for what children would do to my relationship.

Three years ago my boyfriend became my baby daddy, and something changed in that. Now instead of nights dining and drinking, we play musical beds until the sun comes up and then he’s gone at dawn for the day and it’s me left. I miss my boyfriend. He’s become kinda o.l.d. too.

My friend’s husband said the problem with us girls is that we have too much time on our hands to think and internalise our feelings, and that perhaps in this time we focus too much on the negative stuff.

He makes a valid point. The hours and days of child rearing are so long, it’s easy for your thoughts to turn sour and begin picking at yourself like a crazy bird picks it’s feathers.

Maybe it is as simple as choosing happiness… and wearing earplugs so I can’t hear the whinging.

I am nostalgic, this evening. As my baby turns three.

On another note, I ate a lot of chocolate cupcakes today….. didn’t help the blues but shit they were yummy.

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Toddler Guerilla Tactics and a Sausage Roll

15 Mar Homemade sausage rolls

sausage roll ingredients Before I had children I had a very clear image of the type of parent I would be.

I would always maintain cool composure, because everyone knows children can smell fear. I would never, ever smack, nor allow junk food, and enforce a strict bedtime. My children would be clean, and my house would be tidy with just one little play area for toys.

Oh, and I would always remain fun. Naturally, I’d be the funnerest mum ever.

Fast forward almost 3 years and I can pretty much see y’all sniggering into your cup of tea.

Lego, Little People and dinosaurs are all over my floor, my kids’ faces are smeared with snot and breakfast and the piles of washing, both clean and dirty, are mammoth, and I’m sitting at my computer instead of getting onto it.

I’d like to say I’ve learned to pick my battles, but I probably haven’t. Sometimes I feel like I’m getting beaten by a little guerilla toddler.

Toddler terrorism is rife in my house, and I’m ashamed to say that I am not above bribery, and depending on the circumstance, I may even just succumb to the tyranny.

One fine example was at oh five hundred hours this morning, after I’d been up a gazillion times with a sick Kiki, and having a supremely snotty nose myself, I heard D Man saying he didn’t want to sleep anymore.

I wasn’t havin’ that.

rolling the sausage rolls

Usually, I can stealthily commando in, shove Ratty in his arms, cover him up, and be out of the room before he could say ‘I want milk’, but this morning he said -

I want the fluffy blankie.

Shit. I’d put it away. In Kiki’s room.

I said gently, No darling, it’s sleepy time now, we’ll get the fluffy blankie out of Kiki’s room in the morning. Stay in bed until it’s light outside. Night night.

I WANT THE FLUFFIE BLANKIE, shrieked my little dictator, (and I’m sure I heard a German accent – is that reference kosher? Probably not.)

A few things ran through my mind, and of course, I know I should have stood my ground, but all hell would have broken loose, everyone would have been crying and up for the day and I just wasn’t ready for that shit.

So, Mini Despot got his blankie.

And I got half and hour more sleep.

Was it worth it?

Yes.

Another one were having currently is over tomato sauce. Boy has discovered the joy of the tangy, sweet/sour condiment from the Heinz Gods, and I agree that some foods must have sauce. A pie, fish and chips, hell, even shepard’s pie, but not everything to cross the dinner table needs to be doused.

Broccoli, for instance, does not need sauce.

I put my foot down over this one, and I put it down good.

Perhaps it’s easier to stand my ground in the light of day……thankfully, these little sausage rolls a begging to be loved with sauce.

When it came to these, Boy had his way.

sausage rolls fresh from the ovenHealthy Mini Sausage Rolls

Yield : 25, depending on how big you make them

What you will need :

  • 350g pork
  • 1/2 onion, finely chopped
  • 1/2 zucchini, finely grated
  • 1/2 carrot, finely grated
  • 2 teaspoon fennel seeds
  • 1 teaspoon mustard seeds
  • 3 sheets ready rolled puff pastry
  • 1 egg yolk
  • sesame and poppy seeds
  • sauce to serve

What you need to do :

Preheat oven to 200C

Place your fennel and mustard seeds in a dry frypan over a medium heat and toast until lightly golden and fragrant. Pop into a mortar and pestle and give them a good bashing.

Lightly fry your onion until it is translucent.

Toss your pork, veges and onion and spices into a bowl and mix together thoroughly. Season well.

Cut your sheet of pastry into three equal slices and using a tablespoon to measure out your mixture, roll up your little sausage rolls until the mixture is finished.

Brush rolls with egg yolk and sprinkle with the seeds, before popping them into the oven until they are golden brown – about 20 mins.

Serve with sauce, of course.

Homemade sausage rolls

If you need inspiration for Toddler Friendly food, why not check out my ebooks?
For a measly $15 you can have two books worth of kid friendly food ideas that the whole family will love!

I’m flogging my blog with Grace today over at FYBF

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Can you over use ‘I Love You’?

10 Mar

i_love_you_in_heart_candy_postcards-rb9fa439ec6e148cc8b10f70dcf76ecf3_vgbaq_8byvr_512An Italian, an Aussie and a Serbian lady were chatting in the supermarket…….

It sounds like the beginning of a joke but it’s one of the things I love about this multi-cultural area I live in.

Kiki was trying to share her sucked, soggy, cardboard cracker with the dark haired, slightly older lady behind us and with her simply pretending to share the slobbery treat with my girl, we sparked a most thought provoking conversation.

You see, she was a mama to a couple of those mystical creatures…..teenage boys.

I asked her if they were as the legend tells – uncommunicative, monosyllabic and mysterious?

‘Not my boys. I wouldn’t let them’.

She explained that although they do spend more time in their rooms, being smelly and  probably sending themselves blind, but she ensures that every evening they talk about their day and she listens to their interests, even if she doesn’t share them, and at the end of the chat, they hug and she tells them she loves them.

And they respond in kind.

Because that’s how she grew up in her big Italian family.

The thick accented Serbian lady who was scanning my groceries was listening to our exchange and apologised for piping in before saying -

‘You don’t tell ‘I love you’, you show it.’

Interesting……… I love a check-out debate.

She went on to explain in her culture, talking about ‘the love’ is not the done thing. You just show it.

I’ve always been showered with the words, so this thought is foreign to me.

We went on to talk about how all three of us were making sure our children knew how much we loved them. How we were expressing our love differently to our family, or partner’s family, and breaking the love barrier in order to give our children something that we/they did not.

The Serbian lady said that she tries to say it because she laments not hearing it more from her mother, although she always knew that her Mother cared for her.

When Mister H and I were first dating the subject of saying ‘I love you’ came up. I don’t think we were actually saying it to each other yet, but this conversation was probably me fishing – can’t remember clearly……what I can remember was him saying that in his experience ‘I love you’ is not something said between family members, it was something for lovers.

I was shocked. Who made up that crazy rule?

I’m a super expressive person.

I fling I love yous around like high kicks at the Moulin Rouge.

I say it to my buddies when I hang up the phone….if I talk to them more than once in any given day, they’ll cop it a couple of times. It’s just something I do….not so much at the gynaecologists, but you know what I mean.

Does it cheapen it, if it’s said regularly? Can you wear it out?

I never get sick of hearing someone say I love you.

They don’t need to be gazing into my eyes and ensuring the sentiment goes straight to the very core of my being. Not every I love you is like that. They can be flippant, disposable ones too.

I. Love. You.

I love you.

Love ya.

I tell my children all the time.

When they’re being silly I say it in a robot voice. When they’re asleep I whisper it in their perfect shell ears. I tell them how special they are and that I will love them unconditionally…..they don’t even know what that means yet, but I do.

I used to say it all the time to my boyfriend, but now that he’s my husband I think perhaps I don’t say it as often. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel it, I just forget, I guess. That’s a bit shitty.
I always try to say it last thing at night, so it softly shrouds him in his sleep.

Of course, I show my family I love them all the time.

If they look hard enough they could see it in all the friggen’ folds of washing, and the wiping of their stinky butts and snotty noses. I couldn’t do that if I didn’t love them.
In all fairness, Mister H takes care of his own butt and nose, but I show him in other ways.

I think saying it, impressing it into and onto them, is important.

It’s a bloody jungle out there, and sometimes the most comforting thing in the world is when a dear one says ‘I love you’.

It can give me strength. It can give me courage.

It’s like a safe, warm place created by three simple syllables.

And, Lord knows, this crazy world, so full of harsh and ugly words, needs more safe places.

Do you say I love you regularly, or do you think is over used?

If you know anyone who would enjoy this, why don’t you show you love them by flicking it over to them…..you know you wanna.

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How To Prevent Your Toddler From Killing Your Baby.

27 Feb

baby-safe

If I had a dollar for every time I said ‘Be gentle with your sister’ I could buy myself a First Class one way ticket to somewhere peaceful where pool boys massaged my feet whilst I drank cocktails the size of my head.

One moment of relaxed vigilance and my baby could be unwittingly suffocated, choked, or just ridden off into the sunset by her exuberant big brother.

Today, I popped over to Sleeping Could Be Easy to give my friend Nina a few tips on how to keep her gorgeous toddler away from her soon-to-be newborn twins.

She said this gave her a chuckle, but also made her scared…..

She should be.

I have marvelled many times about the fact that second children are ever conceived, in light of the fact that first children really play havoc with your sex life, but something I have observed in the last 9 months, is that it’s a miracle our second children make it to their first birthdays.

It’s generally not that our first child is malicious, but more inclined to love the new baby a tad fiercely……

To read the rest of this post pop over here

Have you caught your toddler being over zealous?

If you know someone that’s got a new baby and a toddler, flick this over to them.

You may save a baby’s life!

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Big Daddy’s homecoming and Oat, Date and Ginger Biscuits

24 Feb date and ginger cookies finished

ginger and date biscuits ingredientsAt the very second I type this we are T-2hrs until picking Mister H up from the airport.
It’s been a long ten days without him.

D Man is allowed to stay up late tonight and just he and I are heading off to the arrivals gate to see Big Daddy walk through. I think both chaps will get a buzz out of that….and I’m not embarrassed to say I’m looking forward to a pash. I reckon a public pash at the arrivals gate is totally acceptable behaviour.

Mister H left on Valentine’s Day and I didn’t write a Valentine’s post. I read a few spectacularly schmaltzy ones and it made me wonder if I was unsentimental, or perhaps my relationship was lacking….

You are the air I breathe and my sun and moon, just don’t quite describe my feelings for my husband but I’ve done some thinking in the last ten days.

I was 30 when we met.

I had lived a very full life and I’ve always relied on myself. I’m very independent, strong and fiery and I can get by just fine on my own. The majority of the  day-to-day ‘kid stuff’ I do anyway because he’s out of the house early and home late, so it wasn’t a biggie.

I haven’t missed not having all of the training clothes to wash, nor have I missed all of the shoes in the lounge.

What I realised was, though, is that Mister H is like the tonic in my gin. Gin is pretty good on it’s own, a complete thing, if a tad harsh, but when you add tonic?

Wow, now that’s a real marriage.

Mister H is the cheese on my pizza, the sugar in my coffee and the bubbles in my bath.

He’s the date and ginger in my oat cookie.

I have missed the kisses goodnight, and my friend coming home and chatting about our day.

I have missed the sound of he and the kid’s laughing, and I’ve missed cuddles in the kitchen…..so I made a batch of these chewy, spicy date numbers to ease us through the final days of his absence!

date and ginger biscuits licking the beater

What you will need :

  • 85g softened butter
  • 50g castor sugar
  • 60g brown sugar
  • 1 egg
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla essence
  • 1/2 cup wholemeal flour
  • 1/2 teaspoons bicarbonate of soda
  • 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
  • 1 teaspoon ground ginger
  • A pinch of salt
  • 1 cup rolled oats
  • 80g chopped dates

What you will need to do :

Preheat oven to 190C

In a large bowl cream together the butter and the sugars until nice and pale. Then add the egg and vanilla and beat until light and fluffy.

Stir  together the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger and salt and gradually beat into the spread mixture bit by bit.

Finally, stir in the oats and dates.

Pop teaspoon sized balls onto baking paper and stick in the oven for 8-10 minutes until golden and delicious. Leave for a few minutes before transferring to a rack to cool completely.

Chewy, moist, sticky, spicy, sweet and yummy…..I ate 4 while they were still hot, and felt instantly better.

date and ginger cookies finished

Ironically, after I had already written this, Mister H gave me a present from his journey……

It goes perfectly with tonic.

Hendricks Gin

 

 

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Ikea Olympics and Lost Children. Doping highly recommended.

19 Feb

Kiki's new bedAs many of you are aware, Mister H is away for ten days overseas and I’m playing single mummy for the duration.
I’ve called reinforcements in the form a couple of stunt husbands who are doing tag teams.

My first StuntHub arrived with Lime Pannacotta and Tuille (Who the hell makes tuille? Obviously, my stunt husband is gay) and a couple of bottles of vino collapso, and I bought some bubbly to celebrate life, because life ought to be celebrated, no?

I admit freely to being a Cadburys Alcoholic (a glass and a half every day) but I rarely have more than two glasses……there is no need to divulge exactly how much was consumed but I must confess to being a tad surprised and a little impressed (and supremely dusty) as I carried the debrit (read: evidence) to the recycle bin the following morning at dawn’s crack…..because children care not for the over hung and love to wake the crusty.

StuntHub and I had set a date to hit Ikea in the morning, as I needed another bed to sleep my second Stunt Hub, Aunty Prusty. That’s not her real name, but D Man couldn’t say Krusty, which incidentally is also not her real name, but it stuck.

A Nurofen, a plate of pancakes, and a coffee the size of my head later, I was ready to worship the Norse god of affordable homewares.

Have you ever been to Ikea on the weekend?
Ooooof….Don’t do it.

With Kiki in the sling, and D Man holding my hand, the StuntHub and I plunged into the sea of people, shuffling around the grey path with their stubby little pencils, looking at storage solutions they never knew they needed.

In Ikea every man is created equal. Whether you’re a muscular, tattooed couple with kids sporting mullets, or aging lesbians with pale purple hair, once your trolley is laden with flat packs you’ve signed on for the Ikea Olympics. You’re ducking and weaving and racing your way to the finish line, stuffing packets of napkins and meatballs under your arms as you go.

D Man was perky all morning, but shortly after diving into the tidal mass, he began to eye off the furniture, and not in a Interior-Design-Prodigy kind of way.
I’d turn my back for a moment and he’d be laying down on a couch, a bed or a pile of rugs.

This was when I realised that perhaps he didn’t feel very well.

If I was ever going to win Mother of the Year, this would be where I would have turned on my heel and gone home, but once you’re on the pathway, following the little arrows projected onto the floor, there is NO GOING BACK…..you cannot swim upstream, even if you’re clutching a salmon coloured pillow.

We fought our way around as I fought the squeezing sensation somewhere deep behind my eyeballs, loading up our flatbed trolley in a warehouse full of marital issues waiting to happen. They say a couple that can assemble Ikea together is a couple for life.

A turned back and the blink of an eye later, your worst Ikea nightmare happened…..D Man was gone.
He wasn’t in Aisle 7, nor Aisle 8, nor Aisle 6.
Shit. This was going to look very bad when Mister H came home.

‘We don’t have D Man anymore, darling, but we have a new bed!’

I started to call his name, a little cranky he’d wandered off. I walked in one direction, no D Man. I walked in the other, no D Man.
So, I really started to call his name, no longer cranky but with that sickening rising panic that tasted like bile……I was the crazy lady with messy hair and terror in her eyes, stale old wine breath and baby on her hip, screaming for her lost kid in a crowded shop.

It’s funny how you never really think ‘they’re probably hiding’, you always automatically think they’ve been abducted, by some Ikea predator.
People just looked at me. Not one person offered to help.

I would have helped.

No matter how crazy the lady looked.

My heart rate was going through the roof and I started looking for a staff member to help and then StuntHub walked into my line of vision about 20 metres away, holding a pale D Man in his arms.

He’d been lying down.

On top of some flat packs.

It was time to pay for those napkins in my armpit and take this lad home.

I discovered two things on that fateful day.

Never go to Ikea on a Sunday morning with a hangover, and you don’t need a husband if you have an Allen key.

Like Kiki’s new bed?

Hooking up with the lovely EssentiallyJess, for IBOT.

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Hold me, I’m dying.

12 Feb

We are but stars...Two days ago I had three naked children playing in my garden. Their little monkey bodies, flitting in and out of the arcing spray of the Waterpiller.

The Waterpiller is the modern day equivalent of the sprinkler, specifically designed for naked backyard antics, so these little pink beings were squealing and giggling with delight as the cool droplets splashed on their skin and made their nerve endings dance.

I looked at them, playing and so carefree and I thought,

This is living.

This is the stuff childhood memories are made of and this pure joy is the epitome of life.

The following day a dear aunt, Tante Magriet, slipped quietly into the eternal sleep on the other side of the world.
She was a brilliant woman in life and in these last months the evil Dementia had taken her mind away and her spark had already left the building.
She had lived a full life, borne children, taught at University, inspired people and loved fiercely…..and then she was gone.

That is dying.

From the minute we are born we’re hurtling towards our mortality.

I’m dying.

You are too.

All of us and our cats and dogs and chickens and plants…..we’re all dying.

It’s just a Lion King song. It’s just the Circle of Life.

I was giving it all some thought and I was totally at peace with it because it’s just natural. It’s unnatural to live to 200 and be full of Botox and vitamins.

LIFE PROGRESSION

1.We’re born tiny

2.We grow big and strong

3.We produce offspring

4.We shrink and shrivel

5.We disappear

Like a plant. For we are just matter.

Like matter, we don’t matter (if you catch my drift). Not in the big picture.

Of course, we all know the natural order is that our grandparents die first and that gives us and idea of what it’s all about….and then in our middle age our parents die, and leave gaping holes but we’re ok with it, because ‘they had a good life’.

It’s the way it should be……of course, not everyone gets the memo.

I was relatively at peace with the way the scheme works and then I read about fellow blogger, Julie of The Progressive Parent.

Julie woke up a couple of days ago to find her 15 month old son had died in his sleep. Right next to her, in bed. He just didn’t wake up.

No apparent cause. No reason.

They think maybe SIDS but Patrick (they called him Pat Pat) was a little old at 15 months…..but as she says, it doesn’t really matter what it was because the end result is the same. Her Patrick is gone, and he will never curl into her breast and look into her eyes again.

I look back at my progression chart and I cannot make sense of this. This is not part of the scheme because Patrick was only at Step 1.

This is a monumental cosmic cock up.

It’s not supposed to work like that.

I’m sure Julie feels like……fuck, you know what? I have no idea ow Julie feels….because even my wildest imaginings probably don’t cut the expanse of pain.

All the words for grief and sorrow are so two dimensional in the face of such loss.

I am perforated by your absence, my sweet little love.

Her words made me run to my children and gather them into my arms and bury my nose in their hair. I hope that somehow I can impress upon their personal timeline the importance that they follow the progression chart as it should be…..for I don’t know if I could be a complete picture again if someone removed one of my pieces.

I’m back pondering the big questions today. What’s it all about? Or is it about anything? Are we just matter that comes and goes like stars?

Of course we are.

But we are stars with hearts, and hearts are so easily broken.

Do you think about death?

What got you through when you lost someone?

I Blog on Tuesdays with EssentiallyJess. Go see who else does.

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Is it kosher to ask someone to shut their kid up in public?

24 Jan

public tantrumI was recently sent a link to the Sydney Morning Herald story about a fracas in a cafe involving the parents of a ‘problem child’ and the peace of other patrons by one of my readers……

Firstly, I was a little bit chuffed. I loved that HE (yes, one of my two non-related-by-blood (to me, not each other) male readers – high five, dude!) thought of me when he read this, but secondly, he was interested to hear what I thought. Just to get you up to speed before I mouth off with my opinion, it went a little something like this.

In a nutshell, this couple, one of whom is the writer of the piece, were trying to enjoy their brunch at a busy cafe when a child at a nearby table started shrieking, not crying or whinging, but shrieking with a ‘piercing, shrill cry that sounded like the child was in pain’.
It continued for a bit and some people left, then it stopped for a bit (presumably when the babycino arrived), then it started worse than before(afore mentioned babycino finished) and continued for ten minutes before the writer’s husband went up to them and suggested they take the child for a walk.
Nastiness ensued, blah, blah, blah, the F word was slung and the bird was flipped. Cafe staff said they’ve had trouble with this particular family before and the child is a ‘problem child’.

Now…..what do I think?

Hmmmmmmm, before I had kids I would have been all ‘hell yeah, shut that freakin’ kid up, yo’ (Breaking Bad has a lot to answer for), but since having kids I’m much more tolerant. I’ve been on both sides of the coin and when the lady glared at me at Fratelli Fresh whilst I was trying to bolt down my pasta and glass of medicinal vino and the two babes at our table, whilst not crying, were definitely not being seen but not heard, I may, or may not, have told her to schmuck off, or something to that effect.

That said, I do think, in a crowded cafe, you have a responsibility to other patrons. Hence my discomfort in that situation. Although I do feel parent’s are absolutely entitled to eat out too, you really shouldn’t do it at the expense of everyone else’s experience.

Cafes are a bit of a nightmare with kids, every parent enters at their own peril, so if it all goes pear shaped, I get embarrassed and high tail it with my skinny latte -one sugar- in a go cup if need be. I get annoyed at my own kids chucking a wobbly, so yes, I do find other people’s misbehaving kids annoying. I think it’s our duty, as parents, to keep our families nice in public as much as possible……not always doable, of course, but something we should aspire to.

The part that kind of makes my alarm bells ring (Danger, Danger Will Robinson!!) is the ‘problem child’ part. It’s a fairly ambiguous thing to say, but if you had a go at someone with a disabled child because they were disturbing your eggs benedict, you do look like a bit of a douche.
It is a basic parental right to have access to coffee, and I imagine if your child had special needs, this is more valid than ever.

So, let’s take this situation away from the parenting vibe for a second and discuss a different kind of disturbance….If a couple had a loud argument would I suggest they go for a walk?
Probably not.

We saw recently when that poor French woman was verbally attacked in a racial slur on the Melbourne bus and NO ONE came to her defence that people, in general, do not intervene in altercations, so why do we see fit to criticise others’ parenting?

I guess I’m sitting on the fence here. I probably wouldn’t have said anything and bitched about it the whole day, so I really can’t blame the dude for taking the bull by the horns. As for the parents, they probably should have eaten their breakfast in shifts whilst the other distracted the kid outside. Not relaxing, but it doesn’t sound like they were having a particularly relaxing time as it stands.

Long story short, enter cafes at your own risk, and try to keep your kids nice, or get it in a go cup.

What do you think? Would you have said anything or let it slide?

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