tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66767020616299790972024-02-06T21:45:07.230-08:00Mummy DuckUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-79935600860794529912014-02-26T17:45:00.000-08:002014-02-26T20:06:48.337-08:0050 metres of fear<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">The school swimming carnival. Urgh. I remember, with revulsion, 13 years of the head aching noise, and pressure to stand up on the blocks and fail in front of everyone. Sportsperson of the year, I was not.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">However, our Mr 8 <i>is</i> a sportsperson. He can't get enough soccer, he excels at tennis, basketball, anything he puts his perfect hand-eye coordination to. My husband and I always marvel at this miracle, being as we can't throw a ball between us.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">But swimming...well, we found out last year that this was not something that came naturally to our little man. Because at his first ever school swimming carnival, he - in his words - "drowned". Jumped off the blocks, plopped 2 metres down to the bottom of the pool, and, well, stayed there.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">I'd just left - after he assured me he would not be racing, which I would confidently have put money on at the time. I didn't, however, factor in that he would get carried along with his friends in the hype of all going in the pool together.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">My first surprise came immediately after this event: "I need to learn how to swim mum," he stated, got straight in the pool at swimming lessons and powered on to learn all the strokes perfectly, within 6 months. There's my little sportsman now!</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Fast forward and we find ourselves in the utterly merciless carnival chaos again.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">This time however, we were prepared. We'd practised in a deep pool, jumped off the scary blocks, and worked some nice lengthy swims into his repertoire.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">So, we were ready.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu3OUoh_82L4UzTd3txOidE6ydEv4zp2YcsTuFuNKPy0KyrZ0zfWnJV4UqHLDmxXwe1GBCEcc2sDMNEhyKIc7N9reibQqbqopwtYS_iVOyMqK5-nSOjXpEKDGybDbsAx8Z4m6xymcFMxVh/s1600/swim+lane.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu3OUoh_82L4UzTd3txOidE6ydEv4zp2YcsTuFuNKPy0KyrZ0zfWnJV4UqHLDmxXwe1GBCEcc2sDMNEhyKIc7N9reibQqbqopwtYS_iVOyMqK5-nSOjXpEKDGybDbsAx8Z4m6xymcFMxVh/s1600/swim+lane.bmp" height="157" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Except that we weren't.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">You can't train to get rid of fear.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And it hit us both when we got there.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">We sat quietly. He stayed with me, over in the corner, when normally he would be off mucking around with his friends. We took it all in, and I tried gently to nudge him, but definitely not make him.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">He did a couple of novelty things.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Silently he took himself off to test drive the slow lane - as if telling me he was going in that pool would make it too real to him.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">All in his own time, I realised.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">He was so nervous, that he didn't eat.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Then he stood up and said, "I'm going in the 50 metres breaststroke."</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: x-large;">50 METRES!!!</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Instead, "ok, good boy" came out of my mouth.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">I must admit, I cowered around. I asked the marshals to look out for him, and they put him in the side lane. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">He sat there waiting for his race to be called, still, quiet, contemplating; his beautiful brown eyes looking down the barrel of that lane reaching forever out in front of him.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">His friends, also waiting for the race, were completely pumped, shouting, bouncing around, enjoying it. This time though, I don't think it was about doing something with them, or even the pressure to perform well in front of them. The look on his little face was that he needed to do this <i>for himself.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And all of a sudden, he was back there again, jumping into that abyss.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">He swam. His normally beautiful, long, gliding breast stroke, was jerking about on the top of the water, like he'd forgotten the basics - I panicked that he was panicking.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">I could see the point where his asthma kicked in, and he started looking around him for somewhere to stop and breathe.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">"Keep going, you're doing so well!" My goodness if I could have thrown him a rope and dragged him back to me I would have.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">He touched the wall, heaving chest, completely out of breath, confused about what to do next - because he'd never made it to the end before in a race... Ha! <u><strong>HE'D MADE IT!!!</strong></u></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">It wasn't til later that night when I'd tucked everyone down into their beds, that I sat down and had a little tear (ok, a flood) of pride in him. What an achievement. I wish I had been that brave at school swimming carnivals.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Now, if I hear myself saying, "I can't", I will always think of this little boy, sitting at the beginning of his 50 metres of fear, how he harnessed his mind, flexed his bravery, and said, "I can".</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-34043540889038073072013-07-27T16:42:00.001-07:002013-07-27T16:42:50.073-07:00I can’t be a mute mother.
I just read that I am no longer allowed to call my daughter beautiful,
because it’s forming the opinion in her head that beautiful looking is what
matters. That she has to retain the flawless face of her three year old self, aim
for the figure of Miranda Kerr (which she has never had and never will have, my
yummy little stocky girl), be scarred by terrible eating disorders, failed
romantic encounters, the whole frightening shebang. I'm petrified of all this
stuff for my daughter.<br />
In the same week I've also read I'm not allowed to call her a "good
girl", because it perpetuates the glass ceiling. It stifles her want to be
dominant, a risk taker, and all those other things that being a leader
requires. It says she has to remain bound by 18th century corseted social rules
- sit in the corner and read your Jane Austen you, you, female you!<br />
I understand this theory, I really do, and believe me, I'm the last person
who wants to damage my children's self esteem.<br />
But it is very hard for me not to say these things because, well, my
daughter is beautiful. Stunning. Everyone tells me thus. She has huge,
summer-sky blue eyes, framed by long dark lashes, a button nose, ruby red
cherub lips, and the most amazing curly hair. Me, of the limp, permed-three-times-in-a-week-and-still-poker-straight
variety, has aimed for this kind of hair all my life. And I've made it on my
daughters head. And now - I can't believe it - I'm not allowed to call it
beautiful!<br />
However, physically gorgeous as she looks, when I call her "my
beautiful girl", I am usually referring to her beautiful personality.
Because she has come into the room early morning, with sleepy doe eyes, with
hair to rival Mad Einstein, clearly still waking up but nevertheless sporting a
huge smile on her face (how I wish I could do that), and she bumbles toward me
with one thing on her mind - a big cuddle good morning. That, is beautiful, no
other word for it.<br />
I also can’t help but proclaim "good girl", when her preschool teacher
tells me she's well rounded, friends with everyone, inclusive of all (and not
exclusive, apparently a trait three year old girls display already - eek!). Is
this not a "good" quality that should be encouraged in my
"girl"?<br />
The experts suggest changing the way you express it. So, in this instance, I
need to say "Well done Stable Personality (nothing to do with looks). What
a balanced attitude you are displaying at preschool, not adhering to gender pigeon-holing.
MUMMY WILL GET YOU AN ICECREAM!!!" (Or is that not allowed?)<br />
Show me one parent who has not gazed down at their hairy, peeling-skinned,
purple-pink in colour, nose squashed into chin newborn and fallen into tears at
how "beautiful" they think they are? Even if they do look like an
alien cross ape, a newborn baby is nothing but the word beautiful.<br />
I also call my three boys Beautiful. Or, "Would you mind helping me
with the dishwasher please <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gorgeous</i>"
Or, "calm down <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blossom</i>, let me
show you how to do it." Rarely do they get their real name when I refer to
any of my children - and if I do try, it’s usually arrived at after tripping
over their brothers’ and sister’s names first.<br />
So if I call my boys Beautiful, Blossum and Gorgeous, am I also setting up
their self image as Boy Barbie? Am I encouraging femininity? But it’s ok to be
male and feminine nowadays, isn't it? Or am I smothering their maleness by
using a feminine term for them? Or is beautiful even a feminine term now? Wow,
I'm really feeling the pressure here.<br />
Is this what we want - to have girls who are not too beautiful, play with
matchbox cars and never wear a skirt, and boys who are not too beautiful,
who'll nurse a doll, and wear pink shorts, so that everyone is, well, the same?<br />
I'm so confused.<br />
And now that I think of it, does this mean I can't read my daughter stories
about fairies anymore? Because Fairy Pengiuns now have to be called Little
Penguins. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"And the little gender-non-specific-not-wearing-a-sparkly-dress-or
being-a-good-someone person, hid in the bushes waiting for the family to get
home..."</i> I guess hiding in the bushes when you're not a fairy is taboo
too now.<br />
My life has been full of the "fairies" this change of wording aims
to stop offending. And I couldn't be more thankful - in fact, I feel very
special to have had so many people who are not the standard norm in my young
life growing up - all of them showing me their individual "beauty",
and teaching me lessons on how to be "good" in this life. I think it
has made me a more tolerant and accepting person. Qualities which I really hope
I can help grow in my children. "Good" qualities for a person to
have.<br />
I don't think I can stop myself calling my children beautiful or gorgeous
and blurting out "good boy!" or "good girl!" when they've
exhibited qualities I wish to encourage, or I’m just downright proud of. I
think it tells them I love them - it comes tumbling out of my mouth without
restraint and unconditional love. I'd be no good at a measured, well thought
out statement that by the time I have concocted it in my head the moment has
passed and they've no idea what I'm talking about.<br />
I want to raise children who ARE gorgeous, beautiful, fun, loving, caring,
strong and just plain old wonderful all over.<br />
But, they came out like this anyway. No need to try so hard.<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-18339275510598957192013-06-04T20:50:00.001-07:002013-06-04T21:05:30.956-07:00Cry for helpThe grey-sky coloured curtain transmitted a whimper from the other side. I'd not heard a sound like it before. It was...empty. Like it felt ineffectual, but it had to escape the broken little body, the aching mind, that held it.<br />
<div>
The TV ran incessantly in the background and had done for the last many hours, since about <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://0" x-apple-data-detectors-result="0" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors="true">4am</a>, when the whimpering began, in the darkness.</div>
<div>
It never got louder, it ceased a few times, but not for long. Whimpering doesn't get much of a break apparently, before it needs to be let out again. </div>
<div>
It travelled right down through all my senses. I heard it. It stung my eyes with tears. I could smell its hopelessness. It settled on my heart and has never left.</div>
<div>
Later the curtain was pulled back, and I saw a little girl of about two years old lying back in the bed, big eyes looking at nothing. Her nappy was swollen, her breakfast untouched because no one had yet fed her. A nurse had hastily given her a bottle and promised softly to be back as soon as she could, to nurture her. I knew I wasn't allowed to cuddle her or feed her because we were in the hospital Isolation ward.<br />
Boy, was she isolated. </div>
<div>
Later, her young mother came in with a friend, rustling paper McDonalds bags, swearing loudly on mobile phones and teaching me things you could do with men that I'd never heard of before. </div>
<div>
"Oh baby garl, mi baby garl. We get you outta here, 'dose naughdy nurses, 'dem not gonna keep you 'ere, you mi baby garl..."</div>
<div>
Then back to the mobile and talk of <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://1" x-apple-data-detectors-result="1" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors="true">tonight</a>'s appointment with Jack Daniels.</div>
<div>
A nurse quietly comes in and sits with the mother. "Why you not gif my baby garl brea'fast?" the young mum accuses.</div>
<div>
The nurse calmly asks if its possible for the mother to come and be with her daughter a bit more, because the daughter can't yet talk to tell them what's wrong, only a mother can help interpret such things. And she may be going downhill again.</div>
<div>
"I don have d' bus money to be 'ere all d' bloody time."</div>
<div>
Later a volunteer tells me this little soul has just come out of three months in intensive care. Her life could yet still hang in the balance. And it's down to the nurses to watch for this, along with caring for all the other very sick children.</div>
<div>
The nurses responsibility is enormous, and heartbreaking. But they go about their business, caring for the most vulnerable, comforting mothers and fathers, informing doctors, saving lives. </div>
<div>
And being mum to those without one.</div>
<div>
The Children's Hospital Gold Telethon starts <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://2" x-apple-data-detectors-result="2" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors="true">on Monday at 9am</a>. Please give, to support the amazing work it does.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.HelveticaNeueUI'; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19px; white-space: nowrap;">https://goldtelethon.org.au/donate</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-64734738602455007272013-05-26T16:45:00.003-07:002013-05-26T16:57:56.229-07:00UNDERWOMAN<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am trying to embrace my Underwoman at the moment. </span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is not a woman running around with a cape and undies
on her head (although this would be a good tension-reducing look for one night
when everything's going jellybelly-up). No, this, is a woman who is currently
trying to slow things down in her life, to UNDER-achieve, shock horror. </span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A week in the life of Underwoman involves missing the
kids haircut appointment (but the hairdresser understood and still took us back the next
week); forgetting important school events (but the other beautiful school mums
remind me); driving to school in my slippers (but my kids pointed it
out...loudly...at the school gate...); a lot of takeaway food (which anyone
privvy to my cooking knows is only a good thing); and asking for help (revelation of all revelations - you get some! Which makes life easier. I know, surprising).</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I always toss up between these two sayings: </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><em><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Life should not be a journey to the grave <br />with the intention of arriving safely<br />in an attractive and well preserved body,<br />But rather to skid in sideways,<br />chocolate in one hand,<br />wine in the other,<br />body thoroughly used up,<br />totally worn out and screaming<br />"WOO HOO what a ride!" "</span></em><br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><span class="firstword">"Don</span>'t hurry. Don't worry. You're only here for a short visit. So don't forget to stop and <span style="border-bottom-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 1px;"><span style="border-bottom-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 1px;"><span style="border-bottom-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 1px;">smell the roses</span></span></span>"</span></span></em></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Much of my life I have been the opposite to Underwoman -
an over achieving, ten-to-the-dozen woman. Skidding in sideways, was me. But, of late, a
few things have made me realise its time to stop and smell the roses. </span></span><br />
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like, the
fact that Little Blue is our last bubba. Must. Breathe. Him. In. And.
Enjoy. Every. Millisecond.</span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
And, being sick for a long time,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> which now </span>makes me want to enjoy all the little things
I have been unable to recently. All the little things in my life are all
my little human beings. Who won't be little for very long. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
And, I sometimes wonder,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>if I wasn't rushing and rallying to be the perfect Wonderwomum when our
third bubba was born, maybe I'd<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>have
caught her<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>illness earlier than I did
(not blaming, just wondering what if). Was I too busy taking Wonderwomum compliments rather
than taking note?</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
And because, as my little ones become big ones, it will
be less about major meltdowns, having a fully equipped organic superfood
lunch box and getting four kids to their 3 afterschool activities each, and more about a teeny mood shift or slightly downcast look in the
eyes, which will dictate where I'm needed</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial;">And simply because, well, what's the point again Wonderwomum? I can't see past your flapping cape. Or is it my flapping undies?</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5NGqtoZQk3P0CUS1saPgY1Scl0_2-VRYGqp8NzWdfX1YgalW8t0e6xrkSCRgLa7HU_pKPSZoSG7K4888fhAv2KJgE6z62gLuJAau69w_mjNKnwI-QoElnYcaqQp2cYQktuCp6s6BnnrzV/s1600/underwoman.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5NGqtoZQk3P0CUS1saPgY1Scl0_2-VRYGqp8NzWdfX1YgalW8t0e6xrkSCRgLa7HU_pKPSZoSG7K4888fhAv2KJgE6z62gLuJAau69w_mjNKnwI-QoElnYcaqQp2cYQktuCp6s6BnnrzV/s320/underwoman.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></span><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-90626894192640311842013-05-01T21:00:00.002-07:002013-05-01T21:00:37.953-07:00Yummy Scrummy
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My name is Mummy, I have a confession I need to make</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It involves all my children, from whom I take</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s not their money, or their innocence so sweet</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I take little nibbles, of their belly’s, chin and cheek.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You see my babies are edible, deliciously so</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All sugary pink, like a soft marshmallow.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I also need to mention, little fingers and toes</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So kissable when I spy them – oh, and then there’s the nose!
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And now onto bottoms…this may be taboo</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But there’s nothing more delectable, than a dimply cheek or
two! </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3hwlKyNF5q61HfrAz-n5_VvGqTV9shCGbh_ZwIjCZS-Qkcgjc3bB3LqmiYDJQzMLiLaCwPfKEde-PqJwYiP2XT20MEbyUGCHUkb9ipXEBHuZi-LjnGXet22YJqEdjxSlRwrLx-4JU40En/s1600/IMG_6496.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3hwlKyNF5q61HfrAz-n5_VvGqTV9shCGbh_ZwIjCZS-Qkcgjc3bB3LqmiYDJQzMLiLaCwPfKEde-PqJwYiP2XT20MEbyUGCHUkb9ipXEBHuZi-LjnGXet22YJqEdjxSlRwrLx-4JU40En/s320/IMG_6496.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We have our bounce about poppet, Little Miss Moo</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her most delectable cheeks, framed by melt-me-eyes blue</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Master 6 is our, Mr Larger Than Life</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">His whole smiling body, causing gastronomic strife</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">His giggle, vivacious, little legs full of fun</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My hunger to cuddle him is as big as the sun</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Even Master 7, still makes my tummy rumble</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could have big school boy belly </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1em 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Topped with oh-so-proud crumble</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But simply most edible, is our little Newborn Blue,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He’s soft and squishy, and yummy and new</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He looks up at me, with eyes all milk drunkie,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Relaxed and so trusting, my beautiful monkey</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I feel an overwhelming urge, to nuzzle right in</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And kiss him, and snuggle right into his chin</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">How blessed we are, to have such delicousness so close</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I snack on an ear, I promise to make the most.</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-5588750031346580532012-12-04T00:02:00.002-08:002012-12-04T16:23:24.712-08:00Princess Kate's morning sickness <em>as seen on Mamamia - <a href="http://www.mamamia.com.au/health-wellbeing/kate-middleton-hyperemesis-gravidarum/">http://www.mamamia.com.au/health-wellbeing/kate-middleton-hyperemesis-gravidarum/</a></em><br />
<br />
So, Princess Kate has Hyperemesis Gravidarum – described as “acute morning sickness”.<br />
<br /><br />
Pfft. This is what it really feels like…<br />
<br />
A week or so before your period is due, waves of nausea interrupt your day, and one evening you start to vomit. By the time you do your pregnancy test, you are vomiting a couple of times a day – you know you must be pregnant before that little blue line tells you. But instead of being a joyful celebration of a much longed-for baby, the moment is fraught with fear about how you’ll cope with this level of nausea and vomiting for the predicted 12 weeks. Little do you know Hyperemesis Gravidarum bypasses this magic number completely, often lasting for at least half the pregnancy, sometimes the whole nine months.<br />
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You start being kept awake at night with nausea – no position you lay in will ease it, even rolling ever-so gently causes you to vomit and the only thing you can do is cry. This is not “morning”, it is the middle of the night… morning is much worse. You try and get out of bed and carry on with your life as normal, but it causes violent vomiting, time and time again. After vomiting for the seventh time in an hour you start counting, in both disbelief and deep fear.<br />
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After a week, you find this devastating nausea never leaves, and the incessant vomiting is going on all day and sporadically throughout the night. You are crippled with sickness, rendered bedridden 24 hours a day. You’re desperately worried about your baby, because you have not been able to eat a morsel of food, and the thought of putting some liquid down your throat brings on a swell of nausea and more vomiting. Yet you’re so thirsty – you’re hot, you feel dry and arid inside, and all you want to do is gulp great glassfuls of some sort of liquid. You shiver as if with a fever, but it’s your body responding to dehydration. <br />
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You haven’t showered because the one time you tried, the raining drops were enough to make your weakened body so faint you had to lie on the floor tiles. Reaching up to turn off the tap was all you could manage until someone came and dressed you and carried you back to bed. <br />
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After three weeks of nothing to eat or drink you feel skeletal. Your husband forces you to go to the doctor. The car trip seems undoable, but somehow he gets you there, stopping many times for the relentless vomiting. The doctor looks at your grey face, your lips cracked and bleeding with dehydration, your dried out tongue stuck to the inside of your mouth, your weight loss of nine kilos in three weeks. He admits you immediately into hospital. <br />
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The hospital staff take seven attempts to insert a canular into veins which are so dehydrated they keep collapsing. Then they leave you, attached to life giving nutrients and fluids. The nausea and vomiting continues but despite this after a few days you feel as if you might not die. But they will not let you leave the ward until you can drink by yourself, and this is still proving impossible – small sips of room temperature water, flat lemonade, ginger beer, even sucking on ice cubes – you have tried everything the nurses have suggested but still it causes vomiting. <br />
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The doctor decides to administer IV anti-nausea medication. It finally provides a window of relief and for the first time in weeks you manage some small sips of apple juice. You are allowed to go home with an oral version of the anti-nausea medication. Doctors and midwives assure you repeatedly that it is safe for your baby; that the malnutrition and dehydration is far worse for both of you. <br />
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However, the oral version proves ineffective and you are back lying on the Emergency department floor vomiting. You are only eight weeks pregnant, and do not yet realise that this condition can last all pregnancy. You’ve started to lose the will to survive this, and there is no end in sight. <br />
<br />
The doctors are calling this thing Hyperemesis Gravidarum. It is not morning sickness – it’s a different kettle of fish altogether, when your life stops, you’re bedridden and you cannot achieve something as simple as a sip of water. You read later in researching Hyperemesis that English novelist Charlotte Bronte died of the condition in 1855.<br />
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The implications of the condition are: Use of medication throughout the pregnancy to slow the vomiting and reduce the nausea – an anti-emetic used by Chemotherapy patients commonly. Then there will be regular hospital stays to keep rehydration up. If these things are not proving effective enough, then there are steroids, but like all options, there are side effects for the mother and baby in some cases. If this doesn’t work you are looking at spending the whole pregnancy in hospital, drinking via a drip, and receiving nutrients via a feeding tube – in some cases one inserted into the jugular bypassing the stomach. <br />
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<br />
And if none of this works? In rare cases, we have to look at saving both the mother and baby’s lives, they say, and deliver early – some cases as early as 26 weeks gestation.<br />
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All you can do is look at them in disbelief. How is it possible that pregnancy is so natural to most women in this world, and yet making this little life can have put you on a path that in the past has caused death?<br />
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Personally, I consider myself lucky. My Hyperemesis lasts for about seven months of the pregnancy, then changes to morning sickness - just one little vomit a day with all day nausea, til the end. I have taken the drugs, to the open disgust of some people, and most of the time I feel as if they’re ineffective because I still end up in hospital, and what I really want them to do is take the torture away altogether. But I cannot do nothing, because then I would feel as if I was just welcoming that dying feeling. <br />
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But you know what? This is the fourth time I have lived through Hyperemesis Gravidarum. And you know why? Because there is no prize more worth it. <br />
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But until then, let’s not forget that Princess Kate is not suffering “acute morning sickness”: She is suffering hell. <br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-68392567158788486762012-07-10T00:07:00.000-07:002012-07-10T00:14:24.243-07:00The Pest ScaleMany parents number their children. You know, “Number 1 goes to school now, number 2 is at preschool and number 3 is at home with me.”<br />
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<br />
Me, I have decided I will also number my children, but my numbers will go backwards. And that is because I use the Pest Scale Numbering System.<br />
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The mathematical equation behind this piece of genius, if I do say so myself, is this: The further down the line you are in birth order (for example, the traditional ‘Number 3’), the bigger the pest you are, therefore the further you move <em>up </em>the Pest Scale. Number 1 being The Ultimate Pest. <br />
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At times I am fooled into thinking our first born is not a pest at all. He was always our quiet little mouse, never said boo, never wanted to cause trouble, always wanted to be a good boy. And he is still like that somewhere deep inside. Now though, he has learned school yard attitood. I know it’s a survival necessity, and in a way I am pleased my quiet little mouse is keeping up and not being trodden all over. But it does bring out pest qualities at home. Anyway, he is at the lower end of the pest scale. A number 3.<br />
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Our second born is also our Number 2 on the Pest Scale. Since nearly birth he has climbed all over his big brother, and pestered him in ways I never knew existed – nag, pull, push, jump on, take things away from and wake him up in the early morning because he’s bored. He is<span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong>LOUD</strong></span>, all the time, and he loves to play tricks on his parents. Like the time he pulled daddy’s shorts down in Bunnings hardware store….at the cash register….with a loooooong queue behind them. <br />
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God bless Pest Number 2. <br />
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And our third born, aged 2.5 years old, well, right now she is throwing very small pieces from the game we were quietly playing earlier, toward all corners of the house. Whilst yelling. Or perhaps it is singing – I can’t tell because they happen at the same volume intensity. Definitely Pest Numero Uno, Star of the Pest-giving Day. Now she is stuffing those same small pieces in Number 2’s pyjama pants. She has drawn on walls untouched by the two boys before her, and she can fart the loudest, usually squarely placed close to a brother's face. She answers the “Ok, I’m going now… leaving you behind” in the shopping centre, with a "bye" and wave in the opposite direction. She torments number 2 – her first sentence was “He did it!”, and pits Pest 3 Number against Pest Number 2 right when their getting on really well. Her father is planning her chastity belt now.<br />
<br />
Major. Pest. <br />
<br />
Now that I think of it, she’s at a good age to teach the pull pants down trick….<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-36034696936711654482012-06-11T20:29:00.000-07:002012-06-11T20:29:06.543-07:00Brothers<br />
You grow quiet as we drive in to the school grounds and you anticipate him leaving you. You wimper every time his school bag and friendship retreat off down into the playground and we drive away. <br />
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Your voice rises in excitement as he gets in the car at the end of the day, and you go through every detail of your last six hours, lest he might have missed you as much as you’ve missed him. He looks at you through tired-glazed eyes, but knows it’s important to you… “That sounds like fun!” he musters up, looking straight into your smiling eyes, smiling as well.<br />
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Now you need to know what <em>he</em> did during his day; who he played with, how was art class and what was in his lunchbox today. “Was it fun?”<br />
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You sit as close to him as you can, while he unwinds on the lounge with some tele after school. Sometimes it’s right up and on him. You chatter through the story he’s trying to listen to. He doesn’t mind. He has missed you just as much. He puts his arm around you and you snuggle under the blanket together.<br />
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We drop you off for an hour at nanny’s, and he strains out the window, yelling “have fun” as we drive off. He repeats over and over that he thinks you’ll have a fun time, convincing himself that you’ll be alright in your separation. And as soon as that hour is up, he is asking when we will go and get you.<br />
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You play together, rumble, and spend most of your time giggling. You bicker, but never argue; one of you always feels sorry for the other ultimately and the friendship is immediately restored. If you are in trouble, he sticks up for you.. “he wants to say sorry mum”…<br />
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You have copied him from the moment you could: Laughing when he laughed at 4 months old, at what you didn’t know… Walking two steps behind him everywhere when you were one…Building the same Lego ship when you were four. Now I watch you observe him reading and learning at five, knowing that will be next.<br />
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You want to be clever at art like him, and brilliant at soccer, just the same as him. But it pains you when you can’t keep up. And when I suggest doing something different, using your own special skills, you look at me in amusement, as if I’ve gone mad. <br />
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My sister asks how she will ever love another baby as much as she loves her first. I say, you will, it will be just as amazing and great. But, infinitely better, is that then, you will see them love each other. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtsVRdr3uu5EdjtEvTuwbHJLomFtNXef_LrToyvFY-ae4CBw5dEdVDmQfYBQV9UB8aZYXcFOJpASHoRUIajbm5H0PZIJECoTGuvh2Rux3ArKCVumFGGKoOiCO0nITlGhyNPjJdmiz1TSGf/s1600/027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fba="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtsVRdr3uu5EdjtEvTuwbHJLomFtNXef_LrToyvFY-ae4CBw5dEdVDmQfYBQV9UB8aZYXcFOJpASHoRUIajbm5H0PZIJECoTGuvh2Rux3ArKCVumFGGKoOiCO0nITlGhyNPjJdmiz1TSGf/s320/027.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-15274495583318139572012-06-05T18:05:00.000-07:002012-06-05T18:06:50.624-07:00Saving Miss MollyThe first man told me he could see nothing wrong. “But bring her back in four hours and we’ll have another look.”<br />
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The next woman said it was usually nothing but we’ll do the standard blood tests and xray.<br />
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The next man, an hour’s drive away, said we’re going to operate. Now.<br />
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They said to sing to my limp six month-old baby as she fell off the precipice of consciousness and into emergency surgery.<br />
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The next man said we’ve cleaned her up, and now she’ll have medicine in her jugular for a month. <br />
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That man got out of his bed at 1am in the dead of winter, a year ago next week, to save our baby’s life. He came to visit the next morning. He looked like he could cry when he said to me “you’ve had a bad night hey? Is she not doing that well?”<br />
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At later bad news he did suggest a tear in my presence. “I’m sorry I couldn’t hide my worry…” I said I wouldn’t get through this with a doctor who didn’t show he cares. <br />
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We were "part of the furniture" they said, we were there that long. Women and men crowded around us like a pair of arms, carrying us, caring for us, showing us love while we were isolated from those who loved us. My baby floated upon their compassion, up and down, through needles, tubes, oxygen and isolation. They dragged me when I stopped, heavy on the outskirts of their responsibility, crying, sleepless, insane and unsure. <br />
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‘Nurse’ and ‘doctor’ are silly words. These people have God in them. They save lives. They saved mine: Our baby survived. <br />
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<img border="0" closure_uid_q52b58="4" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXyTjHvlLAe8LahmXSne6yGdT_XGBHzc6OUl-g8lF30xQ69IpJGWrWUSbq5RZFqiwmrL4aeAT7amjWXzq0NS8JyNbRd4TRXNkEdzt_JURqKCEJ3AOt0Z3tZVe1mNdeLMVy2zi-HJeGOQmu/s320/08072010_003.jpg" t8="true" width="320" /><br />
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Sydney Children’s Hospital made her little life that is less, much more. Next week (from Monday 11 June) is Gold Week, a fund raiser for the hospital. You never know, you may just need it too one day. http://www.goldweektelethon.com.au/views/donate.aspxUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-75523333956527748852012-05-29T20:02:00.000-07:002012-05-29T20:02:36.033-07:00Goodbye to the last one.Our little Miss had her “interview” for preschool today, she’s due to start next year. I am sad.<br />
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It feels like I’m letting go of all my children, all at once, with her, the last, taking that first step away. Right now I know everything she does, everywhere she goes, who she talks to, who she yells at and who she cuddles. <br />
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I have full faith in the preschool she’s going to, they’re about as caring as I think one could get in that environment. I have no qualms that her preschool teachers aim to raise their class just as we try to as parents at home – with the right amount of strictness, inspiration and, most importantly, caring. <br />
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And boy, at the moment, I could probably do with the space because are our kids driving me c-razy! The noise… urgh….and she’s the noisiest of them all! But I usually relish the chaos kid’s cause. So I still don’t want her to go. <br />
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I’m frightened of the silent space which will greet me when I come home alone. Getting in the car alone. Doing the food shopping with no one in the trolley seat to giggle with…. even though I might actually get some of the things that are on my list this way. <br />
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I’m not so good with ‘me time’, I like to be busy, and a 2 year old certainly fills that need. I will work, but it’s ‘from home’ work, which will be in that empty silent space, by my empty silent self. <br />
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I know it’s not ground breaking stuff, every mother’s gone through it, and their life has gone on – nay, they say they even enjoy it! So I will think of all you mums: How you can now go and help in reading groups with your other kids at school, how you can get your hair done in longer than 10 minutes whilst shovelling food into someone trying to climb out of the trolley. I can’t think of anything else, but I’m sure there are tonnes of things I’ll be able to do. <br />
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After I’ve cried a bit. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-68413941547886010152012-05-10T03:33:00.002-07:002012-05-10T03:33:50.415-07:00Mothers DayFor me, Mothers Day is bigger than my birthday. It is the only day, reserved entirely for thanking a mother. Tell me, how often does that happen? I don’t care that Hallmark reminds husbands and teenagers for the 5 months preceding – they know it takes that long to sink in.<br />
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I thought it might be time to compile my top ten Mothers Day Spoiling Tips. (For whomever would like to inform my husband):<br />
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1) In the lead up: Great excitement from my children about what they have made me, or bought all by themselves, with my last spare coffee money, at the school mother’s day stall. <br />
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2) On the morning: Open my hand made ashtray and dusty Yardley soap in bed, surrounded by all my amazing little (and one big) beauties (yes, on this morning even my husband and his morning breath qualify as beaut). Cry a lot with gratitude.<br />
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3) Surprised by a hand-penned poem from my husband all about how much he appreciates every tiny little stress I undergo, the complete and utter exhaustion, and incredible difficulty involved in the HERCULEAN tasks that are managing our family. Poem MUST note all tasks individually. I mean, <em>does</em> note all tasks individually. Cry again.<br />
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4) Go out for breakfast. Never breakfast in bed. Sleeping with sand, crayons, the odd shoe and those missing pieces of Lego left in my bed by “NOT ME” is enough, without adding scratchy toast crumbs.<br />
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5) Children sit like little drugged up angels for a luscious, long, lazy breakfast, in a sunny window looking out at the beach, with about five coffee top ups and an entire SMH read cover to cover. Ahhhh…<br />
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6) Surprise my mum with something which I really hope conveys how much I love her and appreciate every little task she has undertaken to bring me into, and up in, the world.<br />
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7) Celebrate with my sister on her first, and most important Mothers Day, for which her Little Miss 8 Months Old is currently crawling the shops. Or making an ashtray.<br />
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8) Tetsuya comes to our house to cook for our extended family, we all sip champagne, in the sun, complete with a professional foot massage, while the cranky great aunt twice-removed and all cousins sleep, concurrently, for about 6 hours. <br />
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9) A little champagne-induced nanna nap.<br />
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10) Cry again at how blessed I am to have my beautiful family, even if all this did only happen during my champagne-induced nanna nap dreams. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-90135911023642759762012-04-20T16:22:00.000-07:002012-04-20T16:33:56.318-07:00Coffee and Cake - an illustration for all husbands.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBV9yvnDj1rI7IWJIXr9pQszuhQCLpTip-ehIPnkQJ4MgjbdK_yyMwOR27TkExRn1bhEzO4zQPj9w0qNkJwYfDi2riT6UDXs6vrRXvvbjRB1scuE6kka805mfaU7jtSluSn9hj_PWnBKXI/s1600/coffee-and-cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" qda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBV9yvnDj1rI7IWJIXr9pQszuhQCLpTip-ehIPnkQJ4MgjbdK_yyMwOR27TkExRn1bhEzO4zQPj9w0qNkJwYfDi2riT6UDXs6vrRXvvbjRB1scuE6kka805mfaU7jtSluSn9hj_PWnBKXI/s320/coffee-and-cake.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
School holidays are rapidly drawing to a close. And we’ve had a coffee and cake kinda time.<br />
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Well, at least we did <em>plan</em> to go out for coffee and cake, as all husbands believe we do. You know ladies, all that sitting around with your friends, cappuccinos, lattes, tiramisu cakes all round; with all our hundreds of six, four and two year olds seated calmly on their own table next to us - not yelling or whingeing or ignoring people or conducting hurdle races over the café poufs or climbing onto the Gloria Jeans bain marie and telling the waitress she’s a bum bum head. Just sitting nicely, not a mother’s voice raised or a death stare delivered. No. <br />
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However, sickness struck us the first week. Just a small delay to the normal proceedings, you understand, husbands. I did have the coffee – in fact, quite a lot of coffee, for those 4am wake ups, then again at 7, 8, 9 and 10am, 1, 2, 3, 4 and wine PM. Did I say wine? Oh… <br />
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So we had coffee and coughing instead. Croup, to be exact – otherwise known as honking by Mr Middle Man. “Why am I honking mummy?” he asks, as he forces out a deep ferry-approaching type sound. Pretty good description I reckon. The unfunny part though is that they cannot breathe with croup. So I spent the week dishing out ventolin, steroids, and ferry loads of garlic (apologies to the postman who was the only person who smelt us for SEVEN DAYS). <br />
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But we’re patient, we can wait for the cake part. <br />
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Week two approaches. We tentatively edge out the door, waiting for the cold wind to whip up three children into an asthmatic frenzy along with theatrics (collapsing, grasping chest, rolling around in the driveway, you know the stuff…don’t you?). We make it to the café, finally, for our coffee and cake. <br />
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My coffee goes cold whilst delivering ventolin, tissues and valium-I mean water. And the café had run out of cake. Nevertheless, my beautiful post-honking children managed to down a milkshake like it was the last remaining non-garlic thing in this world. Then they arked up a bit and wanted to go to the park. Things were looking up!<br />
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A few meagre swings, sand play and a spinny thing later, as we approach home, Master Spinny Thing Six claims he feels a little–BLA<span style="font-size: large;">AAR</span><span style="font-size: x-large;">RRGH!</span> My car, my poor, sodden, chunked up car, was covered in vomit. Now I’ve never had this happen before, and I would otherwise consider myself lucky that I'd avoided this for six years. But if I think about how much garlic and milkshake a four month old baby could extract in one spectacular mouth eruption, it aint anywhere near the volume of someone 20 times their size. No sirreee…. <br />
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After cleaning up said car covering and intricate ins and outs of a child restraint, for two hours, I came inside to be greeted with a full glass of milk dropped on its head, which left my half done photo albums and photos floating, and the loungeroom floor covered, edge to edge. And to top the afternoon off, Little Miss Toilet Trained, appear to have forgotten the trainED part, and left nice puddles for me to clean up for the proceeding three hours. A day of cleaning. Cold coffee and no cake. <br />
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Let’s try again. In the ensuing days we booked up some play dates and were raring to leave these four walls, which the children were now climbing, using 900 decibel crow type sounds. But instead of organising play dates, I should have organised an Ark. Because rain, did it rain! Yet still, enthusiasm reigning, we ventured out….to the City, an hour away: Where I found myself - having not packed enough food for three ravenous hyena’s - parked miles from our destination as the heavens opened, missing a rain jacket for one child, facing 379, 000 steps between us and our target with a heavy two-year-old child covered up in a pram. It was at this point that I gave up. <br />
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Coffee and cake can wait: 500 litres of Gin please, hold the tonic. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-34578636842072646362012-03-26T16:43:00.001-07:002012-03-27T18:55:33.137-07:00Tools of the tradeAs I found myself zesting the other day... isn't that a brilliant word, ZzzzesTING! Anyway, zesting away at my caesar stone benchtop I was, and I thought, my goodness me, how I have changed being a mother. BC (before children) I would have thought a zester was something done under a disco ball on the dance floor by a boy whose idol was John Travolta.<br />
My tool of choice in my teens was a crimper. Solely about me and my luscious Smiths Crisps-cut locks. Accompanied by my green or electric blue mascara, of course. I've always been one for Big Hair, so boy-o was this the tool for me. By the end of it's life my crimper was covered in hair spray, shimmery lipgloss, hair gel and luminous nail varnish. It was a sad day when it had to go to 80s heaven.<br />
In my 20's my tool of choice was my backpack. It held my life - which was no longer about my hair, and all about everything else BUT me - the world, no less! It took me, my two t-shirts, commando pants and bucket hat through Africa on safari, Europe on a shoe string, America, Scandinavia, and was my cupboard as I lived in a crammed flat in the UK. Even now I look at the mouldy, filthy dirty, torn crumpled pile of straps and clips fondly as the memories and experiences which changed my life come flooding back.<br />
Then arrived my 30's. Things got serious: The tool which stands for forever entered my life; a wedding ring. Followed closely by the equally stylish... Breastpump.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzMKsifC4AQ53LqV3vLPYRHJIc2bD2TnfLaifEF3WZRXPfFKn-ajkLCJRzB7kOjq82ZDCrWhKSKgQT1Hu-7dLpMTQ8m1I7wv9A7U8O27JzRSDWF53e8yXtwK7fusAb-PF7lNPTCoRTno5G/s1600/Freestyle_Couch-027739.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzMKsifC4AQ53LqV3vLPYRHJIc2bD2TnfLaifEF3WZRXPfFKn-ajkLCJRzB7kOjq82ZDCrWhKSKgQT1Hu-7dLpMTQ8m1I7wv9A7U8O27JzRSDWF53e8yXtwK7fusAb-PF7lNPTCoRTno5G/s320/Freestyle_Couch-027739.jpg" width="228" /></a></div>The breastpump has to be the epitomy of being a new mother, and the epitome of shock for those who are not. Two of my friends, one a new mother and one not even close to conception, woke up one day with a hangover. Not Yet A Mother heard a whirring in the kitchen, and crawled out of bed thinking, 'ohh, she's cooking me hangover pancakes, brilliant!'.... only to find New Mother pumping the night before's cocktails out via her nipples.<br />
Motherhood is the era of the tools. There are so many mothers' tools that one could be excused for missing the tiny, helpless, baby amidst it all, which has been the cause of the procurement of so many devices. Large bags for storing three week-old sucked-on rusks in the bottom corner, where you often dig around looking for your other tool - a spare breastpad, now covered in rusky moosh. We buy snuggle beds to put inside the cot which turns into a bed, plastic bath's to put into the bigger bath, three different styles of prams for baby's various moods, and infinite amounts of nipple shaped items. <br />
Zester is not one I would have put on that very long Pre-baby Essentials shopping list, but a zester I own. And use - to the surprise of those who know my cooking skills, or lack thereof. I feel like a proper mother when I'm baking with my zester. I think I need an apron and shower cap to complete the look. But will the zester be a stayer? Will it enter the new era of the 40's with me?<br />
It could take me another decade to perfect a cake which people can eat, so perhaps, it's likely. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-81989651479315002302012-03-21T01:16:00.000-07:002012-03-21T01:16:10.723-07:00Circus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/1D5Sa2Yq-2g?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
My house has morphed into a circus. I cannot recollect when it happened that our space went from chaos with sometimes-listeners, to complete and utter loss of all control. Perhaps I was hoping it was just a phase. <br />
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But, like all “phases”, the kids get you in the end. It begins with what you surmise is teething, at the ripe old age of somewhere around 4 months. Lots of sudden whingeing and crying from your little poppet, who was previously very happy about life, can only be the nasty business of teething. However, 6 months on and still no teeth, you start thinking that perhaps it was something else…like a mini temper or frustration developing, or separation anxiety, or any of those other delights no one really tells you about. <br />
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But the big guns are pulled out somewhere around the age of 18 months, when your little baby discovers his yelling voice and stomping feet. From here it is a never ending upward surge (by the kids) and catch up (by the parents) as the formerly placid child pushes into new territory. What you thought, at age 2 ½, was a sudden onset of exhaustion due to a growth spurt – displayed as the extreme sports of whingeing and throwing themselves at the kitchen cupboards – has become the norm while you were giving them some slack. What you thought, at age 4, was frustration at not being able to keep up with big brother, shown as sibling bickering, has turned into a major way to get your attention, CONSTANTLY. Suddenly, you realise: The little …. they’ve got one up on me again! The behaviour you were excusing is now the norm.<br />
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Anyway, I think our circus started about 6 months ago. At least that’s how long I believe they’ve been subversively introducing their new scheme into our house. The show begins at 6.30am: We have trapeze, from Master 4, who likes to swing from staircase to bed, to brother to sister. Riding the backs of dangerous animals we also have – as Master 4 lurches from here to never never on the back of Master 6, who roars in complaint. Speaking of roaring – well, that’s me of course. All the time it seems. All three children, meanwhile, provide the background music, at 500 decibels.<br />
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Little Miss 2 takes part in all of this. In fact, she is the most fearless circus performer in the house. And the LOUDEST (sorry to shout.) She is the cheeky monkey who silently steals the library books from her brother’s school bag, making the audience (her other brother) giggle. She is good with twirling crockery plates and half full cups of tea, and brilliant at walking the high rope, masquerading as the dining room table. She also rides the wild animals, two at a time, and provides many a slippery surface for the clowns (me) to trip up in. In fact, now that I think about it, somewhere along their plan, Little Miss 2 has subversively taken over my role as ringleader, and I have become the poor old clown! <br />
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All this before 8.30am. My head explodes, what to do with them all?<br />
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Might as well sell tickets - Roll up Roll up, to the greatest show on the Northern Beaches....<br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-56791856168353687572012-03-02T17:34:00.001-08:002012-03-02T17:34:27.924-08:00Great (Yet Frivolous) News For Mums<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong> </strong></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I've just read some brilliant news for us 'Slightly Glamorous But Never Mutton-esque Women With Kids Old Enough To Be At School'... I think I need to shorten this; let's call us GNM's (Glamorous, Never Mutton-esque), because I think it's become trendy to write in daggy old engineer-favoured acronyms. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Anyway, fellow GNM's, natural hair and make up is IN at the NewYork and Milan runway shows, which are running away as we speak. Hallelujah! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As we know, this NEVER means we just bump on out of bed, throw together a sandwich and step onto the school bitumen a la birdsnest bedhead and sleep encrusted eyeballs. Nooooo.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The hallelujah part of this news, is that natural is what suits our GNM style of face (with perhaps a few of those personality lines and other distinguishing bits and bobs about it). Heavy eye colour just exaggerates our black rings due to all night partying of children, and dark lipstick unfortunately finds it's way down the estuaries of our upper lip. So, light on, all the way. </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">What we must take particular care with, and on which we can err on the side of darkness, is eyebrows. Very important. In fact, THE MOST important. </span></span> <br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><img alt="0808-glammies_hp" border="0" height="350" id="_x0000_i1025" src="http://image.email.beautydirectory.com.au/lib/fea215707067067d77/m/1/Newsletter+MAIN+020312.jpg" thid="6fd1d5e4-5a3c-4528-a690-d1f2bcba8855" title="0808-glammies_hp" width="350" /><img alt="" height="460" src="http://www.harpersbazaar.com/cm/harpersbazaar/images/dq/hbz-Calvin-Klein-RS12-5720-091611-de.jpg" width="360" /></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Me, turning up at school. On time.</em></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My beautiful friend recently told me that my face disappeared into nothing because of my paltry eyebrows. (She'd had champagne). So I popped into her beauty palouuurrrr to remedy my lack of face. The reaction when I stepped out knocked me off my flat-soled sandshoes. "You look like you've got a full face of makeup on!"... "Wow, look at you, so glamorous!" etc etc. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Even - now listen up to this one - MY HUSBAND NOTICED! This is the man who didn't realise til a friends husband (yes, a man, <em>and </em>a heterosexual one at that) said, "Nice new hair Felicity", after I'd had it cut short and dyed dark. From long and nearly white blond. This man, my husband, noticed my new eyebrows. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So, you get the picture - impact impact impact. If you want my eyebrows you need the magic of Christina at Little Luxuries 0414 990 317, </span><a href="mailto:enquiries@littleluxuries.net.au"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">enquiries@littleluxuries.net.au</span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The other thing that was important on those running along the runway - not planes - was skin. Flawless, a little bit shiney sheeny, a pop of blush on the cheeks, and smatter of translucent powder to stitch it all up. Now this takes time to achieve properly, and I know I get it wrong all the time, primarily because my other friend is always 'blending' for me in the playground. (She's not had champagne, she's just bold like that).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I also reinvested in an eyelash curler because I think it might help to open up eyes that look a little droopy some days, thanks to all night partying of children.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So here we are: GNM's - we're in! We're fashionable, we are the HOT things of the moment. Lap it up ladies. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Don't think I'll grace a runway though, I'm likely to fall clean off the end in anything higher than my flat soled sandshoes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-14340563338145030262011-11-03T01:36:00.000-07:002011-11-03T01:36:42.289-07:00Travel with Fascinator: Part 2So, how did my Travel with Fascinator plans stand up?<br />
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I spent this morning, my first morning back, blow drying my hair between wiping a bottom and icing a bruised head, with three little people hanging off my legs who sounded like a virgin violin playing troupe. <br />
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The only thing that interrupted my hair drying in Melbourne was, “Champagne’s ready!”<br />
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I went to get everyone dressed this morning and realised it was Chinese dress up day at school, so spent the morning RACING to make a Sensei outfit, all before 8.15am. All the while (1.5 hours of ‘while’) I was YELLING for someone else to get himself dressed (which he has proved he can do in a flat 2 minutes), and trying to keep an eye on that wee wee getting itself in the potty rather than the lounge crevices. <br />
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In Melbourne I only got myself dressed. Quietly. With a champagne.<br />
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This morning I went to make 2 lunch boxes and opened the fridge to NO BREAD. Yes, NO BREAD. Then there was outcry – loud and long, when I said there was NO MILK left to have the routine glass of milk after breakfast. <br />
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In Melbourne I had coffee, after Panini, after coffee, after glass of wine in the middle of shopping in Myers, after dumplings, after pub meal, after cocktail, and then some more coffee. And of course, some champagne. All of which someone else made for me. They had bread. And milk. And gin.<br />
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On Melbourne Cup day, I got ready with my gaggle of beautiful girlfriends. We fluffed hair for each other, drew on glamour-making makeup, slipped on stockings, laughed at how silly we were to wear such high heels to an all day event whilst packing our foldable Party Feet into our handbags – handbags which were all, incidentally, too small to fit a single nappy or drink bottle. We popped on our outfits and fascinators which had been under construction for the few days of shopping beforehand, and made sure the champagne didn’t ruin our lipstick. <br />
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And off we went, without strapping anyone in, wiping anyone’s toothpaste off their face, or dealing with a last minute poo, chattering about the horses, fascinators, frocks and champagne ahead of us. <br />
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Packing? The Right Outfit? Really, it doesn’t matter when you have gorgeous friends and can indulge in a little ‘no kids’ time out. Not to mention champagne.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-69692216021505655992011-10-29T02:05:00.000-07:002011-10-29T02:14:42.759-07:00Travel with a Fascinator.This mummy duck is currently preparing to go on a travel adventure by herself, for the first time in about, ooo, 8 years. Will I remember what to do?<br />
<img alt="" class="rg_hi" data-height="251" data-width="200" height="251" id="rg_hi" 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" style="height: 251px; width: 200px;" width="200" />In the preparation for the trip I have definitely <em>not </em>remembered what to do, it has <em>not </em>being like riding a bicycle where it all comes flooding back. I used to be known as the queen of packing – able to stuff a backpack in half an hour, for six months of travel, across 20 different countries, with only two outfits and a toilet roll. Now, give me three days in the same country - in a city no less - with clothes shops and toilets you sit on, and it’s taken me all week and about 15 squillion clothes fashion parades for my mum and sister. And shoes! Don’t get me started on the shoes. <br />
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The other difference is my confidence. Once upon a time I whipped up a silver lam<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">é</span> mini skirt and threw it over my ‘billiard table legs’ to go out dancing that night without a care. This trip, with my best girlies from school, is going to require a bit of flash – nice restaurants, smart shopping precincts, a cocktail crawl, and the Melbourne Cup, no less! My work uniform of trackies and 10 year old Supre singlet tops will not suffice.<br />
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So I have been labouring over sewing a lace frock and constructing a fascinator for the last few weeks for the Race Day itself, between nappies, a teething baby, work, school pick ups, sickness and swimming lessons. I've gone with my gut instinct on what the trend is, but let's face it, my gut is no longer what it used to be, post children. <br />
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After all this trend turmoil and neglecting my children due to myself, my bag is packed. With another FOUR dresses to wear besides the one I made. I used to be so confident in a bit of wacky dress sense, how is it that now I feel I’ve got it so wrong? I don’t want to do Mutton, but I no longer feel I can do Interesting.<br />
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Hmm, interesting.<br />
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So, let’s watch this space. And see if my spark comes back when there are no kids to fill my heart and head. Just ME to think about…. I don’t know how that feels anymore! Let you know next week.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-2629043678412715282011-10-06T17:32:00.000-07:002011-10-06T17:32:28.972-07:00A lesson in beauty for women like me.“How do you care for a spray tan?" I ask, "Not wash?”<br />
<br />
<br />
It was a genuine question but everyone thought it was hilarious and consequently I was still none the wiser. Made me realise I need to do a bit of research in current beauty for mummy’s of my, err, Genre. (That Genre being the Slightly Glamorous But Never Mutton-esque Woman With Kids Old Enough To Be At School. As opposed to telling you how old we are). <br />
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I can’t quite marry the fact that I used to be a beauty editor, advising people on what makeup colours were hot on the catwalks and which one was the best body shimmer, to the work I do now which involves the best texta remover from a two-year-old’s cheek bones, and the benefits of scrubbing Bolognese off your face properly with a damp washer as opposed to my trousers.<br />
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It was easy back in those days though: The concerns of my greater masses were getting the right amount of shimmer in your blue eye shadow (yes, it was crazily called eye shadow then, as opposed to eye mousse, shadow stick or -deep breath- “Impact 3D Illuminating 5 Colours for Sculpted Eyes”), or, my personal mission, how to get the BIGGEST hair. Yeah yeah.<br />
<br />
So, what are the current concerns of a mummy duck in the Slightly Glamorous But Never Mutton-esque Woman With Kids Old Enough To Be At School Genre?<br />
<br />
Obviously a spray tan to begin with. The Google Beauty Bible tells me you look after it by moisturising. Great, I do that already because I have a genuine fear of the saggy knee syndrome, so I’ll be ok on that front. Tick, spray tan knowledge up to date. <br />
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The next concern for our Genre is the face: Personality lines (because we don’t say wrinkles, Daddies), and those strange blobby brown marks we’ll call Genre (not Age) Spots. Now this I do know about. My best advice from personal experience here mummy’s is NOT BOTOX, and not a whitening product (it’s BLEACH!), and yes to a really moisturising moisturiser. You need one that makes your skin feel soft and supple all day long. (I should do infomercials). Moisturiser is like a high gloss laquer for the face - the gleam deflects the eye from the timber grain underneath. And the drier your skin, the more obvious the grain. I use Dermalogica Intense Moisture Balance right now but I’m a moisturiser whore, sharing myself across the brands. <br />
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Botox is an horrendously bad idea. Not only is it a mad cow disease thing you’re injecting into your face, but also at some point in your life you’ll have to give it up and the personality lines will come smashing into your face making it look like a cranial earthquake just cracked it all up. Best it happens gradually, that way no one will notice, I promise. <br />
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Other issues for our Genre are obviously working out what to do with the body decimated by childbirth. It’s just not a good design/concept/functional idea, never has been. Men should do it - their below bits already stick out - ours are inny's and they should be allowed to stay that way. And manboobs look like they've done years of breastfeeding regardless of if they have or not. Anyway, on this topic I throw my hands in the air (making sure the chook wings don’t knock over my six year-old). I’m still waiting on that manual called <em>How to Put Everything Back IN That Now Sticks Out, Post Pregnancy and Birth</em>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-72274057921149282372011-09-23T02:02:00.000-07:002011-09-23T02:10:41.602-07:00Found a good thing, sticking to itCan you hear the whingeing in my house? <br />
It's teeth. Their growing generates a sound very much like fingernails down a chalkboard. Yes, yes, some experts have said teeth don't hurt when they come through. Well, 3 kids down - that's 60 baby teeth breaking gums, causing bleeding and not to mention what it does to the nether regions - makes me an expert too, and I say it hurts. Them and me.<br />
So what to do...<br />
I have tried all the recommended tricks and I have to say, not many work. Sometimes not even the hardcore drugs. But today I came across a wee miracle. It's a piece of rubber shaped like a pimply fish, and known by little Miss Screechypants Soreteeth as "Pishie" (pimply fishie = pishie. So advanced).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaRVqyunu0Gr7kxtY97f9TBbFAPnklB7zasMbEKWN62JHCb2aT6XKgH7Hf-5tUnJiKdzCZfgL08hw9omjnAENScAd8-bRhrRqevwjK3mVeFN7wNWuRKTZKGdINwrJ9zaqkjgZtBDOL7NFq/s1600/pishie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hca="true" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaRVqyunu0Gr7kxtY97f9TBbFAPnklB7zasMbEKWN62JHCb2aT6XKgH7Hf-5tUnJiKdzCZfgL08hw9omjnAENScAd8-bRhrRqevwjK3mVeFN7wNWuRKTZKGdINwrJ9zaqkjgZtBDOL7NFq/s320/pishie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>For a baby who's been seriously ill in her little life I am now ridiculously fanatical about what goes in her mouth. So big tick for the <a href="http://www.makeuwell.com/">Natural Rubber Teether</a>, aka Pishie, for being made of completely natural rubber from rubber trees - not a petro-chemical or BPA in sight (why has the rest of the world banned this and NOT Australia?). Chew the living daylights out of it Beautiful. And it's all one piece so I know she's not going to swallow and choke if one part comes away like some of those poor little bubba's in the news.<br />
To begin with Miss Screechypants cuddled it. Having never been a baby who automatically inspects things with her mouth, it did not occur to her to chew Pishie, especially as I'm always telling her not to chew her brothers. So I showed her what to do, to the hilarity of my sons.<br />
But she copied, and I could see the relief on her face as little Miss PeacefulwithPishie knawed away. Ahh, the serenity.<br />
Serenity for sale at <a href="http://www.makeuwell.com/">http://www.makeuwell.com/</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-71033868872340658182011-09-03T14:39:00.000-07:002011-09-03T14:42:01.338-07:00Mothers GroupMy Mothers Group is the epitome of the saying 'it's like putting on an old pair of shoes'.<br />
Our first born's are the ripe old age of 6 now, and half way through a successful first year at school, so they no longer get to see their little pals every week. Yet the mummy's and siblings still meet up, even if it's a little less regular than years past. Now we find the need to do dinner, as well as a once a month park date. <br />
I have an image of that first Mothers Group meeting that will never leave me: In the small stuffy clinic room, all of us nervous, sitting there willing the most amazing thing we've ever achieved, to not scream. Everyone introduced themselves, and first impressions were fairly correct - a bunch of honest, fun girls who would turn out to be a pretty amazing support group for each one of us. <br />
Some breastfed, some co-slept with their babies, some started food before the clinic's allotted age. At the time they were huge issues for us all; we talked, we coached, we listened and provided a shoulder to cry on, or a funny story to lighten the atmosphere. Now that our babies have taken that first big step toward independence in going to school, the conversation is all about homework, how we survived their first day, and how amazing it is to watch them learn.<br />
Second babies came along. Another time I won't forget is the day one mother announced her second pregnacy, and bit by bit much of the rest of the mothers group said they were pregnant too, all due around the same time. We had twins in the group, and learnt all about how two little beings grow in one space, and very recently what seems to be our last little baby has been born, much longed for and a true miracle - a great celebration for us all. <br />
Having a baby is possibly the most miraculous thing an ordinary person will do. But longer lasting than those first fraught and joyful years, is the blessing of friends to share the experience and the memories with. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-1349215774096017422011-08-09T21:07:00.000-07:002011-08-09T21:07:02.619-07:00Stolen ChildrenWhen we lived in Romania, girls being stolen for prostitution was one of their biggest criminal issues. You'd see Lambourghini's parked in poverty stricken Bucharest streets alongside the gypsy horse and carts, and I could never stop the thought that such extreme money could only be made from this repulsive activity. I could have been wrong, but the idea was ever present for me.<br />
I move back to Australia, to an area many call "God's country", no less. Sunny, relaxed and above all, safe. <br />
So why is that I now find myself feeling as sickened about stolen children as I did when I lived in Bucharest?<br />
A child, who dared play hide and seek in the next isle of the supermarket, 10 steps away from her grandmother, is dragged away by a suited, high heeled woman. Luckily the police caught her - and rescued the other two stolen children in the back of her car as well. All in a quiet suburban shopping centre on the Northern Beaches.<br />
A man in a white van driving slowly along grabs a young girl at a bus stop dragging her into his van.<br />
Another white van, driving slowly, with a man walking alongside of it with a blanket, ready to silently snuffle away a little boy.<br />
These peope are not human, to even have the<em> thought</em> to do this to a child. I am nauseous that it could happen to one of mine in this "safe" little part of the world I thought I lived in. But that feeling of safety is what makes us a primary target. <br />
Eyes in the back of your head mum's.<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-31622178142054213462011-07-03T18:25:00.000-07:002011-07-03T20:37:56.898-07:00My MumI was recently reminded of how great my mother is, by a female impersonator. Not that my mother is in the habit of frocking up in sequins and the CN Tower of blond wigs, per se…. Actually, that’s not strictly true. Anyway, she is far too short to be a drag queen herself.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbb0Z2i8vazJq28cAV9SU-hoeFxeq1Yf7gz5DvcUN-KVDBsS0mloGKv55_1mHM43i9I_ApT8-ImBqDH11FjX4RoyghMbFX3Z4fTp3FkEcRaWom45kf_1Cj-b1ir2x31XKEo9s6wpHZb-g0/s1600/wig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbb0Z2i8vazJq28cAV9SU-hoeFxeq1Yf7gz5DvcUN-KVDBsS0mloGKv55_1mHM43i9I_ApT8-ImBqDH11FjX4RoyghMbFX3Z4fTp3FkEcRaWom45kf_1Cj-b1ir2x31XKEo9s6wpHZb-g0/s1600/wig.jpg" /></a><br />
So instead, she surrounded herself and our little family with a bunch of wonderful, colourful, clever characters. Our family friends ran businesses such as Polly’s Follies, were part of the original Les Girls troupe, and we regularly attended DIVA (Drag Industry Variety Awards), as a family. <br />
We became skilled at the true art of applying make-up, how to dance in platforms, and discovered all about glitter, glamour and the most fantastic sense of humour. <br />
We learnt all about Oxford St shenanigans from the comfort and security of backstage with family. We learnt - not from any class at school, the dangers and sadness of HIV. We discovered that family can be not only blood lines, but in a world where some are extremely ostracised, family are those who support, love and care for you. No matter the colour of their wig. <br />
Of course there was a lot more to her parenting than these exposé’s: She was, I realise now I’m raising my own kids, very strict. But an overriding lesson she taught us was highlighted to me the other night: That our mother brought us up to accept everyone, see who they are past the facade and the antics. But she didn’t teach us with words, she taught us with her own actions: Her own open heart and mind, her patience and fantastic sense of humour. <br />
This extended through to our friends: Our house was always open to them. They were cooked for, had beds made up on our floor, and laughs…did we laugh. All sorts of fun parties were regularly held at our place, possibly, I suspect now, to monitor teenage activity, but many were my sister and I with a bunch of mum’s hilarious adult family friends. Mum took some of our friends in to live with us in our already squashed house during difficult times of their own, and she accepted some boyfriends which I know would challenge my own acceptance as a mother now. But I guess she could see the beauty in them all, just as we did. Or perhaps even that they needed a mother’s love too.<br />
How great though art, that mothers love. How blessed I am.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-26317527082001047082011-06-14T02:56:00.000-07:002011-06-14T03:05:42.556-07:00Cranky Pants<span style="color: black; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I was a mother on a rampage today. If I could shake my pointed finger down the phone line I would. No more Mrs Nice Mummy Duck. Cranky Old Quack Snr is serving up today. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Not at the kids mind you, they must have sensed Jekyll left the room first thing AM. No, I was crancking at all the adults I came across who appeared to not give a damn. I’ve never noticed, but there seems to be an awful lot of them around.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Duh duh duuh is about all I ever manage if somone has a go at me. But today I was happy to “sound just like my mother” and pulled some beauties out of my mum and mother-in-laws’ quote boxes. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><em><strong>“It’s not rocket science: You listen, then you do it.” </strong></em></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><em><strong>“As. I. Said. Before…” </strong></em></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><em><strong>“That is not the way you speak to people” </strong></em></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><em><strong>“Now, do you think this is acceptable?”</strong></em></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><em><strong>“There is no need to sigh” </strong></em></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><strong><em>“Don’t you know the power of social media? It’s not a good idea to provide bad customer service nowadays.”</em></strong> <span style="font-size: small;">(This is from the gen X mum’s quotes box)</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><em><strong>“No, I didn’t know this - I am not a weatherman nor am I tree lopper nor am I a psychic. And you are not getting our money today-<span style="font-size: x-large;">Goodbye</span>.” </strong></em></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Ahhh… now that feels better!</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-5945229547893189962011-06-07T02:43:00.000-07:002012-06-05T17:57:21.653-07:00Saving Miss Molly<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
The first man told me he could see nothing wrong. “But bring her back in four hours and we’ll have another look.”</div>
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The next woman said it was usually nothing but we’ll do the standard blood tests and xray.</div>
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The next man, an hour’s drive away, said we’re going to operate. Now.</div>
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They said to sing to my limp six month-old baby as she fell off the precipice of consciousness and into emergency surgery.</div>
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The next man said we’ve cleaned her up, and now she’ll have medicine in her jugular for a month. <br />
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That man got out of his bed at 1am in the dead of winter, a year ago next week, to save our baby’s life. He came to visit the next morning. He looked like he could cry when he said to me “you’ve had a bad night hey? Is she not doing that well?”<br />
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At later bad news he did suggest a tear in my presence. “I’m sorry I couldn’t hide my worry…” I said I wouldn’t get through this with a doctor who didn’t show he cares. </div>
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We were "part of the furniture" they said, we were there that long. Women and men crowded around us like a pair of arms, carrying us, caring for us, showing us love while we were isolated from those who loved us. My baby floated upon their compassion, up and down, through needles, tubes, oxygen and isolation. They dragged me when I stopped, heavy on the outskirts of their responsibility, crying, sleepless, insane and unsure. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXyTjHvlLAe8LahmXSne6yGdT_XGBHzc6OUl-g8lF30xQ69IpJGWrWUSbq5RZFqiwmrL4aeAT7amjWXzq0NS8JyNbRd4TRXNkEdzt_JURqKCEJ3AOt0Z3tZVe1mNdeLMVy2zi-HJeGOQmu/s1600/08072010_003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXyTjHvlLAe8LahmXSne6yGdT_XGBHzc6OUl-g8lF30xQ69IpJGWrWUSbq5RZFqiwmrL4aeAT7amjWXzq0NS8JyNbRd4TRXNkEdzt_JURqKCEJ3AOt0Z3tZVe1mNdeLMVy2zi-HJeGOQmu/s320/08072010_003.jpg" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 204px; mozopacity: 0.3; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 598px; visibility: hidden;" width="96" /></a></div>
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‘Nurse’ and ‘doctor’ are silly words. These people have God in them. They save lives. They saved mine: Our baby survived. </div>
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Sydney Children’s Hospital makes a little life that is less, much more. Next week is Gold Week, a fund raiser for the hospital. You never know, you may just need it too one day. <a href="http://www.goldweektelethon.com.au/views/donate.aspx">http://www.goldweektelethon.com.au/views/donate.aspx</a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXyTjHvlLAe8LahmXSne6yGdT_XGBHzc6OUl-g8lF30xQ69IpJGWrWUSbq5RZFqiwmrL4aeAT7amjWXzq0NS8JyNbRd4TRXNkEdzt_JURqKCEJ3AOt0Z3tZVe1mNdeLMVy2zi-HJeGOQmu/s1600/08072010_003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXyTjHvlLAe8LahmXSne6yGdT_XGBHzc6OUl-g8lF30xQ69IpJGWrWUSbq5RZFqiwmrL4aeAT7amjWXzq0NS8JyNbRd4TRXNkEdzt_JURqKCEJ3AOt0Z3tZVe1mNdeLMVy2zi-HJeGOQmu/s320/08072010_003.jpg" t8="true" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6676702061629979097.post-31853498354912895762011-05-30T03:53:00.000-07:002011-05-30T04:20:18.514-07:00Open space, open hearts<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">"The property is 10 k's from one end to the other..." I'm betting if I was plonked the whole 10 k's away I could still see the beaming face of my little man bumping along on the quad bike surrounded by his version of heaven - a real life farm. No little plastic lookalike pigs or cows here - these are the real jumping, slobbering, doe-eyed, big daddy bull beauties. He is shining like the moon.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLlM0R_VRK-MG4zregrJ9uT78dXg0pcT0YRB101m4a0sgjz6zy8Itz-Wq4qEDUGl0lQC0hxAKxIKVkuqDbzzytNtJtNJV2R_1VkInTfrI6m7E1nrggBKFt1LZq2Aiei8gJlKvn4cFth1jK/s1600/151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLlM0R_VRK-MG4zregrJ9uT78dXg0pcT0YRB101m4a0sgjz6zy8Itz-Wq4qEDUGl0lQC0hxAKxIKVkuqDbzzytNtJtNJV2R_1VkInTfrI6m7E1nrggBKFt1LZq2Aiei8gJlKvn4cFth1jK/s320/151.JPG" t8="true" width="320" /></a>My boys, who normally scream all sooky la la if a dog comes within cooee of them, are sitting comfortably on the bike with their arm resting over Beau the working dog. He's just been for a bit of a run - what seemed like the most part of that 10 k's - nudging and sweeping sheep along in waves through gates, abreast of dips in the land and to a new destination to wait for their lambs to slip into the world. </div>Mr Cool School Dude doesn't usually like to get his hands dirty but today he's into collecting the bones of dead sheep and cattle. He paces over boulders like he's got mountain goat in him, clambers through long grass which says snakes to me, but adventure to him. One skull is the size of my torso. "That one smells a bit, I think it's still a bit green.." He's not worried, a bit of blood and body never hurt him, not today.<br />
Bulldozer rides, a real life tractor with a hay fork, feeding baby lambs, shearing sheep and riding sheep! Blue sky, sausage sizzle on a hill with a view which lulls me toward heaven too, children laughing all day long, asking questions, playing and more questions again. <br />
The things we have learned about farming life on our visit to this beautiful place, with it's matching beautiful people who host us: No book could explain it to us, no plastic toy would test our children's bravery and ignite their excitement, their passion. No photo could seep into our hearts like the real thing has done. <br />
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Have a little piece yourself - <a href="http://www.farmday.com.au/">http://www.farmday.com.au/</a>. <a href="http://ktsfarmlife.blogspot.com/">http://ktsfarmlife.blogspot.com/</a>; <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNi10BvDoJzXACmMO1uIg3O1CQcbTQnmzJz3WZ_ei8AFFSkVKiB7U0THT8Bjmx0vl6cmZ9wJQThAsV3jgq6cHOhFwAsQqVN1TejbnjrqaPNEkUjs8McJBcygeHtN7L3ifin_3LTy3engK/s1600/Oliver%252C+Benjamin+and+Molly+-+Farm+Day+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNi10BvDoJzXACmMO1uIg3O1CQcbTQnmzJz3WZ_ei8AFFSkVKiB7U0THT8Bjmx0vl6cmZ9wJQThAsV3jgq6cHOhFwAsQqVN1TejbnjrqaPNEkUjs8McJBcygeHtN7L3ifin_3LTy3engK/s320/Oliver%252C+Benjamin+and+Molly+-+Farm+Day+2.jpg" t8="true" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Gifts from our farm day hosts, and a wee memento skull.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4