As you draaaag yourself into a shower in which you barely get wet because you're in and out wiping bottoms, as you make yet another vegemite sandwich-sultana-crackers lunch box, get lots of little people dressed, sometimes twice or thrice, as you brush hair, teeth and your own legs (who has time for that shaving thing), clickety clack everyone into the car and zoom off down the street to drop children hopefully at the right destination, think of this....
The other day I was driving past a gym where I once took my first born son to a childrens sporting class. He was painfully shy. Memories came flooding back, of ME skipping across the hall, carrying him, ME doing the little peoples stretches while he clung to me for dear life, and me feeling the tears well up when finally, finally he forgot he was in a social situation and he kicked the ball and smiled at the person he kicked it to.
The sight of that gym bought back an overwhelming memory, which came with a rush of all the feelings I felt at the time, and crystal clear images of my tiny little nearly-2 year old boy petrified, but gradually less so.
Our little boy is no longer as shy and makes new friends at the park where he once screamed in terror. That memory, strong as it was, seemed like such a long time ago. It seemed like history.
Not much in a life with little people under your feet seems like a long time ago. It's all now, now, now, I WANT IT NOW!
Note to self: Absorb the moments. They are history all too soon.
Kids Unite
No way never would she have crossed that invisible dag line to come and chat to me at high school. Yet now we find ourselves having a chin wag over the celery in Coles. Motherhood makes us ignore that dag line - ignoring daginess is something most mothers learn the second they spot a pair of maternity knickers during their first pregnancy.
Talk of snot, diahorrea, hospitals and sleep bring women to common ground. And you know what - she's nice. And I'm nice. And how silly that we both never knew this at school. But we were just kids then ourselves.
Fortune Cookie No 348 for Mummy-Ducks: "Never judge a student by the length of her uniform; the shorter the dress, the closer the potential for donning those maternity knickers."
Talk of snot, diahorrea, hospitals and sleep bring women to common ground. And you know what - she's nice. And I'm nice. And how silly that we both never knew this at school. But we were just kids then ourselves.
Fortune Cookie No 348 for Mummy-Ducks: "Never judge a student by the length of her uniform; the shorter the dress, the closer the potential for donning those maternity knickers."
Baby News
There is nothing like a bit of baby news.
Chocolate is good, but I don't think the high lasts as long as the excitement of a big pink or blue announcement. Champagne bubbles might emulate the high, but there is never a hangover, just more of a high the next day.
We've just had some of the Got 2 Boys, Just Had a Girl variety in our mummy circle. Oh what a feeling! We were one of those, our text read: "WE HAVE PINK! blahblahdetailsblah STILL IN SHOCK!" (assumed we only did boys).
The other fantastic variety is the old Given Up Trying After A Million Years And Back On The Booze pregnancy news. Now this is something to really celebrate - first you get to be excited about the pregnancy, then after waaaaaaiiiiting, waiting, waiting for 9 months, you get to BURST when you hear the miracle baby has joined his equally miraculous parents. Oh the joy!
And I guess that's the point. Is there anything more miraculous and joyful and MAGIC than a new baby? No way. Even if you didn't birth it, you still get to gather a little piece of that joy bouncing around in your heart when you hear the news.
GO MUMMY'S!!!
Chocolate is good, but I don't think the high lasts as long as the excitement of a big pink or blue announcement. Champagne bubbles might emulate the high, but there is never a hangover, just more of a high the next day.
We've just had some of the Got 2 Boys, Just Had a Girl variety in our mummy circle. Oh what a feeling! We were one of those, our text read: "WE HAVE PINK! blahblahdetailsblah STILL IN SHOCK!" (assumed we only did boys).
The other fantastic variety is the old Given Up Trying After A Million Years And Back On The Booze pregnancy news. Now this is something to really celebrate - first you get to be excited about the pregnancy, then after waaaaaaiiiiting, waiting, waiting for 9 months, you get to BURST when you hear the miracle baby has joined his equally miraculous parents. Oh the joy!
And I guess that's the point. Is there anything more miraculous and joyful and MAGIC than a new baby? No way. Even if you didn't birth it, you still get to gather a little piece of that joy bouncing around in your heart when you hear the news.
GO MUMMY'S!!!
Attached at the heart
It struck me today how a mother (father, grandparent, carer) is not only attached at the heart to their own child, but to all children of a similar age, give or take 18 years.
A discussion about volunteering prompted a little personal memory journey (which, I have to add, in a car with three children was an accomplishment I'm proud of). This journey took me back to Romania and to some volunteer work in the children's hospital in Bucuresti. At the time it took weeks for me to summon courage, mettle and the sheer stomach strength not to vomit at the thought of going. Eventually I went to the cold, raw, concrete building to play with terminally ill children. I saw, obviously, very sick children - equally heartbreaking anywhere in the world. I watched their parents struggle with the idea that these western women were trying to cheer their children up with ratty broken toys, when really they would have preferred money for a kidney to stop the inevitable.
I also remember in Bucuresti a street dedicated to prostitution. I used to ask the taxi drivers to go the long way to avoid that street because I lurched with vomit at the sight of ten year old girls standing on the street dressed in clothes that they didn't even know the meaning of.
I was catching a taxi for crying out loud. I couldn't sit by and do nothing for a people who I respected foremost, but also who needed anything I could give.
I now have three children of my own. Could I go to that children's hospital and look at those hope-drained faces? I can't even stomach the image of the prostitution street from my perch in this warm house made of wood with my MPV parked outside. All I see is the faces of my own children in those places.
But that is what would make me go.
A discussion about volunteering prompted a little personal memory journey (which, I have to add, in a car with three children was an accomplishment I'm proud of). This journey took me back to Romania and to some volunteer work in the children's hospital in Bucuresti. At the time it took weeks for me to summon courage, mettle and the sheer stomach strength not to vomit at the thought of going. Eventually I went to the cold, raw, concrete building to play with terminally ill children. I saw, obviously, very sick children - equally heartbreaking anywhere in the world. I watched their parents struggle with the idea that these western women were trying to cheer their children up with ratty broken toys, when really they would have preferred money for a kidney to stop the inevitable.
I also remember in Bucuresti a street dedicated to prostitution. I used to ask the taxi drivers to go the long way to avoid that street because I lurched with vomit at the sight of ten year old girls standing on the street dressed in clothes that they didn't even know the meaning of.
I was catching a taxi for crying out loud. I couldn't sit by and do nothing for a people who I respected foremost, but also who needed anything I could give.
I now have three children of my own. Could I go to that children's hospital and look at those hope-drained faces? I can't even stomach the image of the prostitution street from my perch in this warm house made of wood with my MPV parked outside. All I see is the faces of my own children in those places.
But that is what would make me go.
Life is like a bag of popcorn
There is absolutely nothing "toddling" about a Toddler. Rather, I do believe children, particularly those over two, should be called Popcorn.
A couple of weeks ago I saw a little boy, probably around the two-and-a-half years old mark, in a crowded area in the middle of Sydney. His dad had obviously said to him "stay by my side, do not run away". And yes, he was right by his dad's side, however he was running - and jumping and skipping and cartwheeling and rolling and hopping and singing, all at once, encapsulated on that exact spot he'd been told to stay. He looked just like a bag of popping popcorn.
Several people said to me "it all changes once they turn two - overnight". How right they were! Previous to that magic age I had a very quiet, calm little man in my life. Post two, I got the Popcorn. How does one gain unbelievable energy overnight? I do wish he could tell me as I'd really love some right now.
I have to say though, I love the Popcorn age. I love the personality, I love the energy, I love the learning and amazement, I love the talking, and I love the sense of humour.
Don't get me wrong, my Popcorn does have to pop the dark, burnt bits of temper and frustration as well, but sitting here right now I can't even recall how bad it is, if it is bad at all. All I can think about is my cheeky, energetic ball of fun.
I love the way that whatever it is, it is SO fantastic and exciting and important that the Popcorn must RUN to it - then RUN back from it, then RUN back to it yet again. How amazing life must seem to the Popcorn, to live it with such enthusiasm, every single waking second.
Even in his extreme exhaustion my Popcorn can still giggle his head clean off his shoulders - it is the most infectious sound I have ever heard and it has the ability to makes his tired, crabby old mummy giggle her head clean off her shoulders as well.
Oh but to be a bag of Popcorn again!
A couple of weeks ago I saw a little boy, probably around the two-and-a-half years old mark, in a crowded area in the middle of Sydney. His dad had obviously said to him "stay by my side, do not run away". And yes, he was right by his dad's side, however he was running - and jumping and skipping and cartwheeling and rolling and hopping and singing, all at once, encapsulated on that exact spot he'd been told to stay. He looked just like a bag of popping popcorn.
Several people said to me "it all changes once they turn two - overnight". How right they were! Previous to that magic age I had a very quiet, calm little man in my life. Post two, I got the Popcorn. How does one gain unbelievable energy overnight? I do wish he could tell me as I'd really love some right now.
I have to say though, I love the Popcorn age. I love the personality, I love the energy, I love the learning and amazement, I love the talking, and I love the sense of humour.
Don't get me wrong, my Popcorn does have to pop the dark, burnt bits of temper and frustration as well, but sitting here right now I can't even recall how bad it is, if it is bad at all. All I can think about is my cheeky, energetic ball of fun.
I love the way that whatever it is, it is SO fantastic and exciting and important that the Popcorn must RUN to it - then RUN back from it, then RUN back to it yet again. How amazing life must seem to the Popcorn, to live it with such enthusiasm, every single waking second.
Even in his extreme exhaustion my Popcorn can still giggle his head clean off his shoulders - it is the most infectious sound I have ever heard and it has the ability to makes his tired, crabby old mummy giggle her head clean off her shoulders as well.
Oh but to be a bag of Popcorn again!
The Importance of Being Beautiful
I used to think, "I'll grow old gracefully". No skin stripping activity or Botox for me, and I will have gorgeous salt and pepper hair. Now just let me tell you a little something about my former life: I used to be a Beauty Editor... Well of course I would have this vision with all those wonder-potions at my fingertips.
Then I became a mummy.
Actually, before that, I became pregnant.
Being beautiful meant smiling without bleeding gums, as opposed to my former perfectly constructed blood-red lips with shiney, whitened teeth. It meant I could reach my toenails to paint them the latest gorgeous coral colour from Kit Cosmetics, as opposed to ending up with toe-talons after 6 or so months of not seeing them.
Being beautiful meant no pregnancy mask - and what a ridiculous term... a pregnancy mask is what I should have been wearing! And it meant a sleek sheeney decolletage created by Guerlain's shimmery dusting balls, versus one which was all swollen by growing milk glands (I'm sure they had something to do with my double chin).
But wait, there's more - you thought you looked shocking as a preggie mumma...
Welcome to sleep deprivation. Yes, it is not age that gives you wrinkles, it is children.
This is a phrase I used to hear from my mother when I was a teenager, but I now realise it happens far earlier in the process. Like, during labour.
I remember doing my make-up in the mirror at my mothers (ie, not a purposefully darkened bathroom like my own) and thinking, "I can attribute every one of these lines to every sleepless night I've had with my son" - who was at the time about 400 days old. Yes, I had that many lines.
And now I have TWO sons! My face is the map of Europe (Australia doesn't have near enough roads to qualify).
However, despite my shock and horror at looking 89 years old overnight, I still do try to make an effort before I walk out the door every day. I now invest in creams which promise to reduce me to a map of Australia (well actually my husband invests in them), I try and do my hair, somehow, and when it comes to my decolletage, I try and make sure the old breastpads are not poking above the line to say hello to all and sundry at the park.
It's the little things....
Then I became a mummy.
Actually, before that, I became pregnant.
Being beautiful meant smiling without bleeding gums, as opposed to my former perfectly constructed blood-red lips with shiney, whitened teeth. It meant I could reach my toenails to paint them the latest gorgeous coral colour from Kit Cosmetics, as opposed to ending up with toe-talons after 6 or so months of not seeing them.
Being beautiful meant no pregnancy mask - and what a ridiculous term... a pregnancy mask is what I should have been wearing! And it meant a sleek sheeney decolletage created by Guerlain's shimmery dusting balls, versus one which was all swollen by growing milk glands (I'm sure they had something to do with my double chin).
But wait, there's more - you thought you looked shocking as a preggie mumma...
Welcome to sleep deprivation. Yes, it is not age that gives you wrinkles, it is children.
This is a phrase I used to hear from my mother when I was a teenager, but I now realise it happens far earlier in the process. Like, during labour.
I remember doing my make-up in the mirror at my mothers (ie, not a purposefully darkened bathroom like my own) and thinking, "I can attribute every one of these lines to every sleepless night I've had with my son" - who was at the time about 400 days old. Yes, I had that many lines.
And now I have TWO sons! My face is the map of Europe (Australia doesn't have near enough roads to qualify).
However, despite my shock and horror at looking 89 years old overnight, I still do try to make an effort before I walk out the door every day. I now invest in creams which promise to reduce me to a map of Australia (well actually my husband invests in them), I try and do my hair, somehow, and when it comes to my decolletage, I try and make sure the old breastpads are not poking above the line to say hello to all and sundry at the park.
It's the little things....
Yukky Brown Stuff
Yes, I mean poo.
Sorry to harp on about it, but it is a serious life issue for me right now.
I have a 2-year-old who's poo's are ready to be toilet-trained. I don't care if the little man himself is not ready, his poo's most definitely are because they're becoming large, unweildy, and are making me feel mighty pukey when I have to change them.
Have any of you other mummy-ducks been lead into toilet-training by the poo itself, rather than the old "you'll know when your child is ready" story?
So we've tried stickers as a reward - "if you do a poo you can have the BIG firetruck sticker". This was obviously not a strong enough reward as, yes, we had our first PIP (Poo In the Potty) with it, but consequently three in the nappy after.
Today we're trying the treat of watching his favourite TV show or DVD. I think this could be a good treat as we have spent most of the morning sitting on the potty with a nappy off, chatting about which TV show or DVD he will watch (oh, and the rubbish truck as it's rubbish day). But no poo, just lots of chatter.
Then later in the day, after one such episode of chatter, I set up to feed the baby; everything's serilised, mooshed up and ready to go...
"Potty Mummy!!!!". Up I jump - poor baby's left with his mouth open and empty - we race to the potty and whip off the nappy, only to see it scrape down his leg, all over my hands, all over the potty (no, not in it) and all over the floor.
MID-poo is far worse than NAPPY-poo I have decided.
Perhaps I will go back to what the experts say, and wait til he's ready.
Sorry to harp on about it, but it is a serious life issue for me right now.
I have a 2-year-old who's poo's are ready to be toilet-trained. I don't care if the little man himself is not ready, his poo's most definitely are because they're becoming large, unweildy, and are making me feel mighty pukey when I have to change them.
Have any of you other mummy-ducks been lead into toilet-training by the poo itself, rather than the old "you'll know when your child is ready" story?
So we've tried stickers as a reward - "if you do a poo you can have the BIG firetruck sticker". This was obviously not a strong enough reward as, yes, we had our first PIP (Poo In the Potty) with it, but consequently three in the nappy after.
Today we're trying the treat of watching his favourite TV show or DVD. I think this could be a good treat as we have spent most of the morning sitting on the potty with a nappy off, chatting about which TV show or DVD he will watch (oh, and the rubbish truck as it's rubbish day). But no poo, just lots of chatter.
Then later in the day, after one such episode of chatter, I set up to feed the baby; everything's serilised, mooshed up and ready to go...
"Potty Mummy!!!!". Up I jump - poor baby's left with his mouth open and empty - we race to the potty and whip off the nappy, only to see it scrape down his leg, all over my hands, all over the potty (no, not in it) and all over the floor.
MID-poo is far worse than NAPPY-poo I have decided.
Perhaps I will go back to what the experts say, and wait til he's ready.
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