Found a good thing, sticking to it

Can you hear the whingeing in my house? 
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.
So what to do...
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).

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 Natural Rubber Teether, 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.
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.
But she copied, and I could see the relief on her face as little Miss PeacefulwithPishie knawed away. Ahh, the serenity.
Serenity for sale at http://www.makeuwell.com/.

Mothers Group

My Mothers Group is the epitome of the saying 'it's like putting on an old pair of shoes'.
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. 
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. 
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.
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.  
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.

Stolen Children

When 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.
I move back to Australia, to an area many call "God's country", no less.  Sunny, relaxed and above all, safe. 
So why is that I now find myself feeling as sickened about stolen children as I did when I lived in Bucharest?
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.
A man in a white van driving slowly along grabs a young girl at a bus stop dragging her into his van.
Another white van, driving slowly, with a man walking alongside of it with a blanket, ready to silently snuffle away a little boy.
These peope are not human, to even have the thought 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.
Eyes in the back of your head mum's.

My Mum

I 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.

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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
How great though art, that mothers love. How blessed I am.

Cranky Pants

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.

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.

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.

“It’s not rocket science: You listen, then you do it.”

“As.    I.    Said.    Before…”

“That is not the way you speak to people”

“Now, do you think this is acceptable?”

“There is no need to sigh”

“Don’t you know the power of social media? It’s not a good idea to provide bad customer service nowadays.” (This is from the gen X mum’s quotes box)

“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-Goodbye.”

Ahhh… now that feels better!

Saving Miss Molly

The first man told me he could see nothing wrong. “But bring her back in four hours and we’ll have another look.”

The next woman said it was usually nothing but we’ll do the standard blood tests and xray.

The next man, an hour’s drive away, said we’re going to operate. Now.

They said to sing to my limp six month-old baby as she fell off the precipice of consciousness and into emergency surgery.

The next man said we’ve cleaned her up, and now she’ll have medicine in her jugular for a month.

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?”

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.

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.

‘Nurse’ and ‘doctor’ are silly words. These people have God in them. They save lives. They saved mine: Our baby survived.

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.  http://www.goldweektelethon.com.au/views/donate.aspx

Open space, open hearts

"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.

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. 

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.
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. 
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.

Have a little piece yourself - http://www.farmday.com.au/.  http://ktsfarmlife.blogspot.com/; 

Gifts from our farm day hosts, and a wee memento skull.