Day 10, childhood memory

Staying up late on a Friday night, watching Disney movies under a mound of blankets...

Elfling

 
Sometimes I forget that I am a mother; I know it is non correct Mommy blogger etiquette to say so, but I do. Sometimes I want to forget, because there is so much of being a parent that is unfun. Silly reasons that sound petty when you list them, which can make me feel belligerent and adolescent at times, wanting to whine why meeee. Why do I have to deal with this crap when I really don't want to. And often I post on the crap days, because the need to vent and let off that head of relentless monotonous steam is strong.

What I don't do often enough is post on the days when just looking at my offspring is enough to make my heart beat harder. To feel such absolute misplaced pride that I created something so incredibly beautiful and loving. It's easy to feel it about the Possum, because he is still a baby, all nommable limbs and creampuff skin. Giant blue eyes and a heart that was built for cuddles. He's my snuggly baby bear and I often feel lucky that I am his mother.

It's harder to not rebel against being the parent of a young girl though. To look at the path of adolescence ahead and wince a little at having to watch that from the sidelines while hoping desperately that I did enough of the right things during childhood to give her a pass through it. To know the line between strict and fair, guidance and hindrance. I often feel I am too hard on my Elfling, and then not there enough or soft enough in between. It sometimes feels farcical that her upbringing has been left to me, when I still have so much growing up to do myself.

I look at her big green eyes sometimes, with lashes even longer than mine - black fringes that look almost indecent against the lustre of her skin, and I feel fear. Terrified that I am not doing enough for her. That I will be paying the therapy bills for years to come because I'm not the mother I want to be, nor the mother I want for her. And I wonder if she will ever know how many choices I made for her. How many dreams I have altered, because it was more important that she be in them. And that I don't regret any of it.

It's amazing how much perspective can be gained from a simple moment, like lying sprawled and exhausted on the couch, and watching her dance as she watches tv. Practising her arabesque using the kitchen counter as a barre while she thinks no one watches. Early morning on the weekends catching her making peanut butter sandwiches for the Possum as they sit together cuddled on the couch. Writing stories in her journals and colouring in the pictures that she makes to go with them and laughing at the school reports that say that she needs help with her "recounts".

And then on days like today, watching her pick up the paper bag of gifts from her grandparents, all long limbs and angles, feet in sparkly shoes just like mine. Twirling in the window with her head thrown back laughing at the sheer joy of being alive. And thinking that for all the things I've done wrong, and for all things I will continue to screw up, she still laughs. She still illuminates. And I swallow deep in my throat and wince a little at the sudden panic in my chest. Because one day she will leave home, and she will fall in love and be hurt. And then maybe fall in love again. And I can't (and won't) stop any of that. But suddenly it feels like it will be so soon.

December

Work is... nuts. I am sure there are more eloquent ways to describe it, but... nuts. 14-16 hour days are making me slowly devolve into some barely sentient creature and think longingly of the weekend.

Friday last week I finished my clinic, hopped in the car to go to the hospital and to do a ward round before I went home. Unfortunately there was a pile of tasks ready for me, and I was exhausted before I got in the car and drove home, arriving some hours later and feeling the after effects of eating KFC for the first time in about 4 years. The road was wet and sloshy and the traffic heavy as I kept shaking the tiredness from my shoulders and shivering in the airconditioning needed to stop the windscreen fogging.

Saturday morning was pretty blissful, waking up in my own bed and with my own babies around me was near perfect. Love them to bits and I hadn't realised how much I missed them until I was home. Unfortunately my heartsick paranoia with regards to the Possum proved to be founded when he spent the next few hours refusing to come near me and burying his face in Bingley's shoulder, cutting my heart out and stepping on it with each refusal to acknowledge me. By nap time I had had to remind myself that he would be OK and that this was just his reaction to me being away while fighting the urge to breathe rapidly into a paper bag. Luckily Bingley had allowed me to start talking about Christmas, and a hokey, gorgeous photo of my whole family with Santa had cheered me right up.

By lunchtime he had started to forgive me, and he was lighting up as ever when I played with him, but with a wariness that still pains me and makes prickles in my eyes. Lunch was out with family and friends to celebrate Bingley's 30th birthday with cake and food and noisy children running around and feeling guilty that I hadn't organised any of it. Usually birthdays are such a big thing for me and I felt a little bit small that I hadn't even made Bingley a cake.

Coming home that afternoon the Elfling had a birthday party ad the Monkey and I bought supplies for Christmas cooking. Fudge and rumballs and rocky road being a necessity at this time of year, 16 hour work days notwithstanding. And when we picked up the Elfling, we decided to finally put up the Christmas tree. A tradition that is cemented into my make up and makes me soul glad every single year. Unfortunately the Monkey celebrated by vomiting spectacularly over the lounge room floor and had to be put to bed, as she plaintively cried "I hate being little" apropos of nothing.

The Elfling did a good deal of the decorating of the tree, and we chatted about the ornaments as they went up. The red glass baubles that I bought for my second Christmas with Bingley; the Royal Doulton procelain figurines that play music that Mum had given the girls; the Willowtree figurine that the Monkey had been given when she was born; the 12 days of Christmas; the tiny delicate fairies that Santa had bought the girls in 2008; the stars that Bingley and I had made out of wire our first Christmas together - too poor to buy the baubles I longed for and light enough to survive on our Franklin's Norfolk Pine that I had bought in lieu of a fake Christmas tree.

We did it all to the soundtrack of carols that I have sung every year of my life and I glowed a little to hear the Elfling sing along too. The Possum, having now completely forgiven me as shiny things were on offer helped decorate the tree too. He loved fetching a bauble from the box and pushing it at the tree, perplexed when it wouldn't stay, before handing it to me to hang. He dutifully went back and forth, picking up the little wooden figurines carefully and waiting for them to be hung on the tree, before he discovered the singular joy of pulling glass baubbles off the tree, a game that is still being played out daily (and resulted in Sunday morning finding half of my glass baubles below knee height being found in the bin where he had gleefully deposited them).

We ended the night exhausted, with the cheap musical Santa in front of te tree bouncing around singing Jingle Bells while a thoroughly happy Possum bounced and swayed in time to the music, with a cuteness that sells toilet paper and fabric softener.

Sunday morning I whipped up a double batch of fudge (see last year for recipe, even better this year, am culinary goddess); some rumballs and rocky road ready to go in the "teacher appreciation" present bags for this year and assurances from Bingley that the same would be delivered to said teachers. Lunch time the girls were ratty and tired - a terrible omen considering both were dancing in their ballet end of year concert that afternoon and so they both had a lie down, Bingley and I terrified that the Elfling was coming down with the 24h gastro that he, I, the Possum and the Monkey had all suffered in the preceding days. But come early afternoon all was well as I pulled hair back into sleek shiny buns and applied stage make up for the first time in my life, trying not to flinch from the effect of the subtlest make up I was allowed on my perfect babies' skin. To say that the Elfling was excited was understatement in the extreme, and even the grumpy Monkey was happy to stand in front of the mirror and admire her pinked lips.

Arriving at ballet they both ran off, assuaging my fears of the Monkey refusing to walk out on stage and Bingley and both sets of grandparents and I sat in the darkened theatre waiting for the show. We knew tat the Monkey would be in an early dance, as the very well run school understands that 4 year olds are not the most patient or cooperative group at the best of times, and as the music swelled to announce their dance I spontaneously started crying as my tiny pixie tiptoed onto stage in her snowflake tutu with a silly sparkly crown on her head. She was so cute it hurt, the very sweet, very age appropriate dance making me (and half the audience) giggle as they tried to remember their steps. I was so ridiculously proud of her for running so confidently onto the stage and dancing her heart out that I felt like my heart was out of my chest.

The Elfling's dance was soon after and her long limbs, confident steps and bossy redirection of girls who were not in quite the right position had me both laughing and sooking all over the place again. She has grown so much in a year and I love her to bits. I love how much she loves dancing and how much that shows in her performance. Truthfully I don't know if she's good, she had an extra role in the dance and she seemed very graceful, but she loves it so much I couldn't help but be captivated by her. I was barely aware of anyone else on stage.

Afterwards I swapped my white linen pants (I know, I have no idea when I morphed into a soccer mom either) for black leggings and a wide black belt and a swathe of eyeliner to head to Muse with Bingley. We had general admission tickets for the first time in years and as we headed in to the GA floor we both giggled as we sat up against the audio engineer's box and talked about how tired we were at 8pm. The GA tckets were worth it though as the view, the atmosphere and the spontaneous dancing made for an excellent night. The music was incredible and as a live show the performances wre absolutely amazing as were the sets and lighting. There wasn't much engagement with the crowd though, and while there doesn't need to be a whole lot of chatting, I came away feeling like I'd just watched a video of an awesome performance. There hadn't been much to make it stand out aside from the incredible music of Muse.

Musically I can't complain, because the dense mix of heavy sound presided over by Matt Bellamy's incredible voice was amazing - music that completely fires up my blood and in the case of songs like Supermassive Black Hole electrifies it. But I like engagement, or at least acknowledgement that you are playing for a crowd and not just that you've been told to stand there and perform.

We got home at about midnight on Sunday and that anticipatory dread started curling in my belly when I realised I would have to get up at dawn the next morning to head back here for work. As I tossed in bed I thought longingly of sleeping in next to Bingley and waking whenever we wanted instead of dragging myself out at the insistent peal of my alarm and numbly standing under the cold shower before remembering to turn on the hot.

I arrived in time to do my ward round however, and worked solidly all day with barely a half hour break for lunch before working all afternoon, and as it transpired, well into the night. I was so tired last night that when I had finally stitched up all the problems in the hospital for the evening I ordered pizza and then numbly watched tv for a little while before falling into bed.

Today was not much better, starting at 0700 and finishing after 2100 where I was grateful for the cold half uneaten pizza from the night before and I tried not to cry as I talked to Bingley. The tiredness seeping in under my skin and making me homesick. I was snappish with a nurse tonight and I feel dreadful about it, knowing that I'm tired is not an excuse for it, and i apologised but still feel wretched. I still love my work here, and I think I could do it as a career, but doing it away from family is so hard. At first it was easier, because I could be totally selfish, but I need my little chaotic nest to come home to, that rejuvenates me and fills me up with love every evening, instead of this strange place where I can hear the clocks ticking and the bedrooms are empty.

Anyhow, it's bedtime now for me. I'm sorry this is so disjointed, I can't write flowing prose at present, so it's little more than dot points. But I want to read back on these days sometime, and remind myself of just how hard I worked, and how much I enjoyed it. Even if at times it felt like the tiredness would eat me up in one big gulp.

Mess

They’re a huge source of joy, but they turn every other source of joy to shit

One of the truest quotes ever about parenting. I lvoe my children to the point of pain but goddamn they can be irritating as all fuck at times. The Elfling has an obsession with deconstructing everything. Without even realising she is doing it she will take almost any toy, object whatever and methodically take it apart until it is in all of its original pieces - which often won't go back together again. Or will lose a key component.

I bring home a million and one funky pens from work. Not drug company ones because I'm no longer allowed those. But insurance companies and strategy companies and advertising companies and "week" pens. Pens with multi grips and spring loads etc. And every time I need a pen I find myself in a sea of springs and deconstructed crap and not a single working pen.

Toys drive me singularly insane. I ban any complex toys or games with multiple pieces because they will be scattered, and there will never be a full set of anything. For someone that is anal about keeping all the bits of her toys together just watching them "play" sometimes makes me break out in a cold sweat.

I am not a very OCD person. I can live with clutter and I like mismatched things. But until I had children I never realised just how beautiful order can be. Or at least how nice it is to have a "place" for everything.

My eldest child does not share this joy. She screamed and tantrumed for 20 minutes the other night about having to sort out 2 buckets oftoys she'd upended that would have taken her 10 minutes at a stretch. But the arguing and the tears at the inhumanity of having to tidy up made me want to walk out the front door and never come back.

When they are delightful they make my heart sing and feel incredibly grateful. But the flipside is the sensation sometimes of having sold my soul to some task master and having to whore myself out for 20 years to get it back. I;m just not mature enough for this parenting thing sometiems, and I read Larkin's verse and want to just rock in a corner and agree. Counting the therapy bills for my poor children.

And then I realise that sometimes you can navel gaze too much, and it's about just doing the best you can without ever straying into the territory of actual harm. And putting aside some money just in case.

Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Turpentine.

For my 21st birthday Bingley bought me a box of oil paints and the tools with which to apply them to canvas in the hope that even if he didn't quite understand my need to create that I would use them and love them. But although I have written a great deal in the intervening years, I have not painted much, and my oil paints were in much the same pristine condition as they were 7 years ago.

Or they were until this afternoon, when in a period of suspicious quietness the girls found them, and decided to do some painting. Which, had it been confined to the paper that they originally brought out for the task I may have smiled benevolently about. Instead, after painting some butterflies et al, they noticed the beautiful way that oil paint spreads and feels on bare skin. Thick and lustrously they painted a veritable rainbow of colour on hands and feet and arms and faces.

Before realising, in a panic, that they couldn't wipe it off. Or, after surreptitiously sneaking into the bathroom, that it wouldn't merely wash off either. In fact, it was only the panicked shrieks from the bathroom that alerted us to the state of affairs. With the dining table awash in a glorious sunset of purples and oranges, the bathroom floor smeared with red and blue and the bathtub and every single other surface between the two liberally daubed with smudges of every colour in between.

They had had a glorious time massaging the rich shiny paint into their skin, and it was not without considerable scrubbing with soap that I managed to do much more than smear it further, the bath water turning richly pink.

It was bittersweet watching it all gurgle down the drain too (quite apart from the environmental impact); thinking of all those dreams I once had. Of living by my imagination and my creativity instead of by steady hard work. Of writing at a greyed wood desk by an open window overlooking a garden where the mists prowl and play before spending the afternoon streaked with paint as I pour out my soul via my fingers.

It felt like I lost a teensy bit of that hope today, watching the swirl of paint and smelling the noxious pungency of turpentine as it curled up my nostrils and infiltrated the hidden locks in my brain to places I don't want to think about today.

So I scrubbed instead, until my fingernails peeled and I stopped thinking.

Possum Magic

He follows me with his eyes and knows who I am.
He keeps his knees up to his chest almost all the time like a little frog and loves nothing more than being possumed up against a warm and willing chest.
He has downy hair like a new duckling in a honey brown colour that flames red in the sun.
He has a pointy little chin and looks like a goblin.
He still has ear fuzz.
His arms are long and when we bathe him he is all arms and legs and his massive head.
He has a long neck, he likes to sleep with his neck extended, his head flopped in the most uncomfortable positions.
He has long feet and adorable toes. I like to kiss and nuzzle them guiltily when they're not wrapped up out of sight to keep him warm.
He likes it when I sing to him or read.
He looks adorable with his jeans and jumper on. I love dressing him.
He loves his bath.
He loves bubbles and squashes them wonderingly in his hand.
He screams when we take him out of the bath, his face contorted into outraged tearfulness.
He cries with real tears that course down his soft cheeks and crack my heart.
He makes an "ooh" sound when he poos, his mouth a perfect little o.
He still makes kitten noises when he nuzzles for boob.
He loves my scent and stops crying whenever I pick him up.
He digs his toes into the squishiness of my belly as we cosleep.
He sighs in his sleep.
He has blonde eyelashes.
He still smells like a baby, but not a newborn any more. Milky sweetness mixed with lavendar and chamomile instead of that newborn mustiness.
He loves his pram.
He gets angry when I give him his dummy when we wants boob. His bottom lip pouts and trembles and he arches his back.
He spits his dummy for entertainment, he loves the game.
He loves shopping centres and lights and noise.
He tolerates the exuberant affection of his sisters.
He is not interested in toys.
He squeaks when he feeds.
He still has a stuffy nose from his cold 3 weeks ago and snorts when feeding sometimes.
He has outgrown his newborn sized nappies this week.
His eyes are navy blue.
He yawns a lot. I think it is cute and I get a rush of oxytocin just thinking of it.
He is growing every day.
He is 4.2kg today, 55.5cm and a 58.5cm head.
He fits all his 000 clothes.
He wasn't the tiniest baby at the shops today, I had to stifle a sob.
He watches me as I change him, his eyes crinkle up and his mouth dimples at the corners as his whole face lights up with a smile.

I cry. And fall in love again.

There's another post to go in the birth story saga, but it can wait. All the flowers have died now, and the laundry is again swamped and there are milo splodges on the tiles, so it's basically back to normal now. I was worried about this stage, worried that the euphoria might have worn off and I'd be in the "what have we done!" camp already, but I'm not.

He is beautiful and easy and so much a part of our family. The baby paraphernalia just melds in with the usual chaos, and in the middle of it is the Possum, serenely sleeping away. He is the snuggliest baby, sleeps forever and almost never cries aside from when we change his nappy. He is just not a nudist. He has a pointy chin and the most knowing eyes and a dent in the middle of his nose that is slowly filling out. His ears are still fuzzy but as his eyelashes and eyebrows are growing in. I stare at him for hours, watching the fleeting expressions on his face as he nuzzles in closer.

The girls are in love, the Monkey especially is effusive. The Elfling likes him quite a lot, but is upset that I won't let her do much of the caring for him. She likes to be helpful though, and as long as she feels needed she is happy. We went to the Lifeline Bookfest yesterday and she and I trawled through table after table for finds (sadly no Trixie Beldens this year) but she found a My Little Pony book and a Fairy book so was rapt.

The Possum just slept it all away in his sling, sighing occasionally. He is a champion feeder, and after a brief stint as Dolly Parton I'm slowly settling down enough so that I don't drown him with every feed. He hates being naked as I've mentioned, probably to do with the cold (it's near freezing in Brisbane in the mornings now) but we had a shower this morning and curled up like a little frog on my chest he seemed very happy. The girls both hated being "splashed" even though they loved baths.

Being a family of 5 seems so strange and so foreign but so right at the same time. I feel stretched sometimes, but at the moment it is pretty easy. Family routines kicking in and him just slotting in around the rituals of bedtime and mornings and ballet classes. I look at all my angst and want to laugh at it, but know that it's not now that will test us, but the weeks, months and years to come.

I don't regret it for one second though, my secret fear that he would be born and I would still harbour that little bit of resentment. But how could anyone regret perfection?

Muffins

Some days I can't cope and some days I can. That pretty sums up my life at the moment. Most of the time, probably 80% of the time I am coping fine, find it all a breeze and am enjoying it. The girls are happy and settled now that they have their routines, the house is chugging along and work is great. But some days aren't and Friday was one of those.

It's amazing how much harder I am finding pregnancy this time. I don't know if it's because I'm 27 and therefore older, or if it's because it's #3 or if it's just because of all the other stuff that I'm now doing. But it is a bit tough. I still haven't put on weight, but I feel much heavier. My feet hurt at the end of the day, my back aches, I have difficulty breathing unless I am standing bolt upright. My ribs are splaying again - something I vaguely remember from before meaning that instead of growing "out" I grow "up" and to accommodate necessary things like my lungs, my ribs splay out leaving less potential for them to move. I think this is why I'm breathless.

The nausea/vomiting thing just shits me, if for nothing else its inconsistency. Some weeks almost none, other weeks feels like first trimester again. Some weeks the idea of eating is torture and others I have something in my hand at all times just waiting to be popped into my mouth as soon as I stop chewing the last bit.

Bingley is worried about me. He worries all the time and far too much, but he is very worried at the moment. He has that permanent worried frown thing happening. I have tried to tell him he will get wrinkles but he just gives me a wry smile. He is worried that I am going to crack under the pressure and do something silly or hurt myself and/or The Possum. He is desperately afraid of labour and has dreams about me dying, even though I am the poster child of empowered natural birth. This of course makes being cheerful and relaxed at home somewhat more difficult. He told me this after I volunteered to be a representative for my cohort of interns.

I sometimes hyperventilate at the thought of next year, of doing all this but with 3 children, one a baby who will need me as much as I will need him. Childcare costs alone are enough to make me wake up in a cold sweat - we're looking at easily $3000 a month just in childcare. Approximately the amount that we're looking at spending on a half million dollar mortgage. If anyone dares tell me I am having a third for the Baby Bonus I will go into hysterics. But it's the emotional side that scares me, of making sure I'm there for my children and them feeling like their mother is there and a part of them.

At the moment I know I'm doing OK because the girls are both happy AND well behaved while maintaining their cheekiness - a sign that they're not overwhelmed or stressed. They were actually much more difficult over the Christmas break when I was home fulltime... I wonder what that says about me and my abilities *blush*. It's just that I'm not naive to the fact that we are doing something extraordinary. I don't know any other person my age who has made choices like ours. It makes it hard to say "hey they're doing it".

Anyhow this is a mish mash because I'm making muffins (raspberry and banana with cinnamon) and keep getting up to check on them. They smell awesome and I am feeling OK. Just in case you were worried like Bingley.

Bingley's Birthday Present

I'm sitting here, on Bingley's 28th birthday, stuffed full of pavlova with a stupid smile on my face watching the most beatufiul 33 minutes of footage in black and white and then glorious 3D of our adorable offspring.

The images are pristine, the views remarkable. The profile of a little face that in a few short months I will be nuzzling or gazing at as it suckles from me. Long thin arms and legs waving, tiny fists clenching and unclenching, miniscule lips sucking fingers. Big round smooth belly with the thick lumpy cord protruding, big rounded head nodding above.

I was really nervous for today's scan. None of this has seemed real. It's felt like I've been pretending to be pregnant for the last 10 weeks. I was fully prepared to see no baby, to see no heartbeat. Because not being pregnant seemed much more likely than being so, because I hadn't connected yet.

But with the first swoop of the probe we found him (Bingley is convinced it is a boy and so until I find otherwise I will refer to "him"), sitting up on my cervix, arms curled up near his face and it was all I could do not to cry. I was meeting my baby.



Not a blob, or a cluster of cells, or a nonentity, but our baby. A perfect miniature of the child that we will bring home in 6 months time.

This creation thing, no matter how much it ruins our best laid plans, is amazing stuff. Humbling.