Ch 43: You like apples?

I have a confession to make.

Our State is in the midst of our third heat wave in as many weeks. 35 -40 degree Celsius temperatures (102 degrees Fahrenheit ) are slowly frying our thoughts and have made the simplest of tasks almost impossible. For instance, try ummm, errrrr hang on, what was I talking about again? Hur? Who are you and what are you doing here?!

 

You see now?

With today being a Friday, my day at home with Toddler B, and 36 degrees forecast, we raced off bright and early to get the weekly stupidmarket run out of our hair.

With the kidlet in the car ready to go, I decided to turn on the water sprinkler in the front but terribly parched garden (or what used to be a garden) for a quick drink whilst we were at the shops.

Easy. We will have that lawn looking like the MCG turf in no time.

Whilst at the stupidmarket, the following occurred:

Copious amounts of pink lady apples were selected then coughed on, snotted on, dropped, licked, pinched, dropped again (this time on my toes), and generally flung around the trolley as if they were miniature basketballs. Feeling too guilty to put any of them back, tainted with Toddler B’s childcare germs, they all came home with us.

A Thomas the Tank Engine birthday card was selected for Toddler B’s cousin. Apparently the paper version of Thomas fly's. Everywhere. Then drops suddenly onto the ground. Again. And again. And some more. What an annoying sh*t of a game. Pity such exertion made Thomas famished very quickly and he then found himself immersed amongst the pink ladies.

Then came tears. Tears soon dissolved once the current flavour of the month, SPC Fruit Crush-Ups, danced before his eyes. Shrieks of delight echoed from aisle eight. Proudly holding his very grown up non-baby branded package of fruity delight, the toddler tears soon emerged once the realisation that the mango goodness was staying put until we got home. Or in the car at least.

Tears were followed by wails which were followed by squeals which were followed by snot bubbles.

A random customer, walked by and endearingly called out to Toddler B ‘hello grumpy!’.

I’ll give you grumpy.

The pet food was missed (sorry Buddy Dog..you like apples don’t you?).

The checkout was near.

We arrived and I started to frantically unload the trolley, Supermarket Sweep style. As soon as the SPC package beeps through the scanner we could all be relieved of this toddler madness.

Then it dawned on us. We had just introduced ourselves to the world’s slowest checkout chick.

She was delightful. I think her name was Kerry. Chatty. A bit too chatty. Hurry the ef up!

Luckily, a customer distracted Toddler B, tickling his toes, playing hide and seek with the apples (I know, they just keep coming baaack!) and commenting on how big and beautiful his eyes were and how well behaved he was.

After cleaning up my own vomit we progressed to payment with the little screamer beaming with delight, sucking down the mango flavoured water sugar thingy, kicking his heels and now cuddling up to an elderly nanna. Oh he’s gooorgeous.

I’ll give you gorgeous.

Trolley unloaded, Toddler B was still in the child seat refusing to place in the bin his empty plastic pouch which once contacted some sort of fruit like puree material.

With the basement carpark starting to heat, I quickly distracted him, threw the pouch in the bin and hopped across the carpark pretending to be a horse and jockey only to be sprung by a bunch of teenagers, sharing a smoke and clearly wagging school. Excellent.

We left home at 9am. Got home at 10am albeit a little frazzled. The heat had really started to kick in.

Let’s move forward to 1.10pm.

Oh my apple I’ve left the sprinkler on. It’s been over four hours and I am the worst over user of water in this dry, barren State. I am hideous. We have just moved into the street, what will the neighbours think?!

 

With barely a moment to think, I threw Toddler B into his bathing togs, hat, thongs, zinc cream on nose, hat and floaties on the dog (yes the dog, I panicked ok?). With beach ball blown up in record time, despite almost passing out due to lack of oxygen, we were ready to hit the beach, oops I mean the front yard with a crappy little sprinkler.

What a performance. All in aid of keeping the little mite and his furry mate cool on this hot day.

Of course. *gulp*.

We scurried off inside with the hose now turned off. Toddler B looked confused and tired so it was off to bed.

As for me, I spent the afternoon baking apple pie for all of my new neighbours.

 

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Ch 41: All I want for Christmas is..Boxing Day!

We are one week away from Christmas Eve. It's here, the final week before the fat man and his reindeer embark on one very tiresome journey around the globe delivering Christmas cheer.

Now I'll be honest with you because at Christmas time you tell the truth. So I'll admit that I have a love hate relationship with Christmas.

One moment, I'm Mrs Claus busy baking sugary goodies in the kitchen, Bing Crosby on the wireless, flashing Christmas tree earrings dangling from my earlobes, occasionally guzzling a glass of bubbles.

The next, I'm Ebenezer Scrooge. Well Scrooge McDuck to be exact..you know like Donald Duck's old man, or Uncle I think? Counting pennies, groveling about the latest electricity bill and generally being an unhappy duck with too many people to please, too much to do in so little time and wishing for December 25 to be over...all with a black lump of coal in hand.

How sad. But then I mix up another batch of sangria and within no time I'm belting out Here Comes Santa Clause with Bing and kicking that coal to the curb. Happy as.

So upon reflection of my two festive seasonal personality extremes, here are my best and worst of Christmas festivities.

Obsession with the pre-Christmas catch up.

I've got to see you before Christmas! I must! Yes, it HAS to be before Christmas.

We've all heard and probably said it before, right?

This obsession with seeing every person you have Facebook friended, unfriended, friended again, occupied a work cubical with, played sport against or perhaps shared a house with.

You HAVE to see them between 1 December and 24 December. You must. Because apparently the world ends in January.

But even more importantly, unopened Christmas presents self-destruct at 12.00am on 26 December.

Exterior decorations

If you weren't already aware of the upcoming festive season by the fact that Christmas cards hit the stupidmarkets in October, you have been hiding under Santa's sack. So just in case you missed it, we've taken the liberty of mixing electrical wires, flashing bulbs and plastic Santa lookalikes with bricks and tiles to showcase to the neighbourhood that Christmas is indeed here.

The trick to house Christmas decoration is to humbly outdo your neighbours and to gain as many oohs and ahhs from passing children dressed in their pyjamas doing the neighbourhood round after dark. If your house is really special, you might get a photo in the local paper. Joy.

So if that means stuffing a giant sized inflatable Santa half way down your chimney rocking to the gangnam style tune, choreographed with flashing lights and break dancing reindeers, then do it. It's for the children. And the local paper.

Christmas trees and what we put on them

With the little master crawling around with also with limited space, this year our Christmas tree has been relegated to our spare room at the front of the house. Our tree is an average, plastic 5”0 tall triangle filled with colourful tinsel and Christmas balls. Our Christmas angel on the other hand, is really the centrepiece of our tree. As it should be. Especially when the Christmas angel is a miniature Humphrey B Bear dressed in a while t-shirt with plastic wings and tinsel as a halo.

What?

Oh and there's a Christmas ball hanging from his furry ear. You know, just because he can.

This has been my tradition (abandoned by my four siblings years earlier..shame on all of you) since I was a teenager when our antique Christmas angel's head fell off one year. The only alternative when you have limited access to shops (we lived on a farm out of town) was my beloved bear. I'd say it was quite creative. Don't you? And doesn't he look dashing..

Christmas Eve Mass

Although mass is meant to be a time for peace, harmony and reflection, the moments leading up to the commencement of the 6.00pm Christmas Eve carols is one of panic, angst and competitiveness.

You see, Christmas mass is like getting the good car park early so you can get to Myers with enough time to be at the front of the line in time for the Boxing Day sales.

If you don't get there at least half an hour early, you won't get a park in the church grounds, then you won't get a good seat unless you have a preference for sitting up on the altar with the seatless, hyperactive kids (the only time the Priest ever lets kids sit there is on Christmas). Now a good seat at Christmas mass is towards the back of the church, but not too far back because that can look quite rude if you're there too early, and preferably on the end of the pew.

It's all about the ability to breathe and the quick getaway. So if you don't get there early enough to get the good car park and the subsequent good seat then you risk being in the position of being caught in the swarms of elderly pedestrian traffic upon conclusion. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the see ya later...!

Fruit cake and plum pudding

My dear husband doesn't like Christmas fruit cake or any kind of cake or pudding containing fruit like goodness.
It pulls at my heart strings so much that I can't even talk, or should I say write, about it.
Burp.

Overconsumption of meat

On a normal day, my lunch tends to consist of a salad sandwich. Pretty simple really. Occasionally I will add ham or chicken and usually finish with some fruit.

Yet on Christmas day we are expected to shovel the following forms of meat into our gobs in record breaking time:

Turkey. Ham. More Ham. Little more turkey please. Chicken. Beef. Lamb. Lamb? Why not. It's Christmas. Chicken. Small slice of Ham. Burps. More turkey to finish off. Oh the pork. We forgot the pork. Can't forget the pork, I made apple sauce. More pork please. On the fork..yes that's enough. Apple sauce.

And then the conversation over the meat comprised dinner table revolves around how Dad has been coping with his latest episode of gout.....need I say more.

Christmas movies

I'm not ashamed to admit that the annual viewing of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation is one of the highlights. It's the kind of movie you could watch all year round. In fact, I have, over the years, watched the Griswolds, cousin Eddy and Aunt Bethany when home from school sick, on a Saturday night bored and alone and of course on Christmas Eve, after returning home from mass of course.

Unfortunately my dear husband, at times doesn't quite share the same sense of humour. He does, however, laugh at me giggling continuously at the TV, glass of wine in hand over the following Clark W. Griswold legendary moments:

The most enduring traditions of the season are best enjoyed in the warm embrace of kith and kin. Thith tree is a thymbol of the thspirit of the Griswold family Chrithmath. 

Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, kiss my ass. Kiss his ass. Kiss your ass. Happy Hanukkah.

I'm gonna burn some dust here. Eat my rubber!

Where do you think you're going? Nobody's leaving. Nobody's walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We're all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We're gonna press on, and we're gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap danced with Danny fu*king Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.

To Clark W. Griswold – thank you. So much.

Sad stuff

From Griswold giggles to reality. Life. Sad stuff.

I find Christmas difficult. I think about those who are alone at Christmas. Those who are unwell. Very unwell. Parents who can't afford to give their children presents or Christmas lunch. Those who have lost loved ones. I think of my best friend who I lost suddenly ten years ago. I think about his family and what he would be doing today if he was still with us. I think about my mother. Where is she, is she alone? I hope not. I think about sick kids in hospital and those who are homeless. I think about the pressures Christmas brings and for many this happy festive season is the hardest time of year.

As it is the season of giving, please give to those who are less fortunate. I have and hope you will too.

Childish smiles

This is the little master's first Christmas. Although at 11 months old he really has no idea what is going on, I look forward to seeing his and his cousin's smiles and hearing their squeals of joy on Christmas morning. I look forward to seeing his eyes gaze into Christmas lights, his persistent action of throwing the Santa hat placed on his little head onto the ground, his giggles at our buddy dog dressed up in a Santa suit and the endless array of cuddles from friends and family.

So there it is folks. These are the things I laugh, cry, cringe and burp about in December.

And to reiterate the words of Clark W. Griswold:

We're gonna have the hap hap happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap danced with Danny fu*king Kaye.

Merry Christmas!

 

 

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Ch 38: When did I become such a...Mum?

The transition to impending motherhood wasn't exactly subtle – think bulging pregnancy belly, car seat fitted with dangly toys hanging from the window, pram parked in the hallway and a wardrobe full of oversized stretchy tops, pants, leggings and under dacks, more commonly referred to as overpriced maternity wear.

Yet since the little master arrived, the visible transition to real motherhood has occurred through actions and words rather than the obvious signs such as a screaming child hanging off my hip and vomit stains on every single piece of clothing.

Recently, dear husband and I went to the best house party we have ever experienced. Think huge marquee, staffed by waiters and waitresses, endless supply of champagne, amazing food, disco ball, fairly lights and fabulous music from the 70's and 80's. Fun fun fun!

The little master was tucked away in bed with a babysitter and was the last thing on my mind as I downed glass of bubbly after glass of bubbly.

A few hours in and after an impromptu dance of the tango with the hostess, dear husband pulled me aside and gave me that 'we should better hit the road' look.

AP: Noooooo! But I'm having SOOO much funnnn. And there's a disco ball!

DH: I know you are but we said we would have left by now...we need to let the babysitter get home.
AP: Oh boo hisss. Gulps remaining bubbly, shovels as many falafels into gob as humanly possible. Stumbles around dear friends saying goodbyes, loved them, missed them, loved them again, loved them even more. You're the best. No you're the best. Blows a kiss goodbye to the disco ball. Burps.

I knew we had to go and we had made the right decision, especially considering I had committed to a fun run the next morning. Yep, you read it right. Fun run hours after my first house party in goodness knows how long. Silly me.

The following day dear husband mentioned how he loved seeing the old AP back in action at the party. The old happy AP, having a few drinks, eating too much, chatting, laughing, telling bad jokes, making an ass of herself on the dance floor and making new friends where ever she goes.

I loved it too. I felt energised, happy and carefree (clearly very carefree considering how many falafels I devoured..not to mention the cheese..).

After wailing to dear husband about how I'm such a boring Mum now that does Mum like things, I pondered on how AP with a baby has now transformed into AP as a Mum.

 

1. When greeting friends, replacing the welcoming peck on the cheek with an unexpected raspberry blowing session on friends belly. Followed by giggles from AP and then one very long and awkward moment.
2. When clothes shopping, pushing tops aside that would show any sign of back fat, flobba dobba arms, stretch marks on hips or even the slightest chance of what was formerly known as a midriff, all whilst muttering obscenities about how the post baby body is all worth it.
3. Finishing every verbal request from dear husband with 'Pur, Pur, Pleeeeassse?' Then barking on about how good manners is a sign of consideration and care for others / need to set good example now that we have a child / blah blah blah. Thank you.
4. Celebrating Melbourne Cup Day at a BBQ with friends. Offered wine or beer. No thank you, soft drink for me please. Cries. But did you notice my manners? Impeccable.
5. Replacing perfume and make up in the handbag with hand sanitizer gel and baby wipes. In fact, replacing handbag entirely with an oversized, bloody ugly nappy bag full of every single piece of baby like crap you can think of. Then times that by ten and lug that around for fun.
6. From using Lucas' Papaw Ointment balm on my lips as a fabulous moisturiser to using Lucas' Papaw Ointment on everything that looks sore including nipples, lips and red bot bots. Including dear husband's....(sorry!).
7. Regularly using the words 'bot bots'. Apparently the word 'bottom' is just not cute enough.
8. Having a spare hour or two free inbetween feeds whilst dear husband looks after the little screamer and as such relishes the opportunity to spend every single moment.....in the stupidmarket. Runs wild down stupidmarket aisles, screaming 'I'm freee, I'm freee!'.
9. Squealing with disgust at the scheduling of a netball final at the hideous hour of 9.00pm. Because 9.00pm is when I start the housework, you know?

Now I'll be honest, I haven't really greeted my friends with a raspberry. However the temptation has certainly been there and given another champagne or two at this party, it would have been raspberries for everybody! And quite possibly on their bot bot...

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Ch 37: I wrote to the zoo to send me some....sanity.

Like many of us, when I was working full time, Sunday evening would arrive and with it, a serious case of the Sunday night blues. That sinking feeling of dragging your boring black leather heels through the concrete slabs that comprise the city. The Monday to Friday grind of time wasting meetings, office politics, managing up, managing down and moving briefs from one tray to another.

Now don't get me wrong, I do actually love my work. The sense of achievement, the relationship with my team mates, my portfolio of clients and the programs I manage.

It is the unavoidable incidentals such as the fast paced rat race, the hour long (on a good day) commute into the city and the small minority of challenging personalities that dampens the idea of rolling up on a Monday morning. And besides, weekends really are much more fun. I would so rather be on a long morning run than sitting idle on a freeway car park.

I am now ten months into a 13 month maternity leave arrangement from my workplace. The little master is nearing nine months old. He is growing and developing in leaps and bounds. On three solid meals a day plus milk feeds, he is sleeping all night, self feeding at lunch time, will take a bottle if I (heaven forbid) have a few hours away from him and is generally a very happy baby.

However, there's a slight issue. Upon starting my maternity leave, I relished in kissing the Sunday night blues away.

But they're back. Over the last few weeks they have started to rear their head again. In fact, today they crept in earlier once dear husband left for a Sunday afternoon golf game.

Like a toddler with my face pressed up against the window, I'm sure the neighbours could hear me wailing 'you're leaving me with him?! It's Sunday! But when will you be baaaackk?'*

It's not that I don't love the little master. I do, more than anything on this planet (sorry Buddy dog, you are a close second. Sorry dear husband, I guess that makes you a close third..?).

But it's official. I'm tired of looking after him 99 per cent of the time. I'm mentally fatigued, done with the nursery rhymes, the whining from new teeth pushing through those sore little gums, the repetitive mind numbing games and the busy yet mundane nature of feeding, settling, terribly bad singing, terribly bad dancing, bottom burps, banana vomits, banana and yoghurt vomits, face wiping and bum cleaning. Plus, if I have to read Dear Zoo one more time I think I'll end up in one.

Unlike my workplace, there are no pay rises for mothers at home, in line with CPI or workplace agreements. There are no formal performance reviews or opportunities for someone to sit down with you and tell you you're a superstar and that you're doing a marvellous job.**

Instead, many mothers at home, on a daily basis, grapple with the notion of being critiqued for our parenting styles, the size and shape of our baby, what they're eating, what they're not eating, are they crawling, are they walking, are they tap dancing yet..?

Although I have committed to seeing through my maternity leave arrangement, late last week I secured the little master a place in the most amazing child care facility for January 2013.

Whilst walking through the playground, the little master kicked his legs with excitement and I, holding back tears of relief, mentally wiped out the images of other centres we had toured through over recent weeks.

This was the Rolls Royce of centres. Amazeballs is an understatement. Plus it is less than a ten minute hop, step and wiggly jump from my work. And they have chickens. Real chickens...I know, I know.

I can't wait to send him there, to further develop those skills he has learnt at home and to flourish in a social, learning and nurturing environment. Did I mention the chickens?

As for me, bring on Monday mornings, my white crisp shirts, suit jackets, performance reviews, all day meetings, briefings, agendas, bits of paper.

Although it won't be easy and I can guarantee an array of tears from my behalf after dropping him off at childcare on day one, but I believe combining work and parenthood will make me a better mother and a better employee. I will value every moment I will share with the little master of a morning, night and on a weekend. I will work to live, not live to work and will very much look forward to reading Dear Zoo every single night. Over and over and over again.

* Dear husband did offer to cancel his golf game this afternoon out of respect for my sanity. However I refused his offer to stay at home, he too needs the time away to refresh himself..pity it takes five solid hours on a golf course to do so!

** Dear husband also does praise me every day and tells me I'm doing a great job. But as my husband, he has to do that...but I love him regardless. Thanks DH.

Oh, and I really do love Dear Zoo. That is all.

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Ch 34: There's more to life than footy? Really?

Earlier this year I was at the footy and was pleased to meet the new girlfriend of one of my mates. She doesn't follow the game but was keen to come along to see what all this AFL buzz was about.

I welcomed her to the world of our brown and gold existence, the Hawthorn Hawks, with a spare scarf I had at home. She grinned and wrapped it around her neck. Then I told her that she wasn't allowed to come along again unless she wears it...with pride. We laughed. She agreed. Ice broken. Another supporter recruited.

For those of you who know me, to say I am a die hard, passionate and at times slightly arrogant Hawthorn supporter, would be a sure bet right?

Ok, ok, I can see you nodding your heads profusely, including my dear husband who on many occasions has called himself the football widow in our family. I think he's right.

I love my Hawks, the game itself and the comradeship with my fellow Hawthorn supporting friends. Let's just not mention my love of the umpires though..

Over the years, and I mean around 25 years, there have been buckets of tears, child like tantrums, broken flags, random hugging of strangers, interstate trips, jumping over the fence after the 100^th goal is kicked (thanks Dunstall and Buddy), premierships won, far too much money spent, an overflowing swear jar, copious amounts of pies consumed and countless moments of elation and joy.

And that's just on a Saturday afternoon.

My mate's new girlfriend came along to another game during the year. The Hawks were a few goals down at half time and were not playing well. Our tight-knit group were anxious and frustrated. This was clearly visible to our newest recruit so at the half time break she turned to me and the following conversation occurred:

New scarf wearing recruit: I've only ever been when the Hawks have won.

AP: Ah ha, sighs, squeezes tomato sauce over beef pie.

New scarf wearing recruit: He doesn't handle it well when they're losing does he?

AP: Nup (thinking neither do I, love!). Blows on gravy beefy pie goodness to cool it down.

New scarf wearing recruit: I'm going to have a talk to him about getting some perspective.

AP: Spits gravy beef pie goodness onto the ground. Ohhh ok. Umm, hang on, might want to wait until after the game. In fact maybe tomorrow morning. Yes?

New scarf wearing recruit: Laughs. Oh yes, ha ha. Alright then. Sure.

AP: Frantically trying to figure out how to give her friend the heads up about an impending 'there's more to life than football' lecture from girlfriend. Abandons heads up plan, too hard and besides, she's not my girlfriend and I have a pie to eat. Continues devouring remaining pie.

Fast forward three months and the mighty Hawks have reached that last Saturday in September.

Grand final day 2012 and we were in it!

I was anxious, not overly confident but very hopeful. The lead up to the day was enormous. Nervous butterflies all week, wide awake each morning at 6am too preoccupied and excited to sleep.

The last time Hawthorn lost a Grand Final was in 1987. I was six years old. We won in 1988, 1989, 1991 and 2008.

Therefore, I had never really experienced the pain of losing a flag.

Saturday 29 September 2012. The Sydney Swans defeated Hawthorn by ten points to claim the 2012 Premiership.

I was numb. Heart broken. Disappointed. Lost.

I got out of the MCG as fast as I could. In a sea of brown and gold scarves my wobbling chin and I said goodbye to my football mates and jumped on a train home.

Home to see my little boy. My happy and beautiful bundle of chubby goodness. Oh and dear husband too. From the time they dropped me off at the footy to when I got home was eight hours. The longest I had been apart from the little master since his birth eight months ago.

He grinned his little face off at me and my heart melt. I had missed him. Very much.

In the background, my dear husband could be heard whispering on the phone: 'She's ok, I think. Hasn't said much. No, the world hasn't fallen in..'

He was right. And so was my friend's new girl.

It's only taken a quarter of a century but I, for a moment, managed to 'get some perspective'.

Rather than dwelling on the Grand Final defeat, I gave thanks to having such a fulfilling hobby as part of my life that I can share with my little master. Or should I say, little hawk..

I will teach him to be a good sport, a loyal supporter who stands by his team in good times and bad, and he will learn to persevere and work hard to achieve his goals. He will be kind to the umpires and I will push him over the fence when the next Hawthorn forward kicks 100 goals. In fact, we will leap over the fence together. Some things never change.

 

 

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Ch 26: For he's a jolly good fello..

Happy birthday dear husband, your first as a father!
P.S - sorry about the ugg boots...

 

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Twenty

Asleep – it's afternoon nap time.

You know your life is starting to get a little bit more back to normal when you can spend your Friday night with some dear friends who I missed so much whilst 'up the duff' – a couple of glasses of bubbly and our cherished softies – brie and crumbly cheddar.

Not to mention gourmet pizza, fabulous company and the footy on the TV.

Burp.

Bliss.

Plus it was date night for Buddy and his curly haired girlfriend, Cookie. Aren't they cute.

Asleep.

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Nineteen

Asleep on his side. First sleep for the day.

Well just as one friend exits the door (so long chocolate egg), another one enters.

Hello Mr Potato! Our new BFF.

Thanks to said new friend, this morning I have an extra spring in my step. Actually, make that about 80 new springs.

It has taken six months, one week and two days.

27 weeks and two days.

191 days to be exact.

191 nights of getting up from a range of six times to once a night. For feeding, settling, re-settling, comforting, managing vomit burps and nappy changes.

Last night was the first night that the little master didn't need me from when he went down at 7.00pm through to 6.30am.

Although I did wake at 3am and raced in to check that he was ok, his little snores assured me he was well and truly alright.

Who do we have to thank for this great feat? Aside from time, consistent routines and self settling techniques with much persistence, I think perhaps our new little starchy mate may have come through with the goods.

Mr Potato – we salute you.

Thank you for staying in the little masters tummy to keep him warm and cosy at night.

We hope you're not a one hit wonder and will visit us again night after night.

With time we may even introduce you to a few new mates too – Mr Carrot and Mr Pumpkin.

Or should we say Miss Pumpkin..yes?

Asleep. Still.

In the meantime, potaties for everybody!

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Sixteen

Awake – rubbing his eyes...getting there.

I can see him now thanks to my $80 video 'Considerate Baby Monitor'. Yep, I lashed out on an overseas purchase to avoid going in and checking on whether the little master is out or not.

The days of peering through the door at the risk of revving up the little screamer even more, are now over.  

It is a pretty crappy black and white screen, in the shape of a green apple (an apple?? why an apple?! I know..I know), but alas it has changed my world for the good, even if I do feel like a spy.


Anyway, oh look, he's asleep! In record time.

Asleep at 3.32pm and it is a lovely 22 degrees Celsius in his room, just in case you were interested. Thank you green apple.

Whilst munching on a pink lady apple earlier today I was reflecting on the last few, actually no, six (yes I said six!) months of our lives, since the little master arrived.

The first month to six weeks..one word – horrendous. Growth spurts, unhappy Buddy dog.

Month two – a bit better, started to turn a few corners, still very sleep deprived but managing.

Month three and four – better again, lots of smiles but then sleep goes out the window at four months. Tough but good.

Month five – lots of daily joys, sleeping well, smiles, laughs, play time, books, bright sparkly eyes. Happy Buddy dog.

As we near the milestone six month mark, I recall in those tough early days, through salty tears streaming down my cheeks, wishing he was six months old so I could get through all this crap.

Because by six months we've all got our act together, right?

*cough!*

Excuse me.

Sort of..well not really. We're just sleeping much more and sobbing much less. But we have travelled to the moon and back in terms of milestones. Especially this week.

The last few days have been occupied by grown up baby milestones such as – childcare centre tours, preparation of solid food which he is about to start munching on, full transition out of his swaddle and into his sleeping bag and just today we removed the capsule from the car and installed a big boy car seat – forward facing. Gasp!

Before you know it he will be walking five or six steps ahead of me down the street as he will be too embarrassed to be seen with his mother (*tear*).

Sorry, enough of that.

For those who have previously read about the transition from his swaddle to a sleeping bag, I'm very proud to announce great success during his day time sleeps. From tomorrow night the little master will be in his beautiful sleeping bag for all night sleeps too. Mission complete!

It's taken three and a half weeks of persistence and patience, tears and tantrums. And that's just from me.

Thank you to our model, 'Bear' (original name I know, took me ages to come up with it..) for showcasing our transition plan. Aren't you cute.

Now to those salty tears streaming down my face, wishing, begging for the six month mark to roll on by – we made it.

And I think we've done pretty well.

Asleep. Still.

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Twelve

Awake and having a decent whinge about it too.

Something amazing happened yesterday. Very unexpected but life changing.

Silence.

I fell in love. Head over heels. Absolute bonkas, you know the story right?

I found someone so wonderful, fabulous looking, soft and gentle yet firm and supportive.

A perfect match.

The perfect pillow.

And at 65% off RRP, I was thrilled to have snapped up two of them!

Let me introduce you to my new squeeze – the foam memory pillow.

For someone who has suffered neck pain as a result of, well actually I'm not sure what but I can guarantee tired, old feather pillows may have something to do with it. Perhaps some poor posture issues. Maybe spending too much time with my head down squinting at my smartphone. Who knows really.

I have over the past week, spent much of the night banging my fists on the pillow, tossing it over and over again, slamming my head down mumbling obsenitites grovel grovel..

Enough was enough so I hit the shops.

The result - the most refreshing night sleep in over five months. Not to mention the somersaults down the hallway. Don't worry my neck was fine..

Asleep, thumb in mouth, too cute.

With the little master down by 7.00pm, I followed at 9.30pm.

Woke at...wait for it – 4.30am for his first feed (two mornings in a row thank you very much!).

Then back down until 7.30am.

For the first time in over five months, I really didn't need that caffeine hit first thing in the morning to get me up and about. Amazing.

I still whipped up a warm brew regardless and whilst quietly sipping the coffee bean goodness, I proudly proclaimed to my dear husband that 'I think I love my new pillow more than you. In fact I'm sure of it.'

His gorgeous reply: 'That's quite alright AP.'

Happy wife, happy life right? Indeed.

Asleep. Still.

Yaaawn..is it my bedtime yet? I miss my new squeeze..

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Eight

Asleep with hardly a murmur.

One of the challenges of being a first time mother to a four month old is to get out and about and forge new relationships with other local new mums.

I live in a booming family orientated suburb which is seriously at times pram central. Now when I say pram central I truly mean it. My inner petrol head has on many occasions zoomed in and out of pram traffic so well it would make Michael Schumacher shiver in his Ferrari. Or should that be Mercedes now? Benetton? No, that was so 1991...

Anyway, if he is ever on my side of town he may as well just pack on up and go home. Nobody beats my Mountain Buggy.

It started several months ago with facilitated mothers group sessions. Or should I say 'first time parents group' because Dad's stay at home too! Yes, that's much more inclusive.

The nature of these sessions is probably another blog for another day. They were interesting to say the least but on a positive note, it has allowed me to make one very good new friend.

With the formal sessions now completed, our group of new parents now meet once or twice weekly at the local library for a play group session titled 'Baby Time'.

My dear husband has referred to it as a cult..which is perhaps a little harsh. Cults can be misunderstood after all.

Due to popularity, these Baby Time sessions aren't advertised, so perhaps 'Secret Society' is more appropriate.

I'll cut to the chase. Our Secret Society is a 25 minute song and rhyme session hosted by an eccentric orange haired women (our leader), with musical instruments hanging off her wrists, arms, legs, nose – oh sorry that would be a piercing. Plus there's a talking frog.

Hang on, let me repeat that. There's a talking frog. *gasp*

Mothers (Secret Society members) from around our over-bred suburb gather and literally overtake what was a peaceful sanctuary for the local book worm or VCE student cramming for mid year exams. Sorry about that.

The format is simple – pop your baby on the floor (own blanket and burp cloth essential), follow the leaders guide, throw baby up in the air when prompted (don't forget to catch them), clean the projectile vomit off wherever it should land (whoops, sorry, they weren't new shoes were they?), laugh, sing, tickle and sarcastically ask dear friend "is this sh*t over yet?" through smiling gritted teeth.

Then manage the overtired cries upon conclusion and rock the little master off to sleep to the sounds of the talking frog muttering in the background.

On the upside, the kids love it. Vomit and all. It's great for their development and a fun way for them to begin socialising with others. And what better way to introduce yourself to a potential new friend with this opening line – "Oh hi there, I'm AP. Let me clean that spew off your back. Come here often?"

Plus we all want to be members of a Secret Society, don't we? Especially one with a talking frog.

Asleep. Still. Bliss.

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Seven

Reflections on the previous night.

6.45pm
Asleep

4.00am
Awake, change, feed, asleep, mother doing happy dance in hallway

7.00am
Awake, smiling, change, play, feed, mother so energised she is ready to run a marathon.

On second thoughts, perhaps another happy dance will do the trick.

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One

So I started to write. I had to, my mind was slowly turning into a vegetable mush, much like what I will be soon feeding to my four and half month old bundle of testosterone joy.


Asleep.


Finally, he has dropped off. Overtired. My fault. Put him down ten minutes too late. I've had to let him cry it out and my heart hurts for doing so.

This is what my life is like now – timing my whole existence around sleep cycles and feeding, debating whether the crying pain is wind, crankiness, hunger or boredom. Constantly battling with various emotions and second guessing whether I'm doing the 'right' thing.

Why does it feel like I am the only one with a baby who cries when tired? Sounds silly doesn't it? Yet I am amazed as to how many other babies I have met who just drop off without a murmur. I wouldn't change him. He has character. He is active. A challenge but blessed with an intoxicating personality, regularly showcasing an array of smiles. He is beautiful.

Me, well I'm tired, still. It's been 18 weeks. We have a good night and I'm still tired. I think I'll be tired forever. I worry I've lost the ability to write well and wonder how I will cope back in the workplace. I still have time up my sleeve so I need to write, to vent, to share and to laugh upon reflection.

So here I am, writing during his sleeping times. The sound of the keyboard, the backspace the double space. I'm back. But where to start? What would be interesting? What would be worthwhile?

Please please not another blog or piece about the joys of parenting (insert ray of sunshine here). Not that there's anything wrong with that...it can just give the wrong impression.

New parents gloat about how much of a good time they are having. How their angel doesn't cry when she got her needles (bulldust..really how many eight week old babies don't cry when they have two big needles shoved into their miniature legs?). How they are sleeping for hours and hours of a night time, how feeding is blissful and it came with such ease and how they would do it all again tomorrow. Never any problems. Never.

They haven't cried more tears in four months than in the past 30 years.

Or have they?

Do they actually go home, undress out of their 'good' clothes depicting an image of happiness and confidence?

Do they throw on their sloppy joes and slippers, wipe their makeup off and collapse on the couch for another session of feeding, screaming, settling, playing and supervising?


Do they?

If they're lucky, they might catch a beautiful smile that in a split second can relay enough positive energy to help you forget any negative connotation that comes with being a sleep deprived new parent.

Awake.

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