Ch 42: Sorry seems to be the hardest word..

4 January 2014.

AP: Knock knock (Wipes sweat from forehead).

My once devoted readers: Opens door, rolls eyes.

AP:  Wait! Hi. How are you?

Readers: Why hello there, it’s been a while. (Looks AP up and down).

AP: Blushes. You look good.

Readers: Thanks. So do you. (Turns nose up in the air, pretends not to be interested).

AP: Starts to quietly sob. Ummm, I just, ummm…

Readers: UMM WHAT? WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN THE LAST YEAR!

AP: Drops to knees, tears streaming down face. I’m SORRY, I’m SO SORRY!

Readers: I thought we had something?!

AP: We do, we do! It just happened..

Readers: What?? What could have possibly 'just happened' in 2013?!

AP: Life. Life kind of got in the way. Work, kidlet, house stuff. I know it’s not an excuse. I thought about you every day, I promise. Then it just got too hard. And I didn’t know where to begin again. Have I lost everything?

Readers: Is there someone else? Third party perhaps?

AP: No! My gawd. 

Readers: DON'T LIE TO MEEEEE!

AP: Well no not really. I mean Instagram and I kind of have a thing going, it’s really fun and you can join too, if that’s not too weird? But I miss you.

Readers: Instagram? Right. Pictures, with little words. Hashtags. Doesn't really replace your Confessions of a Tired Mother words does it?

AP: I’m going to keep writing too, I promise. And I want you with me? Will you come back? Please? (miss youuuuu….).

Readers: Scratches forehead. Taps foot. Sighs. Oh alright then. Come on in, I’ll pop the kettle on while you get started.

AP: Squeals. Goober cheesey grin on face. Skips into Microsoft Word and starts typing away.

Well there it is folks. My attempt at an apology for being so absent last year.

As you can see, 2013 sort of disappeared before my eyes and my writing went with it.

Yet I’m back and so excited as I missed writing terribly.

To give you a quick run down, in January 2013 I went back to work (paid work that is) four days per week, we sold our house (that took five long long months), moved closer to the city, husband started a new job, we took copious amounts of sick and carers leave, the little master has embraced school (childcare but we call it school) wholeheartedly and has grown out of his baby fat rolls (awwww). 

The dog is still furry, we have just bought a new house and are due to move (again!) in mid January. We’ve had lots of wonderful times but plenty of not as wonderful moments. I lost myself every now and then but would soon find the rainbow again.

So the last time we met, the little master was nearing one and looked like this:

Now, almost two, he looks a little somethin’ like this:

Master B is a handsome little man, full of energy and personality.

You can view our journey, here on Instagram!

So please join me in 2014, here on our COATM blog, on twitter and insta.

Oh and one more thing….I’m still fricken tired! But more on that later.

Till next time..soon though. Not in 2015, I promise.

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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 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 33: Silent Sunday

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Ch 31: Love a duck!

This morning as dear husband was leaving for work, he posed something quite frightening to me.

DH: What are you going to write about today AP?

AP: Ohh I don't know, I got nothing. Bloggers block. Sigh.

DH: Why don't you write about your mother?

AP: Spits coffee all over buddy dog. WHAAAT? WHYYY? My gawd..nooooo.

DH: Why not? Just write about what it's been like raising a baby without your mother?

AP: Toweling down buddy apologising profusely with liver treats in hand, scratching head, rubbing face.

DH: Have a good day AP! Love you. Closes door.

AP: Whatevs. Sighs again.

So he put the idea in my head and now of course I can't get it out. Pondering over it all morning (it is now 11.30am) I have decided to cave. Fine. I'll write about it. Here it is. But it will be brief 'ish'.

I'm the youngest of five and my mother left the family six months after I was 18 and moved away to go to uni. She stayed until the baby had grown up and left the coop.

That was just over 13 years ago. Oh darn it, now you know how old I am. Boo hiss.

The decision to cut ties with us was hers. We will never really understand why. There have been several attempts to make contact by some of us, all met with a closed door.

I won't go into any more details, it is what it is.

Over the last 13 years she has missed three of her daughters weddings plus the arrival of four grandchildren. The latest one being my little master in January 2012.

I don't discuss this situation very much and only those close to me know the details. The reason why I don't openly make it known is that unless people know me really well, I feel as though they just won't understand and as such would judge me in being the worst daughter in the world. Plus unless they have been in my shoes how could they possibly comprehend what this has been like.

So keeping this close to my chest has made for some awkward moments during general conversations over the years, especially when I was pregnant.

Work colleague: Oh your mother must be so excited that her daughter is having a baby!

AP: Yes, actually the whole family is excited, thanks. Oh look, a bird just flew into the window. How 'bout that!

Work colleague: Will your mother come up and stay for a few days once the baby arrives?

AP: Oh err..no..no she won't. Actually she would drive me mad! Laugh laugh, rant rant.

Work colleague: Oh I know, my mother drives me mad too! Haa haa.

AP: Quietly exits the lunch room, does a few commando rolls under the desks to escape.

Friend of friend: I just don't know what I'd do without my mother, we are so so close, you know?

AP: hmm yes, indeed, how lovely. Need a top up? I'm heading to the bar. Bolt.

That's how it is. Not discussing it time and time again relieves me from the painful conversation and possible judgement from others. And besides, it can be too draining especially when I just want to get on with my work day or be out having a good time.

On the upside, I am an expert in changing conversations at the drop of a hat not to mention my commando rolls.

So how have I managed over the last seven months without that one person that many new mothers rely on so much.

You may have noticed the photo of the mother duck with her baby ducklings above. I took this photo this morning whilst walking to the shops. How gorgeous.

One mother duck with her offspring. Watching their every move and gently guiding them along the way.

The next photo below shows the same mother duck with her brood but surrounding her are other ducks. They may be her mate, friends or ducks she has bumped into along the way.

It doesn't matter where they came from. What matters is that she is surrounded by others who too are keeping eye on her and her duckings. They don't need to be related but regardless, they are her family.

Starting to get my drift? Joining those dots are we?

I am so fortunate to be surrounded by my husband, father, siblings, in-laws, friends, other mothers and past work colleagues. Especially my sister, who at times has been my big sister, best friend, pediatric nurse, chief boob squeezer, tear wiper, chef, counselor and mother all in the one day. Actually make that one hour..

I am so lucky. We are so lucky.

Who knows what the future will bring with regards to being in touch with my own mother. I think about it every day. Time will tell.

In the meantime I will carry on with my own brood and happy little master who his adoring fans just love to pieces.

That is all. Rant over, but now suddenly I feel so guilty for devouring that red duck curry on Saturday night...quack.

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Ch 29: And then I farted in the gym. Seriously.

Asleep – in bed for the night. Another day over.

Today I read an excellent article relating to how mothers, without realisation, scare the daylights out of their girlfriends by showcasing the array of low lights and frustrations of raising children.

The girlfriends are either mothers to be or they hope to be in the future. These friends have been caught up in what was described as 'mum bonding' sessions over coffee.

Whilst reading the article I found myself nodding, rolling my eyes and rubbing my face like I always do when I'm a tad stressed or anxious.

The reason? It flooded back memories from when the little master was cooking away in my oven – my first child, my first pregnancy, my first baby bump.

Rightly so, I had no idea what the future was to hold.

From the heavy belly stages of trimester three which included burping uncontrollably in work meetings, passing wind with any form of movement at the gym, through to the labour, bringing the little master home and not to mention grappling with breastfeeding and growth spurts.

It was my journey. Our journey. And we're still on it.

However as time has passed, I have grown..well to be honest, kind of pissed off at people, many of whom are mothers, who relayed the following sentiments to me, all whilst with a growing baby belly:

'Oh labour isn't painful at all!'
Said in a sarcastic manner then laughs and rolls the eyes. Thanks I'll sleep better tonight.

'Better enjoy your sleep now before the baby arrives!'
Right so you can bank your sleep and use it later yes? Thanks, real helpful.

'Gee, you're not very big..?'
Oh shuddap. We're healthy, the baby is growing great and is perfectly fine. Oh did you notice that I'm 5'0' and my husband is 5'8'. What do you expect me to produce? An NBA player?!

'Then when pulling him out they had to dislocate his shoulder.'
That's my personal fave, I was eight months pregnant at the time and the woman was drunk. I cried all the way home.

But it doesn't stop once the baby arrives. The focus simply moves from the bump to your bundle of joy. All real examples again:

'How old is he? Four months? Gee he is big.'
Would you prefer I starved him? Actually he is average weight, not an ounce above or below. Wish I could say the same about you, love.

'Oh he's not sitting up yet?'
No he rolls and rolls and rolls. He'll get there and I'm not worried. Are you?

The list could go on, but you get my drift.

So this is a call out to all the mothers, expectant mothers and women who would one day like to be a mother:

You look great, blushing in fact. I hope you have been keeping well.

You're doing an amazing job.

Well done to you, Mum and Dad! Keep it up.

Your baby is just gorgeous, perfect in fact.

Cherish every day – the smiles, eye gazing, finger holds and giggles are amazing.

Oh, and if you unexpectedly let off a bottom burp, I will happily join you in blaming the dog.

That is all.

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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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Ch 25: Dear Winter - bugger off.

Dear Winter,

I'm pleased to advise that your time here is coming to an end. 

You have performed well in 2012 – short days, bitterly cold nights, frosty car windows, adequate rain not to mention a storm or ten. I heard it was a good ski season too..but I wouldn't know. The thought of frolicking around in the alps makes me want to kick a snowman in the head. Too much? Sorry.

However, we caught a glimpse of Spring today and to be honest, she's looking pretty good. The little master and I welcome the thought of not being so housebound for days on end and Buddy dog can't wait to lose his winter locks not to mention those comfort food kilos.

Plus, these two kids are getting sick of the sight of each other. Poor Bud copped a kick in the head today from the little master...out of pure boredom. Ouchy.

So Winter, enough is enough. We're done for another year. So pack up your thermometer and be on your way. You know where the exit is.

Oh and don't let the door hit your frosty bum on the way out.

Kind regards

AP

Dear Spring,

Welcome! Oh how we have missed you!

Love

AP xoxo

 

 

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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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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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Two

Asleep.

It's night time, which means a good long sleep for him and a glass of wine for me. Joy. Always conscious of the beautiful dark and warm red vino leaving my system before his overnight feed usually results in a small glass guzzled with a hearty meal of carbohydrates. However if I overindulge with two glasses I will wake up gingerly accompanied by a headache. How embarrassing, such a lightweight now. Contrary to my past.

Ah yes, my past. Fun. Carefree. Social. Wasted? Don't think so. Perhaps self indulgent to an extent. If I wanted to do something, little would stop me. Fortunately I have an amazing husband who has only ever been supportive of my personal interests and ambitions. Some costing us a few dollars along the way (think last minute interstate trips for footy finals, Crawf's 300^th game in Tassie, cutting back work hours to go back to study..oh the list goes on and on).

But we had the means to do it. I worked hard, very hard and played hard too. I rewarded myself with experiences, not clothes or materialistic goods. With memories that will stay with me forever.

Memories. Friday nights at the local. Beer with hot chips. Salt and vinegar chips as an entree. Chicken parmas. More beer. The occasional cheeky dart. Footy on the telly. John behind the bar. Helping the elderly man from his bar stool to the taxi week in week out. Red wine. Mates. Laughter. Dusty hangovers.

 

Present. Friday nights in bed at 9pm. Bum cream. Nursing pads. Sophie the Giraffe teething toy. Baby time sessions at the library. Sleep cycles. Nursery rhymes. Burping. Coffee dates with new mums. Pram in the car. Pram out of the car. Smiles. Cries. Sleep deprivation. Pram friendly cafes. Feet tickles. Poo explosions. Apologising for cancelling..again. Bad hair. Jealous dog.

This is it, for now. Perhaps I wasn't ready to let go of my former self. I miss my friends, my workmates, my footy crew, my reliability and belonging where I was comfortable. Although they haven't disintegrated , things have changed. Getting out and about can be hard. At times it's a huge effort that not many appreciate or could understand. It can be isolating and confronting when you realise who your true friends are.

On the upside I have a beautiful and healthy little fella who is reliant on me for the best start in life. What an overwhelming responsibility. New friends have emerged. Friends in similar situations, sharing the same experiences, the ups and the downs. The fun times and the bad times. We're in it together. Smile as we wipe the milk vomit off our pyjamas at 4am. Be thankful.

Welcome to the club. There's only one way in and no way out.

Asleep. Still.

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