Happy Birthday to Me

Today is my 35th birthday. 

I woke to the sound of the baby crying - nothing unusual there, but it was a bit after 6am: which is a lot better than 4.30am.  WIN.

I came downstairs to see the Bombshell and the Mop sitting at the table eating their breakfast.  They weren't even fighting. Much. WIN

'Good morning, Mummy,' the Bombshell said. 'Happy Birthday.'

'Party,' agreed the Mop.

I gave them both kisses then walked over to where my husband was spooning cake batter into ten thousand mini cupcake cases. 'Happy Birthday,' he said.  'Presents!' he said gesturing with a spoon. Presents. WIN

I grabbed the baby and settled down on the couch to feed her.  The Bombshell collected my presents and stood in front of me unwrapping them for me. Two beautiful rings, amethyst and amber, and some measuring cups that stack together like Matryoshka dolls. WIN.

The Bombshell showed me a picture she had drawn of the family.  Three little girls all with striking blue eyes.  Mum, with brown eyes.  'I'm sorry that none of us have brown eyes, so that your brown eyes wouldn't be so lonely,' she told me.

My husband took the Mop off to daycare, with promises of being home early to take me out to dinner. WIN.

The Bombshell then took me solemnly by the hand to her bedroom.  She showed me her bed which she had made with extra special effort.  'I did it extra good because it's your birthday, Mum,' she told me.

And then she made my bed.  WIN (sort of).

This is actually the 'after' picture

The baby went down for her morning nap with no screaming or yelling or rogue poos. WIN.

The Bombshell offered to decorate my cupcakes for me. She even swept up all the 100s and 1000s that she dropped on the ground. WIN.

All morning my phone has been beeping with messages from friends and family. Birthday wishes on Facebook, on my blog from readers, cards in the mail. A friend took me for breakfast. I love breakfast. WIN.

When we left for school, my new skirt blew in the wind and tore along our rough stone wall. I looked at it sadly.

The Bombshell took my hand, and said 'I think you would be a lot more sad if you lost one of us three kids.'

Wow, talk about perspective.  From a FIVE year old.


Happy Wednesday everyone. I hope you all get some wins.

35 Shades of Grey (It's my birthday)

What do women talk about when left alone for a couple of hours, with free-flowing champagne and no kids.

Well... porn naturally.

Sunday marked the first day of my birthday week celebrations.  Tomorrow I turn 35, or as my friend once called it: 'the Wednesday of my thirties'.

So, I gathered with some old friends at a certain hotel for high tea, which I had chosen for two reasons. The first, was that they provided what less swanky establishments would call 'all-you-can-eat'.  The second was the 'free flowing champagne'.

Free flowing if you hunt down the single waiter and bribe him with a twenty perhaps.

Six women. Champagne.

First we talked about our kids. 

Then we talked about our husbands.

Then we talked about porn.

The segue from husbands to porn wasn't quite as raunchy as our other halves might like to think.  We were discussing whose hubby had given them a lift, and those who were forced to drive themselves.

One friend had arrived early, having been dropped off by her husband and three kids.  She ordered a G&T from the bar and settled in with her book to wait for the rest of us. It just so happened that the book was 50 Shades of Grey.

Nice work.

Of the six of us, all bar one owned or had read the books. One had - rather optimistically - been given the books by her husband as a Mothers Day present.

I own all three copies, but have yet to start reading. You would have to live under a rock though, not to know what they're about.  Even my husband asked me rather cryptically whether I had heard about 'those Grey books?'

What, the ones I ordered online and had shipped in the postal equivalent of a brown paper bag? Sure.

'They'll frustrate you, Shan,' a friend said without a hint of irony. 'The sex might be ok, but the writing will frustrate you,' she clarified. 

'Maybe you should write some porn,' another suggested. What a sterling idea, I thought.

'I took the books on holiday recently, and volunteered every day to take the kids back to our room for their nap, so I could read them,' a third friend admitted.

When asked whether her husband benefited from her lunchtime literary learnings, she shrugged.

'Not really, I  just wanted to read about it. It doesn't mean I wanted to do it.'

The waiter found us a lot more interesting when he realised we were talking about sex and porn: we certainly were offered a lot more champagne and finger sandwiches anyway.

But as women are apt to do, we overstayed our welcome and we were politely asked to leave.  We made our way to our various cars, or called husbands to collect us.

Except my friend: she ordered another glass of wine, and settled down in the foyer with 50 Shades of Grey.

I hope the waiter didn't take it as some sort of invitation.

Oh What A Feeling

My mobile phone was ringing.

I glanced at the number - a local one, I didn't recognise it.

'What the hell,' I thought.  'It could be someone calling with a book deal.'

'Good morning, Shannon,' the voice said. 'This is Dave from Subaru calling.  Do you recall buying a Forester from us in 2010.'

Uh yes, I recall spending tens of thousands of dollars.  I recall kidnapping the sales guy and driving him all the way to my home, and then making him wait while my husband and I tried to fit car seats in the back.

I recall making him follow us back to the showroom in my husbands car, while my (then) three year old sat in the backseat offering her opinion about the new car. I recall her saying it wasn't as cool as her friend's ginormous, 4WD with built-in DVD players in the head rests.

I recall sitting for an hour with a newborn in the sales office as they tried to sell me insurance, and paint protection, and fabric protection and other things all useless against the onslaught of small children.

'Yes,' I said politely. 'I recall.'

'We have realised that we do not have an email address for you, and we would like to send you information regarding your warranty, servicing and specials.  Do you consent?'

It took you two and half years to realise this?

'Uh, listen, my inbox is already full of junk... I mean, I get a lot of emails, how often would I be receiving stuff from you?'

'Oh hardly ever. Weekly, no monthly. Not often, I promise.'

You promise? Who is this? The work experience kid?

'I'm also calling to let you know that we are having a big sale at the moment of our floor stock.  We are actually losing money on our wholesale prices.'

Yes, and I am a size 8.

'Well, actually we might be looking for a seven seater,' I told him. 'Can you tell me the arrangement of anchor points in your models and how the backseat is accessed?'

'Well, um I would need to look at the brochure...' he said.

'You go do that,' I told him cheerily, beginning to enjoy myself.

'Also, while you are there, can you tell me how much space there is between the back row of seats and the back of the car? What safety features are there for small kids sitting in the boot?'

There were muffled noises as he madly flicked pages of his brochure.

'Well, umm, you'd have to come and have a look...'

I nattered on to him about my kids and the difficulties of fitting in three car seats, and the fact that I would love to separate them so they stopped poking each other in the face, but before I even got to my joke about wanting a London taxi cab (with the screen between the front and back seats) he interrupted me.

'Well, I have to go, thankyou for your time. Goodbye.'

And he hung up.

He didn't even get my email address.

Sucker.

The Write Stuff

A friend I haven't seen in a while asked me today how my writing was going.

And it made me stop and think.

On the one hand, I blog regularly... well weekly anyway.  I have some faithful followers who read my blog and tolerate my prattle on Facebook. My post The Brutal Truth About the Third Child, still garners hundreds of hits each day, after it went viral. I even found it being repinned on Pinterest the other day. Awesome, no?

I also write for Weekend Notes.  I am now ranked Number 2 (in Perth) and am finally making enough money to justify the time I spend eating my way around Perth.  I am mentoring a number of cadets as part of the writing program at WN, and even if I am not changing anyone's life, I can at least say I am part of a writing community.

Recently I got to see the proof of my first soon-to-be-published article.  In an actual magazine. Made out of paper! It is true that the subject matter of the article may not be my true love - not to suggest to dentists everywhere that surgery design doesn't float someones boat - but my real desire is to write about women's health, pregnancy, children, loss, fear, pride and the wealth of emotions and experiences that come with being a parent.

So while these little successes push me forward I can feel the yawning hole of 'not quites' and 'no thanks' pulling me back.

Even though I am technically having a 'year off' due to the arrival of Baldy Baby (maternity leave from doing nothing?) this year I submitted two articles to different magazines, and while the initial response seemed positive, their enthusiasm has dimmed, and I have to accept the fact that they probably don't want my stories. 

One article, very close to my heart, I worked on over a matter of months. It was the culmination of a Feature Writing course at uni. It contained the stories and words of some incredible people suffering the worst type of loss, and when I was told by the editor to cut the story down, first by a few hundred words, then by a thousand, I was afraid that the essence of the story would be lost.  I was told that there were 'too many quotes'. How do you edit the words of parents who have lost a child without robbing them of their chance to tell their story?

Yet, people don't become editors of national magazines without knowing how a story should be written, so I have to not only accept her criticism, but learn from it too.

I have so much to learn, yet it would seem that I cannot learn these things at uni, because that very same article earned me a Distinction and the misguided notion that it would be acceptable for publication. I felt a bit silly when the editor told me via email that the story 'read a bit like a university essay'... umm yes, that's because it was.

I read the blogs of amazing writers like Kerri Sackville and Allison Tait. I pour over them looking for answers, trying to figure out the path from blogger to writer, from amateur to professional, from fun to career.

So how do you get started?  Am I on the right path?  Do you need just one big break, or is it a series of small breaks.

Thanks For Nothing, Little Mermaid

It's 7.10am.

My husband is pursuing the Curly Mop.  She is shrieking horribly, dressed in a floor-length mermaid skirt. He is following her with two ordinary skirts.

'Which one?' he asks her, though the answer is quite obvious from where I sit.

'I want to wear my mermaid dress,' she screams, tears rolling down her face.

'You can't wear that to daycare,' he tells her. I can detect a certain throaty restraint in his voice.

I am sitting on the couch, in my pyjamas, feeding the baby.  I'm staying out of it. It's his own fault for letting her put it on in the first place.

Meanwhile, the Bombshell is stacking the drinks fridge with hubby's soft drink cans. I am both impressed and horrified that he has her working like this. She is singing as she does it, so she seems quite happy.  But the noise coming from the playroom proves irresistible, and she stands up to investigate.

'Don't get involved,' I tell her.

'I'm just having a look,' she replies.  Yeah, like rubbernecking at the scene of a car wreck.

He emerges from the room, the Mop wedged under his arm.  He is trying to pull the mermaid skirt off, she is trying to wrench it upwards.  I can't tell who is yelling louder.

The baby stopped feeding ages ago and is smiling up at me.  I push her back on so that I don't get asked to assist with the crazy toddler, who is holding onto the door frame with both hands so her daddy can't drag her out of the room.

She wiggles out of his arms and does a runner.  I hear her feet pounding on the floorboards, the old crystal cabinet rattling ominously. 'I waaaaant myyyyy dresssssss,' she yells as she barricades herself in her room.

He's mad now.  He still has to drop the Mop at daycare, and he will be late for work.

I weigh up on my options. I decide my morning would easier if they are both out of the house so I take pity on him.

I pop the baby in her swing and follow the Mop.  She thinks she is going to get a cuddle so she reaches her arms up towards me, whereby I quickly remove the mermaid skirt.

The betrayal upsets her even more, which is fair enough.

I didn't think it possible, but she somehow amps it up a notch. I am hissing at her to be quiet as I head out to the carport in my slippers and pyjamas and bundle her into the car.  I know the neighbours can hear.  It sounds like she is being murdered, and she knows the neighbours can hear and it sounds like she is being murdered.

I tighten her straps and bolt inside the house. The phrase 'rabid dog' springs to mind.

I don't envy him being in the car with her all the way to daycare... I don't envy the people at daycare when Grumpy and her dad show up.

I shut the door on them, and silence descends. How pleasant.

This must be what it is like for men to walk out of the house in the morning, and leave all the chaos behind.

Why This Was the Best Baby Shower. EVER.

About five and a half years ago, when I was pregnant with the Blonde Bombshell, I had a baby shower.  All my friends and family were invited and we did all the usual things, eat lots and play silly games, watch me unwrap presents, all laugh at funny photos of ourselves as babies.

But together, they also made me the best baby present ever.

I cannot remember how the idea came about, I probably pinched it from someone.  But when everyone arrived I told them to grab a piece of felt and a letter and to make me a panel for an alphabet quilt.

I started the ball rolling with R for Rabbit, as we had a pet bunny at the time. He had a very clever name: Bunny.

My brother-in-law sent strict instruction with my sister to make a M for Money panel.  He thought it important that our baby learn about this important commodity from day 1.

In my father's absence [most blokes weren't invited], Mum made a G for Golf panel.  Although dodgy hips and back had forced him to stop playing years earlier, it was still something we associated with him.

My Grandma directed the making of H is for Hat, as she belonged to a generation of ladies who wore such things.

My friend Jacinta, made J is for Jellybeans, a beautiful cascade of lollies spilling over the panel.

My friend Brad, the only male who warranted an invite, created a B is for Button panel.  Being a typical male, he didn't stop at mere decoration, but made it interactive and functional.

My friend Helen made Y is for Yacht. In recognition of the fact that the Rottnest swim due to be held that day, had been cancelled for the first time ever due to bad weather, she christened the yacht the HMAS Rotto.  A day in history, forever immortalised in felt.

My mother-in-law and sister-in-law created a number of panels including N is for Numbers.  Years later, the Bombshell would count the numbers, first to baby Mop and then later to Baldy Baby. She is a born teacher.

My Aunty Di, a keen quilter, naturally made Q is for Quilt, and laughingly pieced it in Fremantle Dockers colours knowing it would offend other members of the family.

26 extraordinary pictures, brought to life by family and friends.  Each square holds a memory and a story.  The Sub chose S is for Sunflower.  In her absence, Tania's mother created her a T is for Teddybear square.

That day also happened to be my mother's birthday, but instead of acknowledging this, she instead asked me to talk about my beautiful Grandma, and the fact that 59 years previously, she was in labour for the first time.  Life was very different then, a baby shower would have been unthinkable.  But it created an unbreakable bond between us, at least on my part, an unbroken line of women, birthing daughters.

At the end of the party, my mum took all the pieces away to sew together.

What she returned with was this:

This incredible quilt has now decorated the nursery for three babies.  And almost every night, for the past five years, I sit and look at it while I am feeding and comforting my children. I smile at the memories, laugh at the stories, and remain grateful for every person who contributed to it.

Best. Baby. Shower. Ever.


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Excuse the dodgy photography... I snuck in to take photos while the baby was asleep, so I was shooting in the dark.  Yeah, it probably could have waited until she was awake, but I seem to have inherited impatience from my daughters.