One From The Vaults

I started writing about the trials and tribulations of having a baby back when I was pregnant with the Blonde Bombshell.  Every now and then I need to read back through my stories, to remind myself that things were challenging with her, and her younger sister is not just a very cherubic looking devil sent to test me.


I have a sore throat today.  It's either because I have been slurped on by the germilicious two year old, or because I have been yelling too much today.  Regardless, the sore throat means my fingers don't want to work, and so I am going to recycle a story I wrote when the Bombshell was exactly the same age as the Mop is now. 


Mud.  Clear as.


* * *
28 months...


I have been trying to get the Bombshell to lose the dummy for weeks, months, probably a year actually.  Because she is so tall, and her hair is so long, she looks like a 6 year old with a dummy hanging out of her mouth, a really bad look.  So I have been asking, pleading, begging for her to throw it away.  Naturally, that just made her want it even more. 

First I tried good old fashioned bribery. ‘Put the dummy back in your cot and you can have a biscuit’.  So off she’d trot, put the dummy in her cot and return for her biscuit.  As soon as she had finished the cookie, she’d trot back to her room, pick up the dummy and stick it back in her gob, with a look that said ‘I DID what you asked, now what are you going to do about it’.

So then I resorted to just being plain mean.  I started chopping off thin strips of the rubber end of her dummy (I read about this in a parenting magazine, so it is socially sanctioned meanness).  Every few days I would take a few millimetres off, so eventually it resembled a… well it resembled half a dummy.  She would still ask for it, and thrown a tantrum if she lost it, but she couldn’t have possibly enjoyed it, as it had no ‘suck’ left in it, and was more like a small rubber bowl filled with spit.

After a couple weeks of this, and more than a few looks from the girls at Childcare who obviously didn’t relish the idea of having to handle such a disgusting object, I was beginning to think that the Bombshell would be married with this foul object still dangling from her lips. 

And then, one Wednesday morning a couple of weeks ago – she threw it in the bin.  Just like that.  I’d like to say that was the end of the story, but it couldn’t be that simple.  It set off a chain of events, because approximately 6 hours after she had thrown it away, it was naptime and she wanted her dummy.

‘No, you threw it in the bin remember?  No more dummy’, I told her in my proudest voice.

‘Want my dummy!!’, she cried.

‘No, you put it in the bin and now the garbage man has taken it away.  And mummy is so proud of you.  What a big girl!’.

‘I.  WANT.  MY.  DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMY’, she screamed, and literally threw herself over the bars of the cot so she could go presumably, to find the garbage man and kill him to reclaim her property.

One hand, one bounce.  I caught her about an inch off the ground (not sure if she had actually hit it and rebounded) by the leg and chest, and she was rabid.  I thought I had about as much chance of safely putting her back in the cot, as I did of winning the lottery, so I went and dragged one of the single mattresses out of storage and told her to sleep on that.  Later that afternoon, I assembled her first-ever ‘big girl bed’.  So, in the space of 24 hours we lost the dummy and graduated to a big girl bed.

The problem with ‘big girl beds’ (and apart from bragging rights, there are no good things associated with big beds) is that

a)      she can get out of it

b)      there is heaps of room for 10,000 toys and 10,000 books

c)       the sheets and blankets are 4 times as big, which means more washing, and finding all sorts of gross things in the blankets

d)      she can get out of it

e)      she can hide underneath it

f)       it looks like a trampoline to a two year old

g)      it takes up twice as much room which meant everything else had to be rearranged

h)      and did I mention, she can get out of it.

So naptime and bedtime have become yet another battleground.  There is no such thing as plonking her in the cot and walking away know that eventually she will get bored and go to sleep. 

She can climb out, or under, or jump, or reach all the stuff up on the wall, or pull all the sheets and blankets off and make a bed on the floor, or wedge almost empty milk bottles down the side (to be found 3 days later).  The only saving grace is the fact that our door handles are very high, so she cannot yet escape from her room.   

And when that happens…

The One About the Corn Poo [August 2009]

DISCLAIMER: do not read this if you are eating, or are currently childless but still think you want kids.

It would seem that I have almost reached that stage of motherhood that makes all the childless people take a deep breath and remind themselves how lucky they are; the stage where grandparents quite rightly disappear for a few months; the stage that is rarely written about in the parenting magazines accompanied by large pictorial spreads of chubby babies and smiling, relaxed mother-earth types.

That stage would be toilet training.  Unfettered bodily waste being allowed a glimpse of freedom, away from the constraints of those (glorious, sanity-saving) nappies.

I went to check on the two year old Blonde Bombshell the other day because she was making a ruckus rather than having her day time nap.  This was no ordinary Bombshell ruckus, which is typified by the thud of books flying across the room, the scrape of her lamp being dragged across her side table by its cord, or the wail of a lost dummy.  This was… different.

I opened the door a little, and the smell just hit me.  This was no ordinary smell.  It was an escaped, uncontained poo smell.  I turned the lights on and was greeted by the sight of my half naked toddler standing in her cot amid the stepped-on remains of a corn-fuelled poo.  She had removed her pants and tossed them out of the cot, and then removed her nappy.  She must have been sitting on her pillow when she did the giant poo, then stood up and stepped on it.  While investigating this interesting new sensation on the bottom of her feet, she would have sunk into the pillow, thereby squishing the poo up her ankles and shins, and pushing it through the fibres of her pillowcase into her pillow. 

She then seems to have walked to the other end of the cot, possibly to get away from the smell (as if you could get away from it!), dropping bits of remaining poo and undigested corn onto her books and stuffed rabbit, and leaving little poo footprints across her sheets and blanket.  Miraculously, the nappy was untouched.

Then she stood there and wailed.

I have to be honest, I did think briefly about closing the door and pretending I hadn’t seen it, but I figured a lifetime of counselling bills for a permanently scarred toddler could be rather costly.  So I picked up the big bits using the same inside-out bag technique that I have seen dog-owners employ.  Then I threw the baby in the shower, the pillow in the bin, and the rest in the washing machine. 

Hot cycle.  Heavy soiling.  A litre of bleach just to be safe - for the baby AND the washing.

The real indignity of this story is that the Bomb hadn’t even begun toilet training yet.  If we had embarked on that journey, then an episode of escapee poo would be fair enough, expected even.  But this was before we had even started.

So, it was with the smell still fresh in mind, that I went out and purchased a dozen pairs of the cutest little knickers and a potty seat.  I even invested $15 on five pairs of Thomas the Tank Engine knickers thinking it might motivate her NOT to poop on her favourite tank engine.

And this morning, I was all ready.  I was psyched to go.  This was it.  The potty was in the family room with its own little roll of toilet paper.  The heater was on.  The toilet training book complete with realistic ‘flush’ sound was in a motivating place next to the big toilet.  I had accepted the fact that I would be chasing poo and wiping wee off tiles and rugs and carpets.  I was ready to Start Toilet Training.

But the Bombshell wasn’t.

‘No knickers,’ she said. 

‘C’mon, they’re Thomas knickers,’ I coaxed.  ‘Big girls get to wear knickers.’

‘No big girl,’ was the response.  ‘Nappy.’

Can’t argue with that.

So, now when she goes down for her nap, it’s with a gaffa-taped nappy so she can’t get it off.  And I’ll wait a few weeks (or years) before I try again.  Meanwhile, one tiny pair of Thomas knickers adorns the arm of the couch as a reminder to the Bombshell, just in case she is ready sometime soon.

The One About Silent Joy [March 2008]

I think one of the nicest possible things about having a baby is beginning to see the world through fresh eyes again.  Mostly we just take the world for granted, but every now and then we learn to learn again; to see things as though for the first time; so we fully appreciate the experience.  Do you remember the first time you tried avocado – the colour (unusual for a food), the texture (unusual for something you willingly put in your mouth).  Do you remember seeing your first rainbow; the first time you saw (or smelled) an elephant; your first kiss; the first time that special someone told you they loved you.

That’s what it’s like for me at the moment.  I get down on the floor with the nine month old Blonde Bombshell and look up at the world.  Wow, the ceilings are high.  There’s a dried biscuit and half a dozen dusty sultanas stuck on the bottom of the couch, and gosh the dust balls are big.

I stand in the backyard and just listen: birds, the rumble of trucks and cars, wind chimes, the dog next door barking, trains, a rumbling tummy.  Hmmm is that mine or the baby’s?  So much can be heard when you stop and listen for it.  The Bombshell heard some thunder the other day and I benefitted from an extra-snuggly hug as she decided whether or not the noise could hurt her.

Standing in the shower, the baby in my arms, she keeps reaching out to grab the water – but can’t.  Try explaining that one!  You can see it, you can feel it, so why can’t you grab it?  The look on her face – surprise, frustration, amusement, determination – a total reward for wasting precious water.

There is so much joy in my heart.  But it’s a silent joy.  Recently, The Bombshell lost one of her precious great-grandmothers, a very special woman whose absence now leaves a large hole in many hearts.  But the fact that she got to meet her, spend time, get cuddles and kisses and photos, makes me very happy.  My own beautiful Mum didn’t have any grandparents growing up.  I was lucky enough to have three wonderful grandparents in my life.  My daughter is relishing in four grandparents, and she still has three great-grandparents left to love her (plus all her aunties and uncles).  Such a strong, loving family makes her the richest girl in the world.

She is extraordinarily lucky and she has so much ahead of her.  I can’t wait for her to try ice-cream for the first time, blow candles out on her birthday cake, ride a bike, see snow, go swimming in the ocean, build a sand castle, get licked by a puppy, stand in the rain while the sun is still shining, read her first book.  And what makes it even more special is that I will get to experience this for the first time again as well.  And I cannot wait!.

The One About Child Care [October 2010]

Scientists will tell you that black holes exist only in space, but most mums will tell you that they also exist on earth but that they go by another name – the day-care drop-off and pick-up.

The simple task of collecting your child from day-care has the potential to suck the time right out of your day, just like a toddler sucking the icing off a cupcake.

Take the other day for example.  I left the house at quarter past four in the afternoon, and after I had battled all the school mums coming back from the shops and after-school sports, I then had to circle the block three times before a space became free outside the day-care.   After squeezing into a space barely big enough for a bicycle and taking a layer of paint off both sides of the car, I had to pull nine month old Curly Mop out through the boot because the doors wouldn’t open.

Arriving in the three and a half year old Blonde Bombshell’s classroom, I happened to see her walk out of the bathroom with one of the teachers in tow.  She turned to me and announced loudly, ‘I did a poo, Mum!’ and promptly wandered off.

‘Ace,’ said one of the dads who had followed me in, and gave me a thumbs up.  

I went outside and was immediately swarmed by half a dozen small children.

 ‘Hi – can I hold your baby?’

‘Why does the baby have a dummy’, ‘What’s the baby’s name?’ ‘Es que su bebé?’

‘C’mon let’s GO!’

‘I’ll hold your baby while you go and get her.’  Keep in mind, it’s a three year old saying this, not one of the teachers - a three year old covered with dirt and boogers and lunch.  They are literally swarming us.  They are touching the Mop, grabbing her dummy, pulling her curls and tickling her feet.  The look on her face is sheer terror mixed with resignation (this happens every week).

‘NOW,’ I scream like a crazy person.

We then need to wait while the Bombshell hugs all her little friends’ goodbye.

Before we can leave she decides she needs to do a wee, so I plonk the Mop on the mat and give her a truck to chew.  Naturally this is when the whole class is herded back inside, so now there are dozens of small children chucking blocks at the Mop as the Bombshell dithers around in the toilet. 

‘Where is she?’ asks the Bombshell’s grubby little friend.

‘Here’ the Bomb says wandering out of the toilet with her knickers around her ankles and a wodge of toilet paper stuck to her bottom. 

‘Please, hurry UP!’

Miss Curly Mop has started to cry hysterically so I swoop in and pick her up just before one of the kids manages to stick her dummy in his mouth.

‘Which sink should I use?’ muses the Bombshell, and together she and her friend stand and discuss whether it’s better to use the one in front of the mirror (so you can look at yourself) or in front of the window (so you can look at everyone else).  They choose the mirror. 

I drop to the floor in front of the bag shelves and while I balance the Mop on one knee, start stuffing the Bombshell’s artwork into her backpack.  She thinks this is a good time to start explaining her pictures:

‘This one is whirly whirls.  Whirly whirly whirly, like this Mum, whirly whirly.  And this one is round and rounds, like this, round and round and round, and this one is circles, like this…’

We make it out of the classroom, but still need to run the gauntlet to get back to the car.  First she needs to say goodbye to the chickens, all eight of them.  Then she needs to sing to the plants and show me all the veggies they are growing.  Then we stop under the EXIT sign so she can read out the letters.

‘E-X-I-T. I read it Mum!’ 

Then we have to say goodbye to the fish (thank God there are only two left).  Finally, an eternity later, we make it outside.  The fresh air manages to quell the rising hysteria, but only slightly, as I realise we now have to walk past a dozen cars and the Bombshell will want to read the licence plates of each and every one.

‘Is this your car Mum?  1AUT235. Is this your car Mum? 1DBR776. Is this your car Mum? 1CMY096…’

It’s not finished.

When we actually reach the car, the Bombshell insists on buckling her backpack into the front seat, and she won’t accept any help. (Have you seen a three year old try to pull the seatbelt out far enough to click it in to the buckle? It makes your eyes bleed with frustration.)

Finally, about a millennium after I set out, we are back on the road and heading home.  It’s usually now that I look at the Blonde Bombshell in the rear view mirror and ask her about her day.  She hunches down in her car seat and refuses to talk to me.  She has nothing to say, after gabbing on for half an hour and talking to the eight chickens, and her thirty thousand friends, and the two fish, nothing left to say.   So I breathe a silent sigh of relief and drive home. 

Just to do it all again tomorrow.

The One About (Not) Sleeping [August 2010]

It’s 9.30pm, and the girls are asleep in bed, or so I think.  I sneak down the hall to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I can’t use the electric toothbrush - it might wake the three and a half year old Blonde Bombshell, so I use the ordinary one.  Hmmm… better not flush the toilet – it might wake seven month old Curly Mop.  I tread gingerly on the creaking floorboards back to my bedroom, where I throw myself in bed and heave a great sigh.  Bedtime.  Hot electric blanket.  Bliss.

I read my book for a while, then roll over and turn off the light.  It’s just before 10pm.  I close my eyes and feel myself dropping off to sleep.  It’s been a long day.  Suddenly I hear cries coming from Curly Mop’s bedroom.  I try not to swear as I get up, put on my dressing gown and head to her room.  Despite the advice of my (very expensive) sleep consultant, it’s just easier to breastfeed the baby and put her back to sleep.  I try not to tap my foot with impatience as she has a sleepy feed, dithering around on the breast.  After an enormous burp, she is back in bed and asleep, I practically run back to my room and get back in bed.  Damn - the bed’s cold.  All that electricity wasted.  I fall asleep.

I’m dreaming I am at the shops, the shelves are full of screaming babies.  Why would anyone want to buy a screaming baby?  Wait, there are also shelves of coughing babies.  What a ridiculous shop. Why would anyone?… Hang on…  My brain suddenly clicks into wake mode, as a chorus of coughs come from the Bombshell’s bedroom and cries come from Miss Curly Mop’s.   I look at the clock.  It’s just after midnight.  I look at my husband who has snuck to bed in the past 90 minutes.  He’s sleeping soundly and doesn’t seem to register the cries of his offspring.  I briefly consider poking him in the face.  Instead I heave myself out of bed, put on my gown and head to the Bombshell’s room.  She’s sitting upright in bed, apparently asleep, but coughing her little head off.  I gently lay her down and tuck her back in, amongst half a dozen stuffed toys and a couple of books.  The coughing subsides.  I then head down the hall to the Mop’s room where the crying has escalated.  Her room is pitch black, so I gently feel around in the cot until I find her face.  I poke her in the nose.  The screams become indignant.  Sorry Bubba.  I find her mouth.  No dummy.  I stick it back in her mouth and the noise instantly stops.  I trudge back to bed.  Hubby is now spread across my side of the bed.  I kick his feet back, and throw his pillow on the floor. 

About three minutes later, as the bed is finally getting warm and cosy, and I feel myself drifting off to sleep, I hear the wailing start again in the Mop’s room.  My stomach sinks.  I don’t WANT to get up again.  I lay there and start an internal monologue with her, as though we are psychically linked.  

‘Please darling, go to sleep sweetie.  It’s late and you need your sleep [and so does Mummy]’.  The crying continues and I start begging.  ‘Pleeeease Bubba, go to sleep’. 

The crying subsides and then there’s a pause.  I hold my breath.  Is that it?  Is she asleep?  Five seconds pass, then ten.  I allow myself a glimmer of hope.

‘Whaaaaaaaa’. 

According to my sleep angel, these tears must be ignored and I have to let Curly Mop settle herself.  So, still lying in bed, I now start a conversation with the Greater Power.  Soon the conversation turns to prayer, then deal-making.  ‘If you make her go to sleep I promise I won’t yell at anyone for a week.’  Eventually, after about 15 minutes the sobbing stops.  Instead of falling asleep, my paranoia keeps me awake until past 1am. I have convinced myself she can’t possibly be asleep.  Can she? 

Hubby rolls over in his sleep and starts snoring.  I give him a poke in the side and he rolls back over and the noise stops.  I look at the clock, and angry for still being awake, try to will myself to sleep. This sucks.

I feel myself being hauled up through layers of consciousness, until I am mostly awake and listening again to a crying baby.  I resist the urge to start sobbing myself and peek at the clock.  It’s 4.30am.  Sigh.  Because Miss Curly Mop has been unwell and totally off solid food, I realise that she’s probably hungry again.  I calculate that if I feed her now I could be back in bed before 5am.  As I haul her out of bed all I can do is think about being asleep, being in my bed, ahh bed, bed ahhhh sleep.  Oops almost dropped her! She squeaks with surprise.  My eyes are shut and my head is drooping.  I start hallucinating with tiredness.  There’s a reason they use sleep deprivation as a form of torture.  Why can’t I have detachable breasts?  I could rig them up on the side of the cot like a rabbit feeder.  What a fabulous idea.  I should write that down on the little notepad where I write all my night time thoughts, in a vain attempt to get them out of my head so I can go to sleep.

Finally she pulls off and starts snoring her little contented baby snores.  I tuck her back in her cot and crawl back to bed.  As I curl up in a little ball and feel ready to pass out, a thought pops into my brain.  I need to pee.  I try and ignore the thought, but there’s no known way on this planet to stop thinking about needing to pee, other than actually peeing.  With tears of tiredness streaming down my face I crawl out of bed AGAIN and head to the bathroom.

Finally, I’m back in bed.  It’s after 5am and I’ve had about five hours sleep in three broken chunks.  No begging or bargaining or praying required, I pass out.  I don’t hear the Bombshell come in at 6am and ask for milk and a tissue for her runny nose.  I don’t hear Hubby get up and frogmarch the Bombshell into the family room.  I don’t hear her carry on as they get ready for day care and work respectively.  I don’t hear the car doors close and then open again ten seconds later, as the Bomb runs back into the house so she can do a wee.  I don’t hear Hubby muttering beneath his breath as they return to the car.  But I do hear that final door being banged shut and the engine start just after 7.25am.  And as I feel myself waking reluctantly, I also hear Curly Mop start singing.  At least someone is happy.

I need a coffee, or three.  Does anyone know a way I can just set up a caffeine infusion directly into my veins?  Gee that’s a great idea, I had better go write that one down too…

Four Year Old Philosopher [June 2011]

In 1637 René Descartes made his brilliant statement ‘Cogito, ergo sum’ or ‘I think, therefore I am’.  He was 41 and already a noted philosopher and mathematician.

In 2011, the Blonde Bombshell, made her brilliant statement ‘I think, so it is’. She is four. 

Of course, when Descartes made his profound statement he was talking about existentialism, and when the Bombshell made her statement she was talking about it being Tuesday when it was really Monday, but who’s nit-picking? Who’s to say that I don’t have a budding philosopher in the family? If she wanted it to be Tuesday, then it should be Tuesday, and too bad if the rest of the world thought it should be Monday. What’s 24 hours between friends?

There is a certain honesty in the words and beliefs of children.  They speak without worrying about social niceties (‘I did two poos and one is floating like a boat’), political correctness (‘I like your bottom Mummy, it has hair on it’) or the laws of nature (Mum: ‘how much yoghurt do you want?’ Bombshell: ‘27 minutes please’).

When children speak, they say it like it is: ‘Some cars are clean and some are dirty. Daddy’s car is dirty.  Adi’s car is clean.  Grandad’s car has a little bit of poo’.  They conversationally tread where no adult would dare, though secretly many of us would probably love to. They have no concept of self-censorship or self-preservation (‘Mum: ‘why is your sister crying?’ Bombshell: ‘because I hurt her fingers’).

The things my daughter tells me are the highlights of my day.  I write them down and make them real, before they disappear into a forgotten memory of something she said once that made me smile… now what did she say? It’s on the tip of my tongue. I can’t remember…

I love that everything is so literal when you are four years old. Words do not have hidden meaning, children hear what is familiar. My daughters and I were walking past a neighbour’s garden, which had a prolific flowering tree. ‘Look at that pretty pink flower,’ the Bombshell said.  I replied, ‘do you know what that is? That’s called a hibiscus.’  The Bombshell then said ‘Hi Biscus, my name is ... and this is my sister’

Similarly, there is a certain logic that is applicable only to small children. Things are taken at face value, even abstract ideas.  At three and a half the Bombshell was struggling to deal with her tantrums and we were taking the approach that if I gave her a big cuddle we could squeeze out her anger and throw it in the bin.  Sometimes this worked, other times it didn’t.  One day after a particularly drawn out tantrum and some attempting squeezing, she told me ‘I need my anger back because I’m having a tanty.’ I let her have her anger back and said ‘do you still want vegemite crackers?’ ‘Yes,’ she said.  ‘Yes please,’ I corrected. She shook her head, ‘I don’t say yes please because I’m having a tantrum.’

Perhaps though what is most precious about the words of children is their unrelenting love and devotion.  They are blind to shape and size and fashion and their mum is the most beautiful mum, even when she is wearing old tracksuit pants (Bombshell: why are you lying down Mum?’ Mum: ‘because I’m old and fat and tired’ Bombshell: ‘you’re not that bad’).

Eventually our children grow up, and their words will be tempered with flattery and hidden meanings and political correctness and all the other filters adults forget they use.  But while they are little, we should cherish their clarity of thought, because as the Bombshell so simply puts it: ‘I make you happy Mum.’

The One About the Breast-Feeding Related Ankle Injury [July 2007]

Dear everyone

Wow, things are happening fast.  So many firsts for the little Bombshell over the past week – first smiles, first doctor’s appointment, first party invitation, first flirtation with a boy.  Who said life was dull?

I will start with the smiles, because I am just so chuffed that I finally got my first smile.  It was about an hour ago at 5.15am.  Usually smiles during feeding are followed by a loud fart or explosive poo, but this was different.  I had her on my lap and we were just looking at each other.  I asked her if she was still hungry and suddenly her face just broke into this massive grin – all gums and chubby cheeks.  Her beautiful eyes were smiling at me.  I waited for the accompanying bodily function but it never came.  It was a smile just for me! I could have cried. I feel amazing!!

This overwhelming feeling of well being and good mothering makes up for yesterday when I actually forgot my child’s name for a while.  I was in Retravision buying a crock pot (sexy, I know) and the lovely lady helping me was talking about her own grandchild and nattering on about children being a blessing .  Meanwhile, Shannon is thinking about the pros and cons of oval versus round slow cookers.  This must be a really important issue because it obviously took up all my remaining brain function because when she asked the seemingly innocuous question ‘and what is your little girl’s name?’, for the life of me I could not remember!  I just stood there, blankly, staring at this woman while my brain went ‘what IS my little girl’s name?’.  She just patted me on the arm and said ‘don’t beat yourself up about it dear’ and wandered off to help a man buy a blender. 

The Bombshell and I also had our 6 week check-ups this week, and she passed hers with flying colours (naturally).  I haven’t weighed her recently, but she has a new fat roll on her chubby thighs, so I am guessing she’s doing okay. Mr Maths and I had her stretched out on the breakfast bar about a week ago, and by our calculations she has grown about 7cm since birth.  If you do the sums, that means she will be about 4m tall by the time she is 5 years old.  Pretty good if she plans on being a professional basketballer!

Anyway, Mr Proud had bought a rather nice bottle of champagne for the obstetrician after the Bombshell was born, which he dropped off after being discharged from hospital.  When I went to see the doctor the other day he mentioned he had taken it down south on a weekend away with his wife.  I was waiting for the inevitable ‘it was a lovely drop with a nice bouquet’ type of comment.  What I didn’t expect was   to be told that he drank the champagne but ended up falling down some stairs.  Apparently he’s not much of a drinker.  Oops.  He did say it was a lovely drop though (boom boom).
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Finally, a word of warning to all expectant mums out there.  Here’s a new one for the books – breastfeeding related ankle injury. Yes, perhaps it’s only possible in my crazy world, but I have injured both my ankles and I am blaming my breasts.  I had noticed after about two weeks at home that my ankles were both really sore and sometimes so weak I would almost fall over when I stood up after feeding the baby (which was a bit scary, maybe that’s why it took so long for her to smile at me). But I realise it’s because I have my feet up on the footstool  and by sitting there for up to eight hours a day with my heels digging into the (faux) leather, it’s pushing my ankles out!  Weird! So now my latest accessories are two ankle braces, and I no longer rest my heels on the footstool, but let my feet dangle over the edge.  I look like a complete dork, but it hurts less.

So that’s us for week 6.  Some of you might be thinking ‘what about the party invite and flirtation with the boy?’.  Well, it’s called a tease (no, not the Bombshell, although on that point, I notice that her eye lashes have grown considerably in the past week too).  I have to save something for next time.

With love and hugs and gummy smiles,

Shannon and the Bombshell

The One About the New Mums Group [June 2007]

Dear everyone

Our little blonde bombshell is now almost five weeks old and gaining weight steadily.  We are thinking of enrolling her in sumo classes, because according to the highly technical weighing she had yesterday (using the kitchen scales and a washing basket) she has gained over half a kilo in the past fortnight, and a kilo since birth!  No wonder my back is so sore.

 Maternity leave has been great fun – I have lots of lovely lunches and morning teas with friends and family.  All the ‘baby weight’ that dropped off after the birth seems to have gotten lonely and has come back.   It’s hard to watch two hours of Kerri-Anne without a block of chocolate! Actually, it’s hard watching Kerri-Anne full stop. Huey’s Cooking Adventures on the other hand is great, and I am getting some lovely ideas for dinners!

I went to one of the ‘new mum’ afternoon teas run by the hospital.  What an eye-opener.   40 women and babies means 40 prams, some the size of a Rav 4! We had to queue to get through the door.  Because this session was for babies aged between 1-8 weeks, it meant that for a lot of us it was our first session.   We all stood nervously, talking to our babies because we were too shy and zombified to talk to each other.  You had to sign in, put name stickers on yourself, your baby, your pram and your forehead.  Not really.  Then you left your baby in the company of the ‘volunteers’ (four old dears wearing white aprons) and wandered into the main room which was still set up in the ‘lecture’ style seating from the prenatal classes they also run.

I admit I thought it would be a small group of women, having coffee and Tim Tams chatting to each other about how beautiful their baby was, and trying to outdo each other with how well they are coping.  Uh uh, it was the complete opposite! It was a huge group of women (having coffee and Tim Tams) telling horrible stories about their babies, their breasts, their husbands, lack of sleep, lack of milk, lack of bodily functions, babies getting sick, mums getting sick, nipples falling off, things falling apart.  I sat there stunned, fidgeting, thinking about all the terrible things that can happen to babies, and wishing I was at home watching Kerri-Anne.

The volunteers were there to comfort any of the babies that cried, but if they couldn’t be settled or needed a feed they would pick the baby up and stand just inside the door.  All the mum’s heads would swivel in the direction of the door every time it opened, and the offending mum would slink off in the direction of the screaming baby. Few of them returned!! Occasionally a volunteer would be standing there with a baby for ages and no one would claim it, so they would wander up and down the aisles and we would all giggle because when the Mum finally noticed it was her child, she would be really embarrassed – one woman knocked over her coffee and dropped her Tim Tam in her hurry to grab her child.  She never returned!! By the end of the session, only five babies remained in the pram room (Baby Bombshell included) – all the others were attached to a breast or had been taken home by their mortified mothers.  Apparently the Bombshell never made a sound.  She made up for it when we came home though, and she screamed for the next day and a half!

Last week, while enjoying a Devonshire tea with a friend (it’s a tough life) I was playing with my  bub’s little feet and almost cried when I noticed that her little toes were all curled up because her feet were too big for her suit!!  I had bought the 0000 suit only 2 weeks earlier because she was too little for her 000 suits... now some of her 00 suits are beginning to fit.  My little girl is growing up so fast.  She’s doing a lot of grown up things!  This morning she was actually dancing to Justin Timberlake.  She rolls her eyes when I make stupid jokes.  She knows how to manipulate men.  And she uses her wily charms to make everyone fall in love with her.

Me, I am doing pretty good.  Apart from letting my child listen to Justin Timberlake and eating too much chocolate, I feel like I am coping well with the ‘new mum’ gig.  I try and eat something green every day (and not just Peppermint Aero), I try and get out of my pyjamas every day (and not only because there is baby vomit on them) and I baby talk to complete strangers only about half the time.

There was that time I bought boy nappies by mistake, but in my defence the word ‘boys’ is very small and not immediately apparent.  I now realise that the box is blue for boys and pink for girls, but I try and not be so rigid in my stereotypes!!!

 Anyway, that’s it from us for today.  It’s such a beautiful day I might pop bub in the pram and go for a walk.  Or I might lie on the couch and watch Kerri-Anne with the block of Top Deck I just bought. ..

Love always

Shannon

The One About Visiting the Child Health Clinic [June 2007]

Dear everyone

There is some talk about boobs and breasts in this update – so if you are easily offended, I suggest you don’t attempt to have children of your own, and perhaps go and read a nice Harry Potter book instead.

Things must be improving because here I am again, writing to you all.  And Baby Bombshell is still in nappies and not at high school as I would have predicted.  I am wearing relatively clean clothes (only a little baby vomit on my top), I have eaten both breakfast and lunch, and I thought about brushing my hair, even though I never followed through on the thought.

I have even left the house, taking Baby Bombshell to the local Child Health Clinic yesterday for her first weigh-in.  According to one of the other mums I met, I am doing very well, as it took her more than 6 weeks before she felt able to leave the house.  The visit to the clinic wasn’t quite what I expected, although I must have been deluded because considering it was a bunch of mums bringing their babies in to see the nurse and have them weighed, I’m really not sure what I did expect.  High tea and scones?  My baby was the youngest by far, and luckily she lay in my arms snoozing as a progression of older babies (and older mums) came through the door.  What professionals they were, taking their turns at the scales, stripping their babies, weighing them and recording the info in the little purple books. 

No one seemed to know each other but there was polite chatter –

 ‘is it normal for my baby to put on a kilo in less than 2 weeks?'

‘what a cute baby, how old are they?’

‘where did you get that adorable suit/pram/baby/husband?’

‘Whew! Did you make that smell? Bad baby!’ 

Okay, I’m making that last one up – the mother just looked embarrassed and left very quickly.  Okay, that mother was me, but hey!  She’s only little!  For those interested in percentiles, bubby has moved from just below the 50^th percentile (for weight) at birth, to just above the 50^th percentile.  Go Bombshell, you little achiever, you!

Although the Bombshell is only 3 weeks old, it already feels as though she has been in my life a lot longer than that.  Well, duh – I know there was that whole 9 months in utero part, I mean her being out in the world, attached to my breast.  After 2 weeks worth of ouchy breast complaints you will be happy to hear that we seem to have sorted out the feeding problems, and we have moved on from bleeding boobs to dripping boobs.  I remember asking my Mum at my Baby Shower what the ‘breast pads’ were for... well now I know.  We are well acquainted.  Much like the neighbours now are with my breasts.  We considered getting blinds for all the windows, but I think we ran out of money somewhere after the HandyCam and before the BabyGym.  Oh well.

It is really astonishing how quickly your life changes.  I know everyone told me it would, but it’s not as though I actually listened to anyone.  Just like I didn’t really comprehend the whole ‘lack of sleep’, ‘night feeds’ and ‘vomit rags’.  These are meant to be taken literally!!!! Not just some hypothetical ‘could be’ or ‘might be’ if you are unfortunate enough to have one of those ‘bad’ babies.  It applies to all babies.  For those without children you have been duly warned.  For those with kids, go ahead and laugh and think ‘I told you so’ – I deserve it! 

But apart from moving my entire life into the family room, finding my wardrobe now consists of pyjamas and trackie pants, reducing my personal grooming to brushing my teeth (but not my desperately-needs-a-cut-and-colour hair) and our house decor now resembling an eclectic combination of Ikea meets Babyland, my life now revolves around a small, occasionally wet, bundle of love and spit. 

I gave up my old life at the same time I gave up my dignity (about when the catheter was being inserted, I think). Gone are the days when I would be at work before 7am and achieve a dozen goals before morning tea. Now I work hard to set and achieve a single goal that is not related to fluids going in or coming out of my little girl.

With love,

Shannon

The One About The Bombshell Being Born [June 2007]

Dear everyone

For those of you who don’t have time to sit and read the ramblings of a sleep deprived but very proud new mother – here is the abridged version:

Our daughter, now known as the Blonde Bombshell, was born by emergency Caesar on  Wednesday 8.06am (5 days early).  Weight 8 pounds 1 ounce (3.655kg), height 50cm, light brown hair, dark gray eyes.  Perfect in every respect.

Here is what really happened (skip to the end if you don’t want the gory details):

I started maternity leave on Monday at 39 weeks.  On Tuesday I was feeling a little crampy but didn’t think too much of it, as the baby hadn’t engaged and was still situated somewhere in my left lung rather than anywhere near my pelvis.  I had morning tea with a friend, lunch with my sister, and an afternoon appointment with my obstetrician.  I told him that I had been having cramps and what I thought were Braxton Hicks contractions since lunchtime. He didn’t seem overly concerned (ie  he didn’t do any sort of examination), and went ahead and booked an induction for 41 weeks assuring me ‘don’t worry, I am sure you won’t make it that far’.

The ‘Braxton Hicks’ continued, probably 3-4 times an hour when Mr Paycheck came home from work.  He was heading into the city for a hair cut and because I didn’t want to be alone I joined him.  So there I am, sitting on Maurice Meade’s nice white leather couch having 10 minutely contractions while the staff hovered around asking me if I wanted ‘a nice cup of tea or perhaps some towels’.  Before long, the owner of the salon asked Mr Shaggy ‘is that your wife [having a baby on our nice leather couch?]’ and when he said yes, the owner shoved the junior out of the way, finished the haircut himself and kicked us out.

So we came home and I pottered around filling my hospital suitcase, asked Mr Useful to put on my TENS machine and began timing the contractions.  They were about 6-7 minutely.  Naturally, my beloved went to bed.

By about 10.15pm I said I would call the hospital ‘just to see what they thought’.  Strangely enough they thought I should come in! On the labour ward at about 11.30pm someone finally came to do an internal exam.  I was 4cm dilated and fully effaced.  Mr NonBeliever was gobsmacked.  He admitted he thought I had been over-reacting. 

I had requested a natural, non-intervention, non-drug, non-anything labour.  So they left us to it for a few hours.  They came and monitored the bub every so often, but it was so relaxed it seemed to sleep through the contractions.  After 5 hours it was time for another internal.  We all expected I would be fully dilated and ready to go, but alas, things began to go pear-shaped as I had only progressed another centimetre or so.  They called the doctor who wanted to induce me, but I stubbornly  refused.  After two hours of 2 minutely contractions, the doctor came in and examined me.  Still no more progression.  They broke my waters and while things (ie. pain) kicked up a notch, nothing else happened, and after an hour I swallowed my pride and asked for an epidural.  The epidural didn’t work. 

It took them another hour to bring on any sort of effect but by this stage the doctor had decided that the baby was stuck and would not be able to be born naturally – he said I needed a Caesar, and soon.  The baby still hadn’t engaged, it was lying in the wrong position, its head was stuck, I hadn’t dilated past 5cm, and I had been in labour for over 12 hours. 

 The Caesar wasn’t any fun at all.   I had been strongly anti-caesar so I cried through most of it.  I remember being absolutely freezing and they had to cover me with blankets: tell me, why do they put the theatre table right under an air conditioning vent?  But with Mr Excited at my side (and about 30 people in the room all staring at in innards (and out-ards!!), at 8.06am they pulled out a little blue baby girl.  They placed her by my head for a quick kiss and took her away.  Mr Surgeon was able to cut the cord (we have photos!!) and he held her while they stitched me up.  The doctor was so proud of his handiwork he even called my beloved over for a look.  He saw my uterus – eugh!

In Recovery I was able to breast feed for the first time, although the epidural had gone all the way up to my chest and I couldn’t really feel much (big mistake), but my little girl seemed happy enough.  Then we were wheeled to our room, the baby in my arms, Mr Packhorse pulling along all of our dozen suitcases and bags (note to pregnant women: despite what baby magazines say, it is NOT necessary to bring a CD player and relaxation music to hospital).

The day after the birth I was out of bed, showered and walking around the room.  By the following day, all the tubes were out and I was free!  The baby was a bit jaundiced and liked to sleep.  A lot. I didn’t think that was so bad.

In all, I was in hospital for 6 days, arriving home last Tuesday (the day after I was due).  Mr SleepOnTheFloor was able to stay with us in the hospital as a boarder.  No one got any sleep.  But gee we were fed well!  Three course meals three times a day plus morning and afternoon tea!  Brilliant! 

Today is Saturday – Day 10.  I had to check my diary to see what day it was.  Apparently it’s June, but I wasn’t aware of that either.  I barely recognise myself these days.  Despite having the baby’s room all set up, we don’t use it.  We have moved everything into the family room, so it is now the kitchen, the bedroom (I have been sleeping – if that’s what you call it – on the couch), and the bathroom (for baby, not us).  I schlep around in my pink PJs, haven’t brushed my hair since last week, and spend most of my day interacting with one bodily fluid or another.  Our life is now all about ‘trucker burps’ (she has a whole repertoire of fascinating bodily noises), nappies, milk, little feet and hands, avoiding being peed on, spending money on even MORE baby things we hadn’t previously thought of, and trying to remember what life was like before, and telling ourselves that life will be normal again, at some point in the future.

She is truly beautiful, even when she is doing explosive poo on you and it lands on the floor.  She has an angelic face, even when she is doing farts that would make a bogan cringe.  She has the sweetest noises (even when she is squawking she sounds cute), and her little hands and feet make me cry every time I see them.  I spend hours just watching her.  Which is why I have only just made it to the computer. 

So that’s the story of the Bombshell, her first 10 days anyway.  Thanks again to everyone.  As I catch up on sleep and get into a routine I will begin checking my email more regularly.

With lots of love

Shannon, Hubby and the Bombshell  (oh, and the Bunny – we haven’t quite forgotten him.  Yet).

Watch This Space: Beyond the Nappy Bag

My love of writing is grounded in my love of writing about my children.  They are my favourite subject, and almost four years ago, when the Blonde Bombshell was only a newborn I started writing emails and sending them to friends and family across Australia and across the globe.

The aim at that stage was to introduce my new baby to friends and family who lived afar, to share my stories and to make my fleeting thoughts and observations, those precious but brief moments that make being a parent so rewarding, both permanent and retrievable.

I have a shocking memory and from the moment the Bombshell arrived I was determined not to forget a second of it.

And so I began writing.  Maybe once a month, sometimes more, sometimes less.  But every so often a 'dear everyone' email made its way across the globe and my stories about the Bombshell and later, Miss Curly Mop gained a momentum that eventually spawned the idea that perhaps I could make a go of this writing gig.  People seemed to enjoy what I had to say.

Curly Mop turned one last week and so I sent another email across the globe, and with it a question - a request.  Should I make these, once private stories available to anyone and everyone who reads my blog.  The response, filling up my inbox with eager and supportive emails was a resounding yes. 

So, starting tomorrow, or maybe even tonight I will start posting my stories under the label: Beyond the Nappy Bag, the working title of the book that might one day actually exist.  Please keep in mind that the stories are all waaaay in the past.

I should have titled this blog 'With a Little Help From My Friends' because it is the support from all of you that has helped me get this far.  Below I have included just some of the comments I received when I asked whether or not I should post my stories on this blog.  I have done this without any permission whatsoever, hope you don't mind...

Hey Shan,
Love your stories, each and every one of them. I think the world deserves to have a good chuckle out of your great story-telling :)
Hope all is well at your end!!
Love,
Vic
xoxo

Hi Shannon,

I think other Mums would love to read your stories of your girls. I remember the first couple when you could not work out why young Mums said they were tired. You thought the first couple of months were a breeze – until sleeplessness etc. set in. I am sure other mums could relate to all of this and other stories.  I love them. Can’t wait to buy the book.

Love

Lesley

I say share share share!!!
Xxxx

Lara

Hello Shannon,

Thanks for another beautiful e-mail. I always enjoy them very much.

I think it is a great idea to put them on your blog for everyone to enjoy, I personally think they are fantastic and need to be shared.

Love,

Tania

Hi Shan, definitely share with the world! 

Then the whole world can fall in love with your girls like I have.

xxxx 

Bec

Hi Shan,

There are so many unhappy things happening in the world, give people the chance to read something that will brighten their day. Go for it! I always feel great after I have read something you have experienced and recorded for us to chuckle over.

 Lots of love,

Mum

Share with the world, publish as a book, make a squillion and take us all to Hayman Island to celebrate!

Dorothy

Dittoed

Lyndall 

Share them!  I love your emails and really look forward to reading them.   If you posted them up, I would definitely make sure I sent your blog to all my new Mum friends.  I think they would identify with so many of your stories!

Megan