We forgot the SD card adapater so you'll have to imagine the punchline

- Do you think we need to pack warm clothes?

- Nah, it's pretty much always hot this time of year in Sydney.

- What about umbrellas and raincoats?

- No, I don't think so, it never rains any more.

[picture of 2 children in grandma-sized raincoats, in pouring rain, outside our holiday cabin at the beach]

Nothing to say

So, yeah, hello. Sorry I haven't been around lately. I keep coming here, knowing I should write something, but then I just stare blankly and cannot think of a single interesting thing to say.

I mean, I could tell you that Téo is having almost daily meltdowns, like he's the one who's 2 instead of Lukan, only ... what more is there to say than that? It's a part of my life, a part that is wearying, yes, but doesn't get to me like it used to. I just put him in bed, where he falls asleep and then wakes up in a much better mood.

I could tell you we put up a Christmas tree. Just like a good many other people lately, most of you included I imagine.

I could tell you that our babysitter - the 5th since we moved to the village - quit with 4 days notice. But then you might think there's something wrong with us that we have such a high turnover. (Really, it's not us, it's them! Every time!)

I could tell you that with being on my own for 25 evenings (and a good many nights) since November 1, I feel like I've become a bit of a recluse. But that makes me even less interesting.

I could tell you that on the one hand, I never want to hear "Love love me do" ever again, but on the other it's so sweet when my kids sing it over and over in the car, but you really have to hear it for yourself.

I could tell you that the briefing paper I wrote for a major organization, the project that was stressing me out, was well received at an international conference, and may be turned into an actual publication from that organization. But that seems like boasting.

I could tell you I made a kind of advent calendar, spent hours crafting a tree and birds and hedgehogs and nests out of pine branches and leaves and seeds collected from the village forest, with trapdoors to hide chocolate in, one for each day that we are here in December. But then I'd have to admit that each night, without fail, I forget to actually put any chocolate in the next day's hiding place (I didn't dare put all the chocolate out at once) which kind of ruins the intended magic.

This minutiae is my life, but it doesn't make a good story.

Leaf dance

The other day, coming home from the shops, I walked quickly from the garage to the house, to get out of the cold wind as soon as possible.

Lukan dawdled behind me.

After a couple of minutes, when he hadn't appeared, I went back outside, and found him standing entranced in the driveway.

Did you see? he said excitedly, pointing to the masses of swirling leaves.

Like this! And he twirled around and around, showing me how they were dancing.

Knives and priorities

One night last week while getting the kids ready for bed, I wasn't very patient. They were mucking around, C wasn't home, the dishes still needed to be done, the washing needed hanging, I was tired, I was stressed by a looming work deadline, I knew I'd have to work all weekend, I wanted a bit of time to unwind and escape before having to go to bed and then get up and repeat everything the next day.

The upshot was that when I said for the sixth time, Téo put your pyjamas on NOW and added, or there will be no book tonight, well, I didn't say it very nicely.

Téo looked at me and said You know mummy, when I dream at night you are always only mean to me.

That would be the knife reference in the title of this post.

------------------------

I've taken on way too much work this year.

At first, it was because of the recession. I wasn't sure I would even have any work in the second half of the year when new, possibly drastically reduced budgets came into effect, so I took on pretty much everything that was offered. The result: long hours.

My fears about reduced budgets did not come true - I've been offered even more work in the second half of the year. And from new clients too, including a big one, that I felt it would be unwise to refuse.

So I accepted up to the very limit of what I could do... without realising until too late that Téo's school schedule would be very disruptive. And forgetting that projects always take longer than planned. So, more long hours.

All up, I have worked 49% more hours this year than last year. And the year's not even over yet.

------------------------

Clearly, these extra hours have to come from somewhere. And without fail, it's been from time with the kids. Instead of working 4 days as planned, I have worked 5 for pretty much the entire year. Instead of finishing at 4pm, I've been finishing at 5pm. And lately, I've worked weekends too.

------------------------

I want to work, I like to work. I like having the money, I like the recognition, I like doing something I'm good at, I don't want to step out of the workforce and find myself unable to get back in, should I really need to.

But I also want to be there for my kids. That is, after all, the whole reason I decided to work from home in the first place, and not work full-time.

I'm not balancing this at all well. And I'm wondering - why do I always seem to choose work over time with my children?

Even last Wednesday - which should be my day off, when for once I only worked in the morning and not all day - I couldn't even sit down for 10 minutes with Téo, who wanted to do a jigsaw puzzle. All I could see was washing to fold, a floor to vacuum, dinner to start.

- OK, I'll fold the clothes while you do it.

- No, do it with me!

-No, I can't, I need to fold the clothes, but I'll do it right next to you!

It took an attention-seeking tantrum from Lukan for me to finally get out of seeing, thinking, being work and instead sit on the floor and just play.

------------------------

I've resolved before to be better. But I really need to. I'm going to.

Because it's not just time together that's suffering, it's also my attention, my attitude. A stressed Emma is not very playful, or patient.

The kids forgive me now, but how long will it be before they resent my choices? How long until they only remember a mean, snappy mummy? Until they start to think I actually prefer work to them?

How long will it be until I can no longer forgive myself?

Divining marshmallows

So there's this test, the marshmallow test, where you give a kid a marshmallow, tell him/her that you're going to leave the room, and that s/he can eat the marshmallow now, but if s/he waits until you get back then s/he can have another one too. And then you leave.

I've never been tempted to try this on Téo. I don't want to know now that he's going to end up a badly adjusted instant-gratification junkie with a major impulse control disorder.

Because I'm sure as hell that marshmallow would be down his gullet before the door was even closed. Before I'd even left the room.

We've had a few cases of him sneaking sweet things over the past year. Like meringues from the cupboard. One time he continued to eat lollies from a birthday lolly bag, after I'd said he had had enough for the day - and lied about it when confronted. Lied while still chewing the lollies.

I threw the rest away as punishment.

The lesson did not sink in.

Last weekend, after going trick or treating, the deal was that he could have some lollies after everyone had finished dinner.

He finished first (probably so he could have the lollies quicker), and left the table to play while everyone else finished. You know what happened next. Right down to lying with the lollies still in his mouth.

He was denied any more lollies for the whole weekend.

Apparently this was still not enough.

This week I had this great idea for his reading, to make a treasure hunt where he has to read each clue. He LOVES it. I was very pleased with myself.

The treasure is a lolly, and there's one for Lukan too.

You know where this is going too.

No impulse control whatsoever.

He's doomed.

But then... the other night, at 10pm, C interrupted my escape to Hogwarts to desperately ask me where the bag of un-handed-out Halloween lollies was. He left the room very sadly when he realised that yes, he had in fact already eaten every lolly in the house.

And then I remembered that he has eaten lollies that he knew were promised to Téo.

And that he even rescued the lollies I threw away as punishment, and ate them.

And that my dad could not leave an open bag of chocolates unfinished.

And that Dad also ate chocolate that was mine - my entire ration for a week-long hike, 2 days into the hike, after he'd finished his.

And I confess (Mum, don't read the rest of this sentence) even I, as a kid, stole milk money to buy lollies.

C and I seem to doing be OK, and Dad could hardly be described as a failure.

So maybe Téo's not so doomed. But clearly, any sugar entering our house is.

If you want a smile, have a look at these kids trying not to eat the marshmallow...

Bleh

Yes I know, I've been a bit absent. Sorry.

I've had a post drifting around my head these past couple of weeks, something about how I am not managing that whole life-work balance thing very well, but even not fully coalesced it didn't seem to be going anywhere other than a big boring whinge.

My current work project is stressing me, I've been sick since my birthday, I'm tired all the time, I don't have time to do lots of things I'd like to do, my kids never listen to me the first time I say something, my husband isn't always home, household chores are tedious, oh woe is me.

Really, you should be thanking me for not writing a longer version of all that.

So anyway, I'm coming out of the funk but am still not very inspired and so escaping into books every evening rather than, you know, actually doing any of those things I'd like to do when the kids are in bed and my husband's not here.

I'm off to Hogwarts ... hope to have something to say soon.

Five

There he is, my lanky boy, running ahead, riding his bike, riding his scooter, walking up a mountain.

There he is again, cornering some poor adult, happily chatting about anything, nothing, everything.

Now he's helping me to cook, helping with the shopping, setting the table, clearing away his plate.

Or helping Lukan to take off his jacket or shoes, to find a toy, to make something work.

Suddenly he bursts into song, something he's learnt at school or his music class.

Then he's playing a game, properly, one with rules and winners and losers.

And in between all this, he still asks for hugs, comes into bed for a morning cuddle, holds my hand, races to me when he gets out of school (although a good-bye kiss when I drop him off is getting rarer...). He still thinks I know everything, still wants to tell me things. Same with his papa.

He's delighted to see all his extended family.

He's delighted to spend time with our friends.

I have a feeling that five is going to be the best year ever.

Except, he could quit pretending to fart on us. And really farting on us.

Please.

Observations from yesterday

At a workshop, where the participants are likely to want to talk to one another over lunch, spaghetti is a bit of a cruel choice for the caterers to have made.

Wearing a G string back-to-front is quite unpleasant.

Having an ear infection is worse.

On the right track

So there's a lot of articles and blogs out there giving an opinion on how to raise children. Never punish, never reward, because it teaches them you only love them when they're good. Encourage extensive role play as it's the only way to teach them to control their impulses. Practise benign neglect so that they learn to do things by themselves. Let them be free-range. Be a good enough parent, not a perfect one.

It's hardly surprising then that my parenting is a bit of a hodgepodge, a blending of ideas from different sources that fit into my general take on parenting. A take that, I admit, leans heavily towards what fits with my own personality and experiences, and a whole lot less heavily on sifting through the evidence for or against certain actions. A take that can also sometimes be a little contradictory in the details. Or change depending on my mood. Ahem.

So anyway, mostly I'm OK with this, but sometimes I wonder whether I'm doing the right thing, whether the haphazard path I'm dragging my children down will lead to where I want them to be: responsible, self-sufficient, realistic, thoughtful, able to speak up but also to listen, able to think critically and not just follow the crowd.

And every now and again, when someone describes something parents most definitely should not do in order to have children like this, and it's something I do do, well, I have a moment of worry.

Yesterday I read an article that got me wondering. And perhaps worrying. Do I coddle my kids too much?

You see, I have read several books that say you shouldn't deny what a kid is feeling, which makes sense to me. So, for example, I have always let my boys cry as long and as loudly as they want when they are hurt. I don't encourage the crying, but neither do I shush it. But my parents were more like the this author's parents - not as extreme, but definitely not pandering to minor scrapes, discomforts, or illnesses. And she went the other way with her own kids, and ended up regretting it.

So should I be harder on my kids? Because actually, like this author, I do think that having to tough things out as a kid made me stronger, made me better able to accept discomfort and nuisances as an adult. Made me aware that life is not always fair, or easy, and that I couldn't just expect to always get what I wanted.

And then I started thinking of Téo's reading lessons, which I am letting him do at his own slow pace. Am I giving him too much freedom here? Should I force him a bit more? Because even though I hated it at the time, I am now infinitely grateful that my father was so hard on my writing. He set me up for life. And his praise when I did write well - I don't remember thinking that he only loved me because I had done what he wanted, I remember feeling good about myself. It's not really wrong to praise is it? To expect certain things of our children and acknowledge it when they do them?

Worry worry worry.

Then this morning, Lukan was mucking up over breakfast. The New Regime means a zero-tolerance policy - either he eats when Téo and I eat, or he misses breakfast.

He missed breakfast.

There was much wailing.

As I put on his shoes, I explained (again) that if he didn't eat when we did, he wouldn't eat at all. That I was sorry he missed breakfast ... and then before I could say but tomorrow you can, Téo piped in with:

But that's life.

I guess that at least answers my worries about coddling.

Random whinges

New clients, if I send you an estimate of the time I need for a writing project, based on what you have told me about the project, then I would prefer that the contract you send me based on that estimate doesn't include extra work that you have never before mentioned. Because actually, I am not a charity. And it's RUDE. (This has happened to me twice in the past week. )

Authors, if you are writing a book set in the future, please don't explain what's happening as if the characters know they are writing/being written about for people from the past. Because seriously, do people today say things like I got in the car, a wheeled machine that runs on a new-fangled fuel source called petrol, to go to the supermarket, a large store where you can buy all sorts of things? No, they do not. So be intelligent, and write in a way in which we can imagine the future. We're quite smart, we'll figure it out. Really.

Body, sometimes my brain needs chocolate. Just a little piece, like this afternoon. So it would be nice if you didn't react with itching skin, and even better if you didn't erupt in large, painful cysts. OK?

OK so this is freaky

After I hit publish on that last post, the page I got on Blogger telling me I'd published successfully had an ad... for a death test. Yes, a test to calculate out when I will die.

So, I did it, but then it turned out it would send the answer to my mobile phone and I'd have to pay. So I searched for another test, and this one required my weight in pounds, so I went to a metric converter site, which had an ad for... the death test.

Why is the internet so keen to rub my nose in my mortality?

(I didn't get any ad when I published this post. Cue the Twilight Zone music...)

Nope, sorry, this isn't going to work

So I feel that I'm able, pretty quickly, to judge whether I like something or not. Judge whether it's me or not.

Like, when we were looking for a house to buy, I just knew, the second of walking in the door - and actually probably before we had even finished parking - whether or not I could live in the one we were visiting.

I'm pretty sure you know what I'm talking about, that reaction somewhere deep inside you, not articulated or reasoned out, but nevertheless a very strong for sure in no uncertain terms no doubt about it NO WAY. And the just as strong for sure in no uncertain terms no doubt about it YES! when the thing in question is perfect.

And I'm sure that, like me, even when your body was screaming NO WAY, you have sometimes tried to convince yourself that you could do it, could learn to be happy with whatever the thing in question was. And then either realised what a disaster that would be, or lived to regret thinking you could make this thing fit you.

So. I am very in no uncertain terms no doubt about it sure that I cannot be 40.

I haven't even bothered trying to convince myself that I can make it work. It just won't.

I have this image of a big black boldface 40 in my head, and it's apart from me, and I can't make it fit into me. It's like my mind is baulking at the possibility. Nope, it's saying, not possible. Not 40. No. NO WAY.

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I've been feeling a bit, I dunno, melancholy I guess, about the whole 40 thing for a while now. Realising, but not wanting to accept, that I am middle-aged. Realising that most people I know now, know me as I am now - responsible, sensible, a mother - and will never know my younger self. Understanding what's behind a mid-life crisis. And resenting the walnut tree in our back yard because it will live longer than me.

It's not that I want to go back in time - I definitely like myself a lot better now than the me I remember in her 20s.

I just don't want to get older, to be old. The thing is, I can't help seeing the future mapped out for me, in a way I never did before. At 30, I never thought of being 40, or 50, or 60. I just couldn't imagine it. But now it's like I have anchors in the future, through my children. When I turn 50, Téo will be 15 and Lukan 12... and at 60 Téo will be 25 and Lukan 22... and at 70 Téo will be 35 and Lukan 32 ... and then... will I even be around after that?

It doesn't seem like much time left.

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Can't I just stay in my 30s?

Bing! Time to blog!

So there's more than a few of you out there who at one point or another, probably many times actually, have been mightily pissed off with me for not being on time. All of you, feel free to take a lot of pleasure from the fact that right now, I have to be on time all the time, and I am suffering.

It's the New Regime. Bing! 6.45am, time to get up, showered and dressed. Bing! 7am, time to get the kids up and dressed and fed. Bing! 7.45am, time to leave for the garderie, then race back in order to get Téo to school. Bing! 8.30am, time to work. Bing! 10.45am, time to go get Téo from school. Bing! 11am, time for Téo's reading lesson. Bing! 12am, the babysitter comes, time to work. Bing! 4.45pm, time to stop work, as the babysitter has to leave to catch the train. Bing! 5pm, time to get Lukan. Bing! 5.30pm, time to start dinner. Bing! 6pm, time to eat. Bing! 6.30pm, time to start getting the kids ready for bed. Bing! 7pm, kids in bed.

I've never had to stick to such a strict, regimented schedule before. One where I'm switching from task to task at an appointed time, multiple times a day, and there's No Room For Deviation. Five-minute chat with the neighbours? Yikes, I'm running late! A whole morning to fill out a form for a potential new client, just to get me in their system? Aack, how will I meet my other work deadlines for today! Finding out the babysitter turned the dishwasher off mid-cycle, and now there's no clean dishes for dinner? Oh no, the kids will be late to bed!

It's exhausting - and I know I have it way easier than a lot of working mothers. I have that seeping, overpowering tiredness, the one where you just want to sleep, no matter where you are or what you're doing. Like when you're pregnant. (I'm not.) I'm wondering if I'll eventually get used to it, or if this is how it's going to be from now on?

But then, as C kindly pointed out, I am getting old after all.

Which actually is adding to the tiredness, at least lately, because there's another Bing! in there: Bing! Kids in bed! Time to start preparing food for Saturday's party!

Yes, I have taken on the catering myself.

I rejected most caterers as they are too Swiss. Cheese-and-dried-meat-platters kind of Swiss. Then I found one that looked more to my taste, got a quote, and was alarmed by the price - and also by the chef, who, when I said I worked for WWF and so didn't want certain fish on the menu, actually crossed his arms at me as if I were the vampire sucking the life out of the oceans. I don't think so, you short-sighted, selfish plunderer of nature's bounty! And anyway, whatever happened to "the customer is always right"?? Plus, I have this problem in that I think I'm a reasonably good cook, and it bugs me to pay a lot of money for something I could do myself, and it bugs me even more if I could do it better.

So yes, my stinginess and moral superiority and arrogance all combined into me deciding I would prepare everything. But then, as I rolled the umpteen millionth samosa last night, it did occur to me that it could all be a huge disaster, as I have never attempted any of the menu before. Which would be embarrassing as my neighbour always makes very yummy party food. Come to think of it, I always have food disasters when I cook for the neighbours. And they're invited on Saturday night. OH NO!! THE FOOD IS GOING TO BE AWFUL! NO ONE WILL EVER COME TO ANY OF MY PARTIES AGAIN!

Rolling samosas and other filo-based finger foods late into the night, every night, is not good for your mental health.

So anyway, Bing! 10pm, time for bed!

Because, when everyone arrives on Saturday night, I'd rather not feel like all I want to do is sleep.

Murphy's law of kids and sleep

On school days, you will have to wake the kids up, even though it's after 7.

On non-school days (like today*), the kids will wake you up, even though it's not yet 7.

* You really don't want to get me started on Swiss school hours...

Our camera seems to have fixed itself

Fun times with an almost-2-year-old

- Orange juish peesh.

- OK, would you like this cup?

- No!

- This one then?

- No! No!

- Little man, there are only two clean cups, it has to be one of these.

- NO!

- Fine then, no orange juice.

- Wor-tah!

- OK, water.

(Filling of water bottle)

- No. No wor-tah. Juish.

- You want juice in your water bottle?

- Yeah.

- OK.

(Tipping of water onto plant)

- No!! Wor-tah!!

- OK, I'll put some more water in your bottle.

- No! Dat wor-tah! Dat wor-tah! (pointing at plant)

- Lukan, you said you didn't want water, you wanted juice, so I gave the water to the plant.

- NO NO NO!!

(Dramatic flinging of blankie to floor, lying of head on table, sobbing)

(Several repeats of asking for the water in the plant, followed by dramatic sobbing)

(Ignoring of said dramatics)

- Juish!

- You want some juice?

- Yeah!

(Finally, 15 minutes after the first request for juice, the juice is drunk)

(But now there's no time for breakfast)

(Sigh)

Not the best start II

He bounced around all morning, asking when it was time to go to school.

At 1.45 he set off gleefully, telling everyone we passed that he was starting school today.

He saw the crowd of parents and kids outside the school, fell quiet, tightened his grip on my hand.

We entered the classroom and, unexpectedly, my own tears threatened.

His tears fell.

He buried his face into me, and clung on tightly. (The only one to do so.)

I managed to get him to sit down, calm down, let go, agree I could take 5 steps back to take a photo.


It was time for the parents to leave.

I kissed him goodbye, told him how proud I was that he had calmed himself down, and that I would see him soon.

He cried again, but stayed in his seat.

I left.

1 hour 20 minutes later*, when I picked him up, he was absolutely fine.


This morning he smiled for a photo.


And then he was off.


* Don't get me started on the length of the Swiss school day...

Not the best start

So yes, today was the big day, the day when I would start the New Regime of being Up Early and Organized and everything else that makes a Good Mother with Clean, Fed & Dressed Children who are ready On Time.

It didn't go exactly as planned.

C slept through his alarm. The kids slept late too. Which meant I did as well.

Lukan didn't want to wake up. Then he refused to eat breakfast.

Téo dawdled over his.

Then Lukan wanted some orange juice, and spilled it all over himself.

We were 30min late in leaving the house to take Lukan to the garderie - by which time school had already started.

Luckily, school for the new kids didn't start until the afternoon. Even luckier, by pure chance we found this out on Saturday, instead of this morning.

(Yes, it seems we are the parents who Don't Read Letters Properly.)

So, Téo was at least on time for school.

Then...I bought a BBQed chook to ensure I would be able to achieve the New Evening Schedule of dinner at 6 and kids in bed by 7 (an hour earlier than before).

All I had to do was stick some chips in the oven and pick some tomatoes.

Even so, dinner wasn't on the table until 7.

The kids weren't in bed until 8.

(Although, since the kids haven't been getting to bed until 8.30 lately, at least there was some movement in the right direction on this front.)

I am feeling a bit like a headless chicken.

Change coming

So C has put Air on, and it's the perfect soundtrack to these past few weeks... languid, slow, melting.

It's really really hot. Day after day of fierce sun and blue skies and afternoon storm clouds that build menacingly but rarely bring cooling rain.

The unhurriedness and heaviness that come with the heat make it seem like we're still on holidays. Weekends snoozing on friends' lawns and paddling in luke-warm lakes. Weekday afternoons seeking relief in the neighbour's luke-warm pool. Evenings splashing in the paddling pool. Swimmers always hanging up to dry. Skin sticky with sunscreen. Kids' bedtimes not strictly observed.

Monday is going to be a bit of a shock.

For the first time ever in my life as a mother, I'm going to have to have myself and the kids presentable and fed and out the door bright and early, every day, to get Téo to school and Lukan to the garderie.

No more faffing about in the morning, handing the kids over to the babysitter at whatever stage they're at - eating breakfast, just woken up, still asleep.

No more lazy afternoons that lead to late dinners and late bedtimes.

Summer, and my easy ride so far as a mother, is over.

Good bye Air, hello marching band.

Yikes.

Grrrrrrrr

In the past few weeks, our camcorder, printer, and DVD player have all broken. All are about 4 years old. They are not used that heavily, or roughly. They are all (supposedly) good brands. And fixing them will of course cost way more than simply buying new ones*.

I resent this forcing of people to replace their electronic equipment so often.

Is a working life of more than 4 years really too much to expect??

I am very pissed off.

* We already got the camcorder repaired once, 2 years ago, for a small fortune. So this time, even me and my "repair-don't-buy-a-new-one" mantra cannot be convinced to fix it again.

In which a subclause is hastily attached to the rule on sharing toys

- So Téo, what do you want to give Lukan for his birthday?

- A Thomas Lego train. No, Edward. No, the grey one.

- OK then, I'll look for one.

- Because I can play with it too. I'd like to play with it.

- Well, but it's Lukan's birthday present so it's his to play with, do you understand?

- Yes. We'll share.

- Well yes, you'll share, but it's Lukan's to play with first.

- Yes. [nods earnestly]

- OK then.

- For 5 minutes. And then it's my turn.

The wheelbarrow effect

We are not always very good at arranging in advance to see people. When we lived in the city, Saturday morning would roll around, and we'd be like so what are we going to do today? And then we'd phone a few people and find that they already had plans, so we'd end up at the park or riding the buses with the kids all weekend.

Last weekend, Saturday morning rolled around, and apart from an invitation to friends' in the evening, we had nothing planned. Maybe we'll go there a bit early, we decided. Like, 4pm instead of 7pm*.

And then C went to his parents' to borrow their wheelbarrow.

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He came back without the kids, and with an invitation to lunch.

Téo went with his grandmother to a neighbour's** to pick figs, and got an invitation for a swim in their pool.

After lunch, Téo's cousins appeared and wanted to come back home with us.

(We got home to find a friend had dropped in to say hello.)

V and A stopped by to pick up their kids, and were convinced that they could go with Téo for a swim in the neighbours' bigger pool.

----------

We ended up getting to our friends' at 7. Just.***

* Before you get worried we'll show up at your place 3 hours early just because we have nothing else to do, our friends had already given us this option.

** C's godfather's son. No neighbour is unrelated!! (Well, almost.)

*** The evening was lovely too - it was Swiss National Day, so after a BBQ the bigger kids and most of the adults walked down to the lake to see the fireworks and bonfire, following a lantern-bearing procession of children. There were throw downs - remember those?? And also fireworks you could light yourself! And the biggest bonfire I have ever seen! (Seriously, the flames were LEAPING.) Was a trip back to my childhood, before all these things were banned in Oz...

Too funny

And an update: I didn't join my school FB group.

And we're back!

The holiday was fabulous. More than fabulous.

Some highlights:

Being alone on a beach on a still, silent misty morning, heading back to camp, and suddenly hearing a whale spout in the water behind me, the sound so close I startled.

Kayaking in glassy waters in the evening sunshine, fish jumping all around, the forest floating past, spotting a sea otter close to shore.

Kayaking over kelp.

Watching three orca fins move past our campsite, everyone screaming with delight, Téo saying over and over I can't believe it! Lukan saying over and over Splash! Splash!

Oohing and ahhing as a bald eagle flew right overhead... and an incredulous moment of silence as it swooped to take the fish P had just released back in the sea.

Delicious smoky meals.

Toasting marshmallows.

Blueberries. Oh my god, Canadian blueberries.

Playing Settlers of Catan in the forest late into the night by dim, hand-pumped torchlight.

Forest, forest and more forest. I have never seen so much forest.

Taking the kids on their first canoe ride.

Swimming in cold, clear lakes, the mountains rising above.

How easy camping with kids turned out to be.

Flying right past Mount Rainier and Mount St. Helens.

Lukan's joy at riding in a limo.

Téo's mock screams and real giggles on his first rollercoaster ride.

Diving under the warm waves in California.

Aiming water canons at everyone within reach on the Splash battle ride.

Catching up with old friends, and getting to know new ones.

----------

Now it's back to regular life.

And we're off!

So one thing I haven't accepted very well about being a parent is the holidays. Holidays that are no longer about I want to do, but what a kid wants to do. Or more accurately, can do without a major meltdown, in between naps and bedtime.

Maybe it would have been easier to enjoy sitting at the beach watching Téo throw rocks in the water for hours on end if we were living in Australia, where I have already had lots of more active holidays. But I'm not in my home country, and THERE ARE SO MANY PLACES I HAVE NEVER BEEN TO ON THIS SIDE OF THE WORLD!!! So, while we've had excellent company (we've always gone away with friends or family) and a great time in fabulous places, I've still felt a niggling feeling of constraint. A frustration that we weren't doing enough. Weren't seeing enough. Weren't really having an adventure.

I did get over this by the time Téo was nearly three, where we had two weeks of sitting on the beach watching him throw rocks in the water for hours on end, and not once did I feel the need to explore the French countryside. Although, the fact that it was hot and I was 8 months pregnant may have had something to do with that.

Anyway, a couple of weekends ago we went hiking, just a short hike, but still, Téo climbed a mountain. And my goodness was it good to get out and do something. And for Téo to do so well, on what is actually a bit of a scramble even for adults.

I felt like our pre-kid life was coming back. Instead of feeling frustrated at all the things we can't do because of the kids, I started to look forward to all the stuff we can do, with the kids.

And now, we have this year's summer holiday - which starts in only two more sleeps! There will be an enormous campervan! And tents! And hiking! And kayaking with (hopefully) orcas! And (hopefully not too close) bears! And then there will be a Space Needle! Followed by Sea World! And Lego Land!

I'm trying not to be too excited about these adventures - especially kayaking with orcas - in case we do end up just sitting at the beach watching Téo and Lukan throw rocks in the water for hours on end.

But even if we do, I'm still very excited about spending time with the people we are going away with, and then visiting. (And also, Lego Land. Rollercoasters!)

It's going to be fabulous.

Lost in translation

- Dog! (pointing to the dogs on his pyjamas)

- Oui Lukan, c'est un chien.

- No papa, dog. Dog. Dog. (jabbing at pyjamas)

- Oui, un chien.

- No papa, dog. Dog. Dog. (more jabbing)

- Oui, un chien.

- No papa. Dog. Woof woof!

(Apologies if you don't think this is cute or funny. Sometimes I read other people's supposedly hilarious toddler stories, and they're not funny at all. But this is funny, right? The woof woof? To explain to his papa what a dog is? Cute! And funny! Right?!)

Breakthrough

Sock, said Téo out of the blue, at the airport in Abu Dhabi on our way to Sydney in March.

Sock starts with S.

------------------

Last year, whenever I thought about Téo going to school, I'd feel a tightness in my chest. Not because mah baybee was all grown up and going to school, but because he is going to school to do... nothing.

Nothing. NOTHING.

For his first two years at school, he will be expected to:

1. Learn to count to 10.
2. Learn the names of some colours.
3. Learn to sit still and do an activity for 15 minutes.

Two years. That's all he'll be learning. Things he's been able to do since he was 3. Nothing more until he's 7.

Only the thought that this country is a highly successful one not known for a poorly educated population kept a full blown panic attack at bay.

Because I like the Australian system better. I do think this age (and even younger) is a good age to start real teaching - now, when they are so eager to learn. Now, so any problems can be picked up early. Now, so that their experiences and interests can already be broadened.

I've found it hard going back to Sydney and seeing my niece reading since she was 4, seeing how much other stuff she's learning. I've worried and fretted that Téo is missing out on this. And admitted I'll find it hard to see Téo fall behind his Australian peers once my friends' kids his age start school.

I've ranted and felt frustrated... and then I got over myself. It's not like he'll never learn anything, it's just going to be later. And actually, it gives me a chance I otherwise would not have had - the chance to teach him to read in English (which I wouldn't have done if he were simultaneously learning to read in French at school).

-------------------

I had already made this decision by the time of the airport proclamation - which came as a bit of a surprise given how little I had done to teach Téo anything about reading. Even his recitation of the alphabet was still pretty sketchy.

But this proclamation - realisation - signalled the start of a definite interest in letters and words. And it came at a good time - his Australian cousin of the same age was doing the same thing and just starting to read, which served as good reinforcement.

I bought a heap of work books in Sydney, with the intention that we would start our lessons once he started school.

But Téo had other ideas. After I explained to him that I would teach him to read, he wanted lessons straight away. Some of this was a ploy to have my attention, I am sure, but still, he was definitely interested.

A couple of weeks ago, we started. C S T O A. The five most commonly used letters in English.

The first three times, he was nearly there, but not quite. He could say the sound each letter made, but not really put the sounds together to make a word unless I said the sounds first. And even once he'd sounded out then said a word, he didn't seem to recognise it the next time he saw it. He'd guess, or try to fit the words to what he wanted them to be. He stayed on the cusp of getting it.

Yesterday he came to my office again. Mummy, can I have a weading lesson?

He wasn't interested in the preliminary stuff, the practising of individual letter sounds. Go straight to the big words mummy.

The first page, he sounded out the letters perfectly and then said the words, without me doing anything. The second page, he read. He read!

a cat sat at a cot.

I clearly remember the moment I realised I could read, 35 years ago in Kindergarten. Little man, I hope you remember your moment too.

Reality reading

Most of you know I like to read. Love to read. A lot. A lot a lot.

There was a time, not that long ago, when I went through books like I went through peanut butter. I had an excellent librarian, and I bought lots of my own. Sometimes it was even a problem - I wouldn't be able to get on with life until I had finished the book I was reading. Or I'd feel a bit panicked if I didn't have anything new to start. Books, books, books, I couldn't ever have enough books.

-------------------

My dad didn't like fiction so much - in books, TV, or movies. I couldn't really understand it. Books were such a wonderful escape! And a way to see things from a different point of view! And the language, it could be so beautiful! And the characters, you could get so drawn into them!

But no, he preferred historical accounts, or informative articles about reality.

-------------------

When I was in Sydney, my brother said he was becoming like dad - less and less tolerant of fiction, and more interested in non-fiction.

-------------------

A couple of weeks ago, a friend asked what I'd read lately.

Nothing.

Which is true, I haven't read a book for ages.

But actually, I have read a lot. A lot a lot. It's just that I find myself embarrassed to say what.

-------------------

If I think about it, I haven't read a good book - a really really good book - in a very long time. I'm always finding fault with the premise, or the plot, or the writing itself, or else I don't feel anything for the characters or their situation.

Like my brother. Like my dad.

-------------------

Blogs.

That's what I've been reading. The stories that other people write - well-written, thoughtful, provocative real stories from their real lives - reach into me and affect me far more than books. These open my eyes to other situations, other possibilities. These make me feel the full sum of what it is to be human - the positions we get ourselves into, the consequences of the choices we make, the random, tragic shit that can happen. These make me think about my own choices, my own life. These make me laugh out loud, cry, shake my head in disbelief, feel humble.

Fiction seems contrived in comparison. It's not real enough.

-------------------

I find it really really hard to admit to what I've been reading though. Because even though they are real, blogs somehow seem less real, less worthy than a book.

-------------------

I once worked with someone who, whenever there was a general conversation about something, would join in giving examples from a show she'd seen on TV. Not from her own experience, like everyone else was doing. I always thought this was very sad, this regurgitating of a made up story as if it were a real life experience.

I guess I fear being judged in the same way, if I talk about a blog post I read?

-------------------

So I tend to say nothing, even though I haven't thought so much about so many different things for a long time.

Untitled

Last week, C and I had a talk.

The whole not trying, but also not not trying, was no longer working for me. I needed clarity. With only three conceptions in the six years and 2 months since we stopped using contraception, it's fairly clear that we don't make a baby unless we really really try to. So do we want another one, or do we not? Because time is running out if we do - we'd already agreed we didn't want more than 3 years between Lukan and any younger sibling. That leaves only five more chances.

Five more chances. I almost can't breathe writing that, it's so definite. So definitely unlikely.

C is clear. Any baby that comes is very welcome, but I don't want to try.

I am less clear. Or maybe, just more reluctantly clear.

I want a girl. I really really want a baby girl.

And that is not right. If we have another child, it is to have another child. With Téo and Lukan, we wanted a child. We wished for a healthy child. I cannot let myself wish for a girl. Because what if we make a boy? I do not want to look at my child and think, I did not wish for you. And what if we make an unhealthy girl? I do not want to look at my child and think, I wished for the wrong thing.

If we try to make another baby, I know I will be hoping with all my heart for a girl. I will actively do everything I can for a girl, even if it's all bogus (I've looked it up on Google, people). Knowing this is wrong, I cannot allow myself to try.

It's more than an intellectual exercise, though. A couple of months ago, a sudden bout of nausea made me wonder if I was pregnant - and what I felt was a jolt of absolute terror. I didn't want to go through pregnancy again. I didn't want to go through that first year again.

I'm happy with the two children I have. They are perfect. They are enough.

So, that night last week, I agreed I should get my tubes tied. It's time to admit I am done with baby-making.

---------------------------------

Even though I know it's the right decision, I'm still reluctant. I'm grieving for Kaia, my imagined third child, my daughter.

---------------------------------

This week, my period was late. My period is never late. I couldn't quite believe what this suggested - it would almost be the immaculate conception if I was in fact pregnant. But one day passed, then another, then another, then another. I became quietly hopeful.

I was hopeful I was pregnant. I was hopeful it was a stayer. I wouldn't let my mind go any further, but I knew I would be hopeful the baby would be OK, would be born alive, would not die of SIDS. One hope at a time, but not one of them about its gender.

I'm not pregnant.

I'm not gutted. I'm not relieved. I'm accepting better that there will be no third child. I'm happy I wanted a baby more than a girl. I'm still grieving for Kaia. I'm so looking forward to all we can do with older children, so soon now. I'm clucky when I see a newborn. There's contradictions everywhere. But strangely, right now, I feel at peace.

Whatever will be, will be.

Double trouble

- MUMMY! COME!

And from the little parrot, two seconds later:

- MAH-MEE! CUH!

Hoo boy.

Explanation

This was me for the few weeks. Droopy.

Every night I went to bed hoping the next day would be different, but it wasn't. I was unmotivated. Uninspired. Couldn't be bothered. Chronically tired. For two whole weeks.

Finally, on Tuesday, whatever it was passed. I made a list of things to do work-wise, and crossed them all off! I opened a recipe book and cooked a different dinner! I recommenced work on the photobook/diary I am doing for the kids! I was back!

And now I am panicked - we're going a way in 3 weeks and, thanks to my droopiness, I'm way behind in my work.

So posting may still be light here.

Moments

I said hurry up.

Impatient, rude. Intolerable. I immediately snap back Don't speak to me like that Téo, and as the words leave my mouth, I simultaneously recognize his perfect mimic of my own rude, impatient tone, and remember how as a kid I hated this same hypocrisy.

----------------------------------

Sitting in the trolley at the supermarket, Lukan reaches out for me, puts his arms around my neck, pulls me close, hugs me tight, lets me go with a wide grin, kisses my cheek.

Later, driving home, I realize my weekly shopping trips with Lukan will be over once he starts at the garderie in August. I already start to miss this time with him.

---------------------------------------

Téo has woken, after being asleep in Nani's car, which she left outside the house. He comes inside and collapses in tears, his neck sore, his head still groggy. He climbs into my lap, sobbing, and I hold him until he feels better.

---------------------------------------

I'm on the toilet. Lukan is wailing into my lap, upset that I won't let him sit on the couch to eat his rice cake, smearing said rice cake, now mushy with tears, into my clothes. Téo has squeezed himself between the toilet and the wall, demanding a hug. I feel crowded and stifled. I'd just like a minute, half a minute even, to go to the toilet alone.

---------------------------------------

Apropos of nothing, Téo calls down the stairs: I love you mummy! You're the best mummy in the whole world!

---------------------------------------

I show Téo a grasshopper, perfectly camouflaged as an old brown leaf, in his new sticker book, telling him how this protects the grasshopper from being eaten by birds. He doesn't seem that interested, barely waiting for me to finish speaking before he's clutching the book away, wanting to look at something else.

But then afterwards, he shows the grasshopper to everyone who comes to our house, explaining how it looks like a leaf so the birds won't eat it.

---------------------------------------

We're going upstairs. Téo races ahead to hide behind the bathroom door. Lukan toddles after him, giggling. When I get there, they leap out gleefully, shouting BOOOOO!!!!!

---------------------------------------

We're talking about Téo's first day at school. I'm going to ride my bike to school, all by myself, he says. Not with you mummy, all by myself.

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Lukan is in bed. Goo-nigh tractor bom bom bom bom he sings, his rendition of "Goodnight Sweetheart", which we have sung to him every night. Good night mummy, sleep well, see you in the morning Téo says as I leave the room, preempting my own ritualistic repeating of these words.

Good night my boys.

High school angst

I didn't enjoy my time at high school. Not at all, not a bit. I remember when Year 9 ended, when I was 15, thinking Oh God, there's still three more years to go. A heavy weight descended at that realisation, and didn't lift until school was finally over.

What was wrong? Well, I wasn't that engaged in the classes (even though I did OK), it felt like torture having to go back and study the same things over and over for 2 whole years in preparation for the final exams, I hated the way the school treated us like children, I hated the whole crappy line (and numerous threats) that how we did at school would determine the rest of our lives, the uniform sucked, and I didn't like the caste system where you had your group of friends and that was that, even if the group didn't really get along. Toss in a regular dose of teen angst, the whole cool kids vs dags thing, and some teenage girl bitchiness (it was a girls' school), and, well, you get the picture.

Since leaving, I have kept in touch with just one school friend. There were a few more at first, I even went to a couple of weddings, but eventually we lost contact. We didn't seem to have anything in common. I had no desire to go to any reunions. I can't even remember the bulk of the girls in my year.

Which makes it kind of odd that, every now and again, I become intensely curious about how people turned out. I'd love to be a fly on the wall at a reunion. I'd jump at the chance to spy, with no way for anyone to see me. I can't figure out the motivation for this... do I want to mock? To gloat? To buzz in the ears of the girls I didn't like?

So anyway, this week, out of the blue, I got the chance to be that fly. Another friend from school, who I am actually very happy found me through Facebook last year, sent me an invitation to join the Facebook group for my year.

Only, I'm a fly trapped outside. I can see tiny faces of a few people, get small tantalizing glimpses of their lives now, but can't do a good close-up snoop. For that, I'd need to friend these people. And then they'd be able to snoop on me, too.

Oh the angst. Do I join the group? Do I friend? Do I just keep coming back to the window every now and again to see what I can glean?

And most pressing of all: why is a group of middle-aged women I haven't seen for half my life taking up so much of my thinking time?

Public service announcements

If, on a day when it has been raining heavily, you go to the shops and uncharacteristically decide to park outside instead of under cover, then even though it may not have rained for some time, the trolleys in the car park will all be wet, including the seat for your toddler.

If, while at the shops, you decide to visit the garden centre, and see some promising-looking pots for some plants you recently bought, and those pots have rims, and are stacked upsidedown on a high shelf, and the shelf is outside, then when you pick up a pot to get it down, the rainwater in the rim will pour down your arm.

The same thing will happen when you get a second pot down too. Only if that pot is bigger, there will be even more water.

If you shriek and jerk in an attempt to avoid getting drenched a second time, then the water will land on your toddler sitting in the trolley.

And you can guarantee that, when it's time to leave, and you have grocery shopping plus pots and maybe a few plants to load into the car, it will be pissing down.

I hear you little man

So I read a bit too late last night, and then C had to get up at something like 5.30 this morning, and even though he was quiet, I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep. Then Lukan woke at 6.30, waking Téo too. Which led to Téo declaring over breakfast (15 chatter-filled minutes later, mind you):

I can't wake up because I'm too tired.

Illness

So I think I had swine flu.

Stop rolling your eyes - yes you, oh friends of many years. Yes I know I have been convinced I had leukemia. Yes I know my dad once diagnosed me with a brain tumour. So yes, OK, there is a slight tendency to hypochondria in my family. But just hear me out, and then tell me I didn't have swine flu.

You may remember I mentioned Lukan and I were sick the first week we were in Sydney. Well, we were pretty badly sick. My mum, sister-in-law, and brother got it even worse. My sister-in-law, for example, was in bed for 3 days.

Now, my mum and I puzzled over this bug, thinking maybe we were actually infected with two different bugs, because we had very sore throats and bad coughs, as well as nausea and for some of us, vomiting and diarrhea. Plus fevers, lethary, and lack of appetite for many days afterwards. We just couldn't imagine what kind of bug could be both cold-like and gastro-like.

But then, last night I thought I'd catch up on the swine flu outbreak... and found the following:

(Diagram from a very reliable source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2009_swine_flu_outbreak#Symptoms_and_severity)

Now, it's true we were not in Mexico this year, and actually Lukan - the one who got the rest of us sick - has never been to Mexico, and also our illnesses predate the current outbreak by a good month, and we haven't been in contact with any pigs... but apart from that, IT ALL MATCHES PERFECTLY!

I love this age

If having another kid meant skipping the baby stage and getting a 20-month-old, there'd be no doubt in my mind. I'd have 10.

Something new

See that photo over there to the right? It's a new thing I'm trying out, something between this blog and flickr where I can show a bit more of our life and the things that strike me, things which aren't worth a full post but have more of a story than a photo alone. Click on the photo to get the text.

I'll start off with showing you around the village, and see how I go from there...

Prejudice

Spring has burst forth, and so have the dandelions. I may have cleared them from the front garden, but the back is a different matter altogether - and one even my anal retentiveness accepts is not worth the effort.

My recent gardening aside, I do actually want the back garden to be more of a meadow than carefully tended lawns and beds (to which end I have even been pulling up grass and replacing it with weeds - weeds I determinedly eradicated from the front garden and replaced with grass. Why yes, you are right, there is indeed no end to my folly).

But while intellectually I know that a meadow means dandelions, those little yellow flowers still bug me. Even though I have to admit that, en masse, they are quite pretty just now. Even though I can't honestly say that they are really any less pretty than the other flowers I have transplanted these last weekends, flowers I would be quite happy to have invade the "lawn":

I just don't like dandelions in my garden.

Roots

This is one of the four wheelbarrowfuls of bulbs that, over the past two weekends, I dug up from my mother-in-law's and replanted around the walnut tree in our back garden.

They were doomed to die - C's parents moved into their new house just before Easter, and C's brother's family are having renovations done before they move into the old house, and the machinery that will knock down one wall of the house will pass right over C's mother's former flower beds.

I'm happy to have been able to save them. Some were flowers I already planned to plant in my garden, some were plants that C's mother wanted to keep, and others, well, they just seemed too pretty to leave to be squashed. And then I realised that some have special memories for C's mother, and while I didn't save them for her, I like the idea that these flowers have a history.

I hope they survive the move.

Egg hunt

Their sheer delight in hunting for, and then finding, small bits of crappy chocolate saw me running ahead of them all morning, hiding extra eggs, ignoring my cruel and obsessive quest to limit sugar intake at every opportunity. Just for one day, though.

Why have kids?

Good question.

When I was a teenager and well into my 20s, I declared I wouldn't be having any. The future seemed bleak, there were already too many people, why bring more into it? I was sure I'd terminate any pregnancy.

Then I turned 30. I can't say I felt the ticking of any clock, but I did feel a subtle, fundamental shift: I suspected that I wouldn't terminate a pregnancy.

Then I met C... and his family. The first time I came to their village, his parents and sister were at the station to meet me off the train, and his brother and his brother's girlfriend were waiting back at the house where we all had cake and tea. At midnight.

Even not understanding a word, the closeness of this family was palpable. I looked at everyone chatting and laughing easily, and imagined how proud C's parents must be of their children.

For the first time ever, I thought it would be nice to have a family of my own.

-------------------------------------

Last year a friend of mine wrote an article questioning how green it is to have kids.

I work for environmental organizations. I know humanity is stripping the planet bare. I know that having a child is the single worst thing I could ever do footprint-wise. I actually have little hope for the future of most nature, entirely because of human overpopulation. Yet I still reproduced, twice. And there's a chance I may even do so again.

I do worry about the future - the possibility of war, of famine, of miserable toiling to survive ... the realities of many places today, and most generations prior to my own. I really do feel like I'm living in this little bubble of peace and luxury, a bubble that will soon pop to join the vast majority of experiences in the rest of human history.

So why did I have kids then, adding to the number of people and subjecting them to suffer the consequences of climate change and other environmental upheavals?

In her article, my friend says that when she posed the same question, she was met with resounding silence.

In trying to answer her question, I too find myself mute. I wrote the above months ago, but have come up with nothing more than I wanted a family. And the sure knowledge that despite knowing how environmentally unfriendly our species is, despite understanding the seriousness of overpopulation, despite my worries about the future, I will never, not for a single second, regret or feel guilt for my kids' existence, no matter how many I have.

Selfish genes indeed.

Talking points

Lukan's speaking picked up pace while we were in Sydney - it was the whole new word each day thing, and even a sentence (mah-mee, where yah yoo?) and counting to five. So cute! So lovely!

But any happy thoughts of how life will be easier once he can talk properly were quickly dispelled in the car yesterday.

- So, what are we going to do about ...

- MAH-MEE!

- Yes Lukan?

- Scuse me mummy...

- Hang on Téo, yes Lukan?

- Ka!

- Yes, you saw a car. Téo?

- Mummy, when is S coming to stay at our place?

- In two weeks. So then, what are we...

- MAH-MEE!

- Is S coming tomorrow?

- No Téo, in two weeks. OK, about...

- MAH-MEE!

- Yes Lukan?

- Dac-der!

- Now about...

- MAH-MEE! MAH-MEE!

- Yes Lukan?

- Dac-der!

- Yes Lukan, you saw a tractor.

- Mummy...

- Téo, you need to say excuse me. Abou...

- Scuse me mummy, it's tomorrow that she's coming?

- No, not tomorrow, in two weeks.

- MAH-MEE!

It was easier when they were mute.

English to French and back again

Téo's first words were in English. Then, one by one, they turned to French.

I panicked. I searched for English playmates, implored C to speak to him in English, toyed with the idea of an English creche. He only watched DVDs in English. Most of his books were in English. My child would speak English!!

It wasn't until he was over three though that he began talking properly in English. Prior to that, his French was French, but his English was franglais, a mix of English and French. Even my native-English-speaking friends here spoke to him in French since he mainly spoke in French.

The trigger was going to Sydney for Christmas. After a week or so, his franglais disappeared - and he never looked back. He could switch perfectly between English and French depending on who he was speaking to. He could translate for me when I didn't understand. His grammar was sometimes a bit mixed up, and he had a French accent when speaking English and an English one when speaking French, but he was fully bilingual.

His only hangup was that he couldn't talk to me in French, or to C in English. I suspect he still can't talk to me in French, but in August, during our English-speaking holiday in Scotland, he became able to speak to C in English. Another breakthrough.

Then, with visits late last year from my mum, brother's family and school friend, he had six more weeks of only speaking English between September and November. More and more often he began to initiate conversations with C in English. His French turned to franglais. And in February, he started talking to our Swiss friends - friends we have only ever spoken to in French - in English.

We arrived back home from Australia on Saturday - and Téo can no longer speak French. It all went out, he explained to C when at his cousins' over the weekend.

Um, oops. Guess my English offensive went a bit too far there.

Brave to be home

Once again, several of you called me brave while I was in Oz. Brave for flying halfway around the world with two little kids, brave for being a single mum for a month.

Honestly though, compared to being home alone with the kids today, the trip was easy peesy.

Four hours sleep during a 24-hour journey? Fine. Lukan throwing up copiously on the plane to Sydney? Fine. Lukan just being Lukan on the plane? Fine. A sick, clingy, whiny Lukan for 2 weeks? Fine. Lukan waking me at 5 most mornings? Fine.

Yes, it was all fine because even though I was tired, we were never alone. With new toys to examine, playmates each day and fun excursions, Téo did not constantly demand my attention. And being in other people's homes meant I didn't really have to do anything. I helped when I could, but it wasn't me planning the meals, doing the shopping, or cooking. I wasn't working. I didn't have a house to keep tidy. I didn't even completely look after my own washing.

Today I had to do all these things (except work, that starts tomorrow). Lukan was sick. Téo nagged nonstop for me to play with him. Fusses were kicked up. We were all up at 5 thanks to Lukan... and my goodness does the day drag when you're up that early, it's grey and chilly outside, and you have no adult company. Oddly, tolerance to bedtime screaming also becomes severely diminished.

C is away from tomorrow morning until midnight Friday. I'm thinking I should have stayed in Sydney for another week...

Sydney summer

Cockies screeching
Lorrikeets chattering
Kookaburras laughing
Kids squealing, chasing, splashing

Planes roaring
Prawns sizzling
Sausages blackening
Wine opened, poured and drunk

Night falling
Lightning flashing
Thunder scaring
Fat drops chase us home

Postcard

Dear all,

We are in Australia! I did mean to tell you we were going, but, well, you know, things got busy. So then I thought I'd pop you a line to say we'd arrived safely, but Lukan and I were quite sick the first week, and jet lagged, so not much got done. We left the bug with my family in Sydney and headed to Melbourne for a week. Tomorrow we go back to Sydney where I hope my brother will have gotten rid of the bug. And forgiven me for letting it loose in his house.

Anyway, we are having fun and enjoying the warmth, water and sand. I'll fill you in once I'm back home.

love Emma

I guess this is why it's called abstract art

- What's dat picture of mummy?

- Well, what do you think it looks like?

- It's a princess.

- A princess?? You don't think it looks like a wave?

- No, a princess. See, there's her shoe.

Don't do this at work

Do you know it can be very hard to tell the difference between natural boobs and those with implants by sight alone?

I discovered this one Friday afternoon while I was living in Germany. My shared office was empty, and someone had just sent me a heap of boob pictures in a PowerPoint presentation where you had to say which ones were natural and which ones implanted.

Should be easy, I thought. Just need to look at the position of the nipple. And maybe for scars.

I guessed fake for the first picture. Wrong. Real for the next. Wrong.

Oh come on those are surely fake!

Wrong.

Those ones are small, they must be real!

Wrong.

Wow, this is hard, I thought, maximizing the file and leaning closer to my computer screen for better investigation of each picture.

Wrong wrong wrong.

I was deep in examination of a pair of nipples, nose pressed right up to the screen, determined to get at least one right, when it happened.

A tentative tap tap tap.

I turned to see the new work experience girl, all of 16, who'd knocked on my desk to get my attention so she could ask me a question. About work.

I may have blushed.

Mellowing monster

Do you think he's gotten easier lately?

Definitely.

I've mentioned before that Lukan can be a bit of a pest. Before he become mobile, I think we had one broken toy. Now we have a collection. He purposely pulls and twists and tugs on everything, until it comes apart. He rips pages out of books. He delights in breaking apart Téo's Lego constructions and train tracks. He throws. He whacks. He tangles. He unplugs.

He opens every drawer he can, and empties their contents. Repeatedly. Same for bins. Toilet brushes are his favourite thing of all, with toilets a close second.

He twists and turns on the change table, standing up whenever he can to turn the lights on and off.

He broke a 1 litre bottle of olive oil on our very absorbent limestone floor. There are chips in the floor all around his high chair from when he's thrown his cutlery down. The brand new table is dented for the same reason. He's broken two plastic plates, my hair dryer, plastic knobs on our toilet, and an electric power plug.

There was no coaching, no coaxing, no direction at all for the Lukanzilla video.

But then, last week, I noticed there's been less trouble. We can leave the bathroom door open and not end up with toilet paper all over the floor. We've been able to untie all the kitchen drawers. He stays on his back during nappy changes. He's not throwing unwanted food on the floor. I took him into a pharmacy and - despite the shelves and shelves of bottles and boxes right at his eye level - he didn't touch a thing. Even more remarkable, he opened a drawer while I was having a shower and when I said no, don't take anything out, he actually listened. He didn't look happy, but he didn't empty it.

Which is all a very welcome development ahead of our plane trip to Sydney in 10 days.

Celebrating friends and love

It took us until the end of January to finally pack away our Christmas tree decorations. But the tree was still fine, and it seemed a shame to just chuck it out.

So Téo, Lukan and I embarked on a new decoration project.

Those are your names there, on the hearts.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone!

First memories

I have a few hazy first memories. Being in the bath at my aunt's while mum was in hospital after my brother was born. Running up fire stairs at the hospital when I went to visit them. Cutting my finger. But they are very vague and hard to catch hold of, more like a remembered glimpse of a blurry image than later memories with their movement and colours and emotions.

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The other day I mentioned our old apartment to Téo and asked if he remembered living there.

Yes. I peed on the floor and you were cranky with me.

That seems a lot clearer than my early memories.

So does his recollection this week of another not-so-happy event.

Mummy, why did the policeman have to bweak the window and then they gave me a lion?

When he was 2.5, I accidentally locked him in the car while we were in Sydney. On a hot day. At lunch time. Parked in the sun.

Neither the police not the NRMA could pick the lock (WTF? How come car thieves seem to be able to do it no problem??) so, after 20 min or so and Téo getting very obviously very hot, they decided to smash the window.

I didn't like it when they bweaked the window. It made too much noise. I cwied.

For a while afterwards he would say the police gave him the toy lion, and we would talk about how he was rescued, but he hasn't said anything for ages. Like, years. And I never really said anything about him crying, I always praised him for being so brave.

So great, another traumatic first memory. And one that seems unlikely to fade - his favourite game these days goes along the lines of you be stuck in the car mummy and I'll be the police and I'll come and wescue you. EEEEE-OOORRR EEEEE-OOORRR SMASH SMASH I bwoke the window, you can get out now!

Fabulous.

Thank you, Sesame Street

For Mandy

Apparently imaginary frogs are OK

So you remember the whole my-kids-will-not-be-believing-in-Santa thing? Well, I'm a hypocrite. The whole time I was destroying Téo's sweet fantasies about a benevolent distributor of presents, I was doing nothing to curb another belief: the frog in his throat.

Yes, Téo believes there is a frog living in his throat.

It all started when mum was here. She often has to clear her throat in the morning, and Téo was curious. She said she had a frog in her throat. He became fascinated.

Since then, every time time he coughs he says it's because of the frog.

Plus he's been opening his mouth wide, showing off the frog to everyone who'll look. Of course, everyone he shows plays along, exclaiming over said frog.

And what have I done? Smiled indulgently and said nothing. Because it is pretty funny.

Last week he went further, saying his throat hurt because le fwog bited me.

I admit that at this point, I felt a few qualms. Before the frog came along, he was able to tell me that his throat hurt because of germs, but that his body was going to kill the germs. He knew some biology. I was proud. I was less proud that he was now attributing the soreness to an imaginary amphibian. I tried to correct him, but no mummy, it's because of le fwog.

And since then? Well, I've let it go. It's cute. It's harmless. And I do like quizzing him about where the frog is when it's not in his throat. You know, le fwog managed to escape! It saw my mouz open, and it hopped out, and den it saw le mouz of grand-maman open, and it hopped into her swoat! Fancy dat!

So then, apparently I feel that letting children believe in popular myths is BAD, but letting them believe in independent and alternative untruths is absolutely FINE AND DANDY.

From my CD collection you'd never guess I'm such an elitist snob.

Getting out of the house

Every now and again I come across a comment saying you are a lazy evil selfish callous cold-hearted monster if you put your kids in childcare. Well, the actual words may be more like kids should stay at home with a parent, but the subtext is clear.

I'm not going to get on any soap box justifying my decision to work, nor my childcare choices. But such comments always make me snort a little.

For the last couple of months, Téo has been begging to go to a garderie (childcare centre). BEGGING. As in Pleeeeaaasssseeee mummy can I go to the garderie? I want to go to the garderie! Please can I go? Please?

We found a garderie at Saas Fe (which meant C and I got in a lot more skiing than we had expected. Yey!) On our way there the first morning, Téo skipped along excitedly telling me all about what he was going to tell his carers. He and Lukan made a beeline for the toys as soon as they arrived, barely even looking up to say goodbye when I left. The next day we decided not to go skiing and to keep the kids with us. Téo sulked. I want to go to le garderie. You are not interesting. (Although, after riding in cable cars, eating chips in a revolving restaurant and going inside a glacier, he did concede that the day hadn't been so bad after all.) The following two mornings they were both happy to be left at the garderie.

We finally got Téo one and a half days a week at a garderie across the valley. When I told him, he squealed in delight. He started last week, and counts the days until the next time he goes.

It's very hard for me to believe he should stay home with me all the time.