This guy deserves a medal

All of the why’s and damnations would come later. For now, I was witnessing my husband holding his baby for the last time. I stared at him intently as I sat next to him. His entire face was wet and swollen with tears and emotion. The quiet, gentle, geeky teenager who became the funny, gorgeous man I married, now looking like a broken little boy.

“I just thought if I could get her outside and let her feel the sun, she would be alright,” he looked at me imploringly, almost as if by saying it and meaning it hard enough it might change things and allow her to come back. “If I could just hold her, outside, out of here…” 

from "Into The Bliss: Having & Holding Ellanor", by K.A. Whatman

It's Steve's 40th today.

This means he has devoted half of his life to me, and to our two daughters. He's amazing.

He is gentle, mild, extremely funny and intelligent. And he allowed me to convince him to cut off his mullet and stop wearing the moccassins in public.

Thank. God.

Trawling through photos that his parents gave me last week, I found a photo of us with Ella I have never seen before. My breath caught in my throat.

Two weeks old, only two weeks left unbeknownst to us

As I was going through our own collection to look for all the shots Steve had been in, I found photos I've seen before - of him, being him... being goofy, being an uncle, grinning widely with our siblings' children - and this time, I checked the dates. It struck me how often we had photos taken of us, smiling and involved, so soon after Ellanor's passing.

It seems life really does go on, regardless of whether you're in pain. It's ludicrous how soon the gap is expected to close over.

And this man has made damn sure that as much as he could, our nieces' and nephews' experience of us was as seamless as he could make it. Even during our trials.

For instance, this was taken on Boxing Day - what should have been our first with Ella.

Yes, he is really one in a million. To me and to the family who love him.


I made him this. Look out for the chicken feet slippers that he "HAD to have"....:

Trick-or-treat friends: Why cheese in a box was better than Halloween

So Halloween is coming up on Monday here in Australia.

I'm sorry, I am going against the grain here and saying - as I have done consistently in previous years - we don't "do" Halloween. Just the whole headless, bloodied, ghoulish mask thing is one that freaks our sensitive little petal right out. See, the LGBB likes the idea of Halloween (what's not to love, on the surface? You dress up, you walk around your neighbourhood in groups of friends, you go door to door receiving sweets for nothing). But she always forgets that witches terrify her. Masks make her hysterical. And the sight of (even fake) blood has her father and I assured for the time being that she would not make a very good vet. Or doctor. Of any description.

I was talking to a friend earlier today about why it is that Halloween is such a big deal here. 'Have we missed something?' I always ask when I find that rare person who doesn't go in for the ritual.... a term I have to use loosely.

We were none the wiser after discussing it, realising that we are uneducated about the practice of Halloween and are more than happy to allow for people who partake in it. But that it is simply not something our children join in on (because of not enjoying the dress-up bit when it comes down to sheet-adorning, mask-applying crunch-time).

We agreed that all we see is a chance for our children (nothing personal here, just talking about her children and mine) to be delivered rather mixed signals: That out of the blue, we're encouraging the notion of going along with something simply because everyone else is doing what they collectively think is a good idea (peer pressure reinforcement... and don't you be thinking for one second that mothers aren't pressured by their peers!) and, more's the sticking point for me, be rewarded with so many treats it would make your eyes pop. The kind of treats that, at any other time of year, are meted out with great restraint in our house. Why would I be okay all of a sudden with the LGBB collecting lollies from strangers, only to bring them all back here and have what would effectively be (the way I ration them) a few months' supply of junk food? The thought of having all that in the house - and her being aware of it... and nagging me hour after hour for more - is more than I can sanely bear to imagine. These two things alone are simply not the kind of mixed messages I want to send her. Call me a prude. A stick in the mud. It just doesn't sit well with me.

It got me thinking, though, about my upbringing. Namely, the fact that we never did trick-or-treat-ing (we lived in a place where the houses were so spaced apart by paddocks that you'd be lucky to visit ten in a 1/2km stretch... too much for little feet!). But I wasn't short for treats. Oh, no. When I wanted the really good stuff, I had my friends. Better yet, I didn't have to pester anyone! They did it all and I just sat back and cashed in with eyes bigger than my little stomach.

Paula was the junk food friend. She was the kind of kid who pestered her busy mother for food even as she was finishing her final mouthful of the last thing she asked for (and received). In one 2-hour play at Paula's after primary school, I could be assured of an Augustus Gloop-type array of gluttony. Pure bliss and delight to my seven year-old eyes! Crisps, ice lollies, packets of Tic-Tacs, a choc chip biscuit or four. I remember the time I went there and was crestfallen to realise.... I had eaten so much I felt full. So full, in fact, that I couldn't possibly fit in the Wizz Fizz, popcorn or bowl of cocoa pops (because "cereal is a healthy snack") but did anyway. Oh, how I was ill.

Michelle was the soda fountain friend. Until the magical year we received one of our very own (1984, I believe it was), it was Michelle's house you went to if you wanted carbonated water mixed with the most disgustingly good imitation cola syrup. Oh, yeah. That was The Stuff.

There were others, each with their own delightful contribution to my childhood treaties stage. However, of all of them, Caroline was by far the top shelf friend. For you see, in Caroline's house one could be assured of the Expensive Cheese. The heavily over-processed long-life no-refrigeration-required-until-opening Kraft blue box cheese.

Oh my. I was instantly in love. With the cheese, not Caroline.

My childhood - sadly or not, you be the judge and keep the judgements to yourself thank you very much - was improved greatly by the discovery of thickly sliced "cheese in the box" (as we called it) sat atop white bread and stuck under the griller. The base of the cheese slices would go gooey, while the top would lift away up towards the heat and grill to browned perfection. Once cooled down a tad, you could stick your finger through the dome-puffed cheese crust and break it away. Delectable. Taking a bite, the cheese would ooze and string. Sheer. Delight. From-a-box.

I took a survey (of one) and discovered my friend also remembered the name of her Treat Friend - Margie. Margie who introduced her to slabs of real butter atop hot toast. Now, to a girl who'd only known fast and efficient margarine to that point in her life, the discovery of butter was akin to finding her religion.

So I maintain:  Halloween does not have to be. It never factored in my childhood and I was no worse off for it. Granted, I essentially thought cheese with a shelf life with no end-date bunged on some bread and grilled was the absolute shiz. But still... we won't be bowing to the pressure bestowed on us increasingly each year to join in that over-commercialized "festive fun" occasion known as Halloween. It's so northern hemisphere, it's almost embarrassing. Mind you, how in the heck we are going to continue to get away with this as the LGBB grows older is another thing. I guess I should also add a disclaimer here that I will "never say never" definitively. But for this year at least, once again, we'll be conveniently unable to hear the doorbell. Oh, what a shame.....

Go on. Hit me with your bah humbugs! I'm used to it!


Do you have a treat friend? Do you remember their name and what they had on offer at their house? Please share!

The hills are alive

It's okay, don't click away. I'm not doing a post about Julie Andrews' Maria or any of the von Trapps for that matter. Unless, of course, you were expecting some exciting new information about the Rodgers & Hammerstein musical or some juicy tidbit about the Baroness Shraeder (and wooh, that link right there is rather interesting.... if that's what you were looking for....)

But I digress.

These hills are majestic. I love them. LOVE them. When we found this pocket we thought we had hit the jackpot. Energetically speaking, I reckon we have. The land, even the house, seemed fertile. No, not like that. But certainly in terms of rich atmosphere. Deep thinking. Soul-reviving.

Yeah. It's here. Ever-present. And I also seem to forget that (or take it for granted, at least) until a visitor inadvertently reminds me how lucky we are.

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

Okay, so.... Kristin of Wanderlust fame is here. I have blogging royalty in my humble abode. As I live and breathe.

I also have lasagne in the oven. And a child happily watered and fed at a neighbour's place (where she secretly wishes she could live on time-share). Here I am, sat in my relatively clean and tidy kitchen and I'm happy.

You know how I know?

I can't stop bloody singing.

This happens to me every time someone comes and stays with us. I don't realise until I have visitors just how much I sing. Like..... at least 70% of my day. I don't mean like my old Uncle Will (rest his soul) who is purported to have spent his years on his remote South Australian sheep station (astute readers will know the homestead I am speaking of) sing-talking his way through the day - which sounds kinda cute and lovely but is apparently really annoying to be around 24/7. I mean singing everything that comes on my playlist.

I have music on in the house all the time. ALL. The time. Would that annoy you? Does that annoy Kristin? I haven't asked her. Let's do a little experiment. Let's see how long it takes the powers of Twitter and Facebook and etc. to find out.

So I'm making dinner before and I'm singing my heart out. My heart outttt. To Scenes From An Italian Restaurant. I swear, I would belt it out in front of you no matter where, no matter when. Then James Taylor (oh, young James Taylor, how you make my heart flutter so) and a bit of How Sweet It Is. Along comes Elton John who, okay I'll admit, doesn't reeeally float my boat but I respect him musically. But even his little-loved (by me, anyway) I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues gets me singing. By the time I am humming the really high harmonica bits - you know the part I'm talking about? no, I will not vlog me humming it - I remember.

Oh, shite. Kristin is in the next room. Having some chillax down time. Hey, by the way, do we say "chillax" any more? Is it what the kids are saying? Or have I just shown my dagginess? Er.... if not in the previous several paragraphs?

Okay, anyways, so here I am on my second layer of lasagne laying when I realise I have HRH the US blogger in my lounge room. And I'm mid "woooooooo-ooooo" when I do.

This is getting serious.

I have already admitted my Hall and Oats guilty pleasure to her today. It happened when Kiss On My List came on. I fought every urge not to sing in front of her then.

And this is the funny thing (probably what stops me from pursuing a career in singing or some form of music like several of my more with-it relatives have): I am really self-conscious about singing in front of others even though I can sing well.

Do you sing well? Would you ever sing in front of someone? (drunk karaoke doesn't count)

More importantly.... how long do you think it's going to take before I find out if Kristin has even noticed I can't seem to stop singing??

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

Just before I go, today I was flicking through letterbox catalogues. Gorgeous kitchen table sets (we have a dining table but no chairs and I lust after lovely dining chairs when I see them). I pointed out one I liked and the LGBB, sitting next to me, adjudicated, "Nope, don't like that one. That kitchen's too clean. I like our kitchen." Which of course begged the question.... and the answer to her question was "Yes, I like our messy one."

Sigh.

Oh God. King Of Pain by The Police just came on. Gotta go..... can't type and sing at the same time.

There's a little black spot on the sun todaaaaaaay.

Get support. Get more balls. Not necessarily in that order.

We have these little prayer card things at the front door. Nobody ever touches them any more. The fad has passed. Except for her. She doesn't know what they say yet but she has always loved digging her hands in and pulling out the brightly coloured squares.

The house has been a flurry of activity, making up the spare bed, moving out the spare shit from the spare room. Why do we have so much spare "just in case" stuff? Time to turf that lot.

Anyway, the lovely Kristin of Wanderlust fame is jetting her way to us as I type. The cleaning is for her. Okay, and a little bit for me too. I do love a freshly cleaned house, rare as it is.

Yesterday, I walked past the shelf where the prayer cards sit. The LBGG had left a calling card:

Say it, sista

The LGBB has been looking forward to this mysterious American guest who is coming to stay with us for a few nights. "But who is she?" she wanted to know. Unfortunately, by my obviously confusing explanation, she will now be bitterly disappointed if Kristin doesn't end up looking like this:

Hellooooo, Prairie Dawn heeeere.

...because she is firmly convinced Kristin = someone from Sesame Street. Preferably Prairie Dawn. Last night, she was practicing her name in an American accent and told her Dad that's what Kristin will sound like.

I was thinking today how amazing Lolly is. She has been preparing in other ways to welcome our international visitor to our home. They are private preparations, something I don't feel is my place to share here, for they are Lolly's way of getting ready to open her home to a stranger (to her, Kristin is just that). And they are things I have never seen her do/request before. Last night, I was very impressed. She and I have always worked closely together on this unseen energetic level, even as a young child pre-speech. Traipse back through the earlier stuff on this blog - I sometimes posted about it.

Today, I dusted off my balls. These are the balls Lolly helped me pick out. I love them. They represent me, in a way. Us. Something that makes a statement of things I love and find beautiful. They represent me getting something completely impractical and bunging them in the centre of our kitchen table to gather dust. And be looked at. Just 'cos.

I want more balls. I can never have enough. Ceramic are the best. They're harder.

Pretty balls

Must dash. Plane to greet and all that.

And get yourself something nice! Do it today if you haven't done it for a while.

Fostering the Big Questions - moving on from the last ones

Today was filled with the kind of curly questions only a child can ask. And again - just as last time -  I was compelled to answer as truthfully as I could.*

It's like that when she looks me straight in the eye and squares her jaw; there is no getting around it any other way than honestly. The sort of tactful, metered honesty that shields from the gritty details yet doesn't shy away from the facts.

"What happened straight after I was born?" she asks me.
"Straight after?.... Well... your Dad and I brought you home and fed you and looked after you." I smile at her, remembering fondly.
"Yes, I know," she frowns, looking a trifle frustrated, "but what happened before that?"
She's getting her before's and after's mixed up at the moment. It's a stage.
"Before when?"
"Before, when Ella was born." 
I don't quite know what she's trying to decipher with her line of questioning so I can't guide my answers toward anything that will succinctly nip it in the bud for her. So we continue with the short answers-short questions.
"You want to know what happened just before Ella was born?" She nods.
"Well... when Ella was born, she was very little. I stayed in the hospital with her for a few days but then I had to come home. And when I did, she stayed in the hospital." 
She pouts sadly. I am certain I see a little look of sympathy in the way she tilts her head and makes a slight grimace. 
"But every day," I assure her, "I would wake up early and drive to the hospital and feed her my milk and talk to her and her nurses until it got dark and late at night. Then your Dad would drive from work and come and sit with me and we would look at Ella and talk to her together. She was a very lovely little baby."
My other very lovely little baby is sitting across the room from me, a range of emotions moving across her face now. I can't gauge if it's compassion for us or a sense of loss for herself, mixed in with a good dose of "I feel I've missed out on something you were all doing when I wasn't here". I daresay it's all of that. Then I realise she is trying to pinpoint where Ellanor is again. She does this, searching for her sister, a few times a year. I invite the conversations openly.... but they are still heart-searingly difficult.
"But... why did you leave her at the hostible?" she asks, her large blue-green eyes suddenly looking heavier, her little brow furrowing.
"Because she died, darlin', we had to."
Stated simply, just like that, it sounds callous and cold and hard-hearted. I know what she's thinking. I'm thinking it too now as we look at each other and the distance between us, across the rug and the arm of the couch to where she's leaning seems somehow suddenly further. If her father and I could leave our baby somewhere to be handled by goodness knows who, what's to stop us taking leave of our senses and doing it to her? I feel wretched for a turn, before my logical mind catches up and keeps me moving along before I get too morbid. That would not help either of us.
"Who has her now?"
"Nobody. She's not at the hospital any more."
"What kind of hostible did you leave her in?"
"A people hospital. Where doctors and nurses help sick people. You know, Lol, you wouldn't be here if Ella was."
"Yes, I know that," she answers me with a tone beyond her five short years. And she frowns again slightly, a pained, longing look on her face. She really does get that, I marvel to myself. "But why can't I see her? I want to see her." Ah. Getting it and living it are two completely different things, though, and it is this knowledge - that my child has been forced to remain permanently separated by her living from a sister she yearns for deeply - that really clutches at my mother heart.
"I know you do." Matter of fact. It's the only way. We agree it's shitful without saying any more.
"How did she get to Pixie Hollow?" she asks, changing tack slightly and mercifully saving me from the always uncomfortable "Well, why didn't any doctors and nurses save my sister" challenges.
This is the moment my heart swells to bursting. The Pixie Hollow explanation is something that Ellanor's sensitive little sister came up with quite on her own one day earlier this year out of the blue while we were driving. She told me that day decidedly that Tinkerbell and the fairies had taken Ella to live "on another planet because I think.... Yeah! That's where Pixie Hollow is!"
I hasten to quantify here that the LGBB is also very partial to the unabridged J.M. Barrie book, Peter Pan - the whole Lost Boys in Neverland premise fascinated our Lolly. What's more, I believe that Pixie Hollow (perhaps more due to the gorgeous name rather than the Disney-fied slant on "fairies" and, indeed, Tinkerbell herself) and Neverland are a mash-up of one and the same place in her imagination.
"You know what? That I don't know," I tell her honestly.

Our talk peters out at this point and I am left with a vacant but equally full feeling for the rest of the day. When we catch up a few hours later, Lolly is sitting playing on her bed with various tiny bits and pieces of some monstrosity that look like bottom-of-foot attractors if ever I saw them. Jagged and pointy bits everywhere.

She hands me a green glass-looking rubbed stone. "Is this a wishing stone?" she asks.
"I think it might (as) well be!" I exclaim.
"I've been making lots of wishes and they're going to come true," Lolly says nodding and glancing around her room before she launches into what I think is going to be her long list. But she only tells me one wish.
"I want a baby brother. And another sister." Again with the direct gaze and the square-set jaw. My goodness, but her eyes are beautiful. I'm distracted by them when I should be thinking of an answer. Fast.
"Wouldn't that be wonderful, to have both." I smile at her.
"Then I can have someone to play with," she says earnestly. Honestly. My loins don't feel any sort of stirring whatsoever, regardless of wishing desperately my only child was not an only child. We tried. Honest to goodness, her father and I tried.
"You know, though, babies take a long time once they're born to be able to play. Look at your cousin Blake. He's pretty little still, isn't he?"
She's unwavering. Her eyes look into me - through me - and I can kind of see she's not all here. I wait, watching her face, until she finally answers.
"I think they're not babies. Maybe they're older than me." 
Despite myself, I raise my eyebrows and nod in agreement. Yes, that's right. Perhaps they are.

I completely forgot until today that I have been tossing up foster parenting with Steve for some years now. It comes up once every year or so, since we said goodbye to Ellanor, but it never felt "right" to go ahead with it.

Perhaps? Maybe now? Lolly seems to know more about it than I. We shall see. If nothing else, I trust the Universe will advise, devise and deliver all in its exceptionally good, right time.



* (Just as an aside, that last Big Questions post is a really important read if you are dealing with them yourself - or trying to find a way through them with your surviving young, inquisitive children and wonder how the heck to start... also, take a deep breath in and just go with your best instinct! ;-)

Smile... no matter how awkward you feel.

I'm not a Complaints desk!

I don't know what it is, but this morning I have woken up with a very sore head. Family Beware kind of sore head. Figure-of-speech kind of sore head. You don't need pain in your head to have a foul mood like the one I have stepped into today.

Seems as fitting a time as any to tell you all the things I DON'T like about my job. They're not unknown to many of you, but I think sometimes I just want to gag on the sweetness-and-light of it all and it helps me (don't know about you) to let off steam every now and then. Usually this is done in the privacy of my own head, certainly my own house, or to a trusted girlfriend who's finding herself at a similar point of despair. But rarely do I see it spoken or written about publicly beyond a mild gnashing of teeth. As if we're all fooling ourselves. Perhaps it's better that way, kind of like the conspiracy theory that the oxygen masks that drop down from planes in a state of emergency are not pumping oxygen into passengers at all but mind-calming gas that stops anyone from panicking. Maybe it's better for all of us if one of us doesn't stand up and start muttering over and over (like the hysterical woman in Flying High), "I've gotta get out of here, I've gotta get out of here!"

Kids: Don't hit. It's not nice.

SO! At risk of making any of you want to line up to smack me out of it, my list of gripes, in no particular order and by no means exhaustive, is as follows:

• I am (apparently) a Help Desk - with the amount of questions I get asked, you would think I am sitting in a shopping centre at one of those Information booths. But no. I am mother of one, wife of one, although I'd surely be forgiven for thinking I had 29 children and 14 husbands, the amount of questions and help I get dragged into. Sun up to sun down, the weekends are strewn with opportunities for them to ask me. It must be just easier than coming up with a solution themselves. From the five year-old, I can kind of understand the need for most of them. But the 39 year-old? Hmmmmmm... a little more dubious.

• I am (apparently) the Pied bloody Piper - come one, come all, to any room or outdoor area of the garden! Wherever I be, including the toilet, I will have at least one (if not all) set of feet or paws follow me. Wherever I go, guaranteed. So much so that I have been long since accustomed to turning a slow circle and checking behind me before I change direction. Jazz (the dog) considers my toileting her special one-on-one alone time with me. She is your typical middle child (and I say that as a self-confessed middle child), quite capable of attracting more than enough attention but still angling for more. The LGBB assumes and asserts much as she moves about the house behind me. As I live and breathe, the cat is trying to walk ACROSS me. Why?! I ask you. The last to come into the family, the cat gets by largely on Cuteness Factor and is always under someone's feet but gets away with being a pest by doing a few cutesy paw-moves.

• What I say (apparently) goes - with the Help Desk position comes a great deal of (unwanted) power. Not only am I asked all the questions and checked with on ev-er-y-thinnnnng, but I have to come up with the answers! And if I try and cop out by saying I don't know, I'm asked again, in a different way.

• I'm the Chore Divvy-er - it's long since been held in this house that, as I am apparently the only one who sees anything that needs doing, if I want something done all I need to do is ask.... That works fine until days like today when I explode in a fit of fury and "THAT THING HAS BEEN LYING THERE ALL WEEK! How is it that we can all step over/around/through it but I'm the mug who has to either remove/clean/pick it up or ask one of you to do it?" As long as I live, I shall never ever accept any logic levelled at me for that one. That is just bone idle laziness that causes that phenomenon.

• I'm the meal planning, lunch making, clothes washing, hair brushing, house cleaning master of the house. I can deal with all that. It does come with the territory and it must be accepted... if not liked, 100% of the time.

But what I cannot abide by is that I am also the Complaints handling desk! Now, some of you out there will have a Complaints desk queued a mile long, depending on number of siblings in the house. But one or twenty.... there is one thing that just irks me no end and that is whiney complaining. From the husband as well.


Do you have a list - like a ready-reckoner - up on the inside of the pantry door or somewhere else where nobody ever goes (like the broom cupboard or the ironing board... no wait, it wouldn't work being taped up on that because I don't go there either) that can give me some cheat's answers so that I don't have to think for my family? I'm asking for mercy here.

And if you do.... can I use it?

Sincerely,

Over It Today Already.

Joined at the head

There are not many opportunities for me lately to feel a connection with the LGBB. We're (and when I say "we're" I mean "she's") going through a bit of a stage that's lasted a couple of months now. I think it must be one of those necessary rip-off-the-bandaid kind of stages, where she's growing away from us as she prepares for her New Life and entity at school next year.

I'm getting myself used to it.

But today I was afforded a little glimpse into the bond we have again and I reminded myself to remember to cherish the moments. To not make it so difficult for my daughter - starting right now - to find me wherever I may be and connect with me. If I lose sight of giving her that, then I have lost sight of everything meaningful in life. It's not going to happen. Not on my watch, it's not.

"Mum," the LGBB called to me from her backseat pozzy on the way home from swimming today.
"Yep."
"I have a dream a lot of times and it's about me. In space," she says with a bit of a chuckle.
"Oh, really? That's interesting. And what're you doing in space?" I ask.
"I'm just floating around out there."
"Ah," I say. "I used to have dreams like that when I was younger. I felt like I was in a space tunnel, going really fast."
"THAT'S LIKE MY DREAM!" she says, incredulous.

If I know nothing else about her, I know that my child has lashings of the sorts of insights and occurrences that I used to have. The memory of my abilities has taken decades to return, now that I am not afraid of them. There will be plenty of people in her life who will not only doubt her, they will downright tell her she's wrong. It is they who are wrong, actually - certainly, incorrectly placed - to tell her so. I've spoken here before over the past several years about not only the very strange (but ultimately cool, unexplained) things Lol comes out with. Most recently, she told me (as a 3 year-old) about arguing with a man who came into her room and told her this was his house and asked us to leave. She stood her ground, apparently, and told him this was HER house. Later that week, the neighbour advised me that the elderly gent who had sold us this house two years prior had passed away two weeks before.

Once you live with these sorts of oddities, they're not so odd any more. To say they are odd is to say my child is odd. And she's not! She's magnificent. It is not my job as her mother to be one of her doubters. Guidance and a way to help her accept herself and make sense of what she sees and senses, that is my main task. I don't encourage, I don't sway. And I don't tell her she's fibbing. Besides, she's too moral to lie. This kid may have the face of a poker player but when it comes to rule-breaking, you can be sure she'll give her own game away faster than she can try to cover up what she's done.

So the rest of our car trip is spent with her excitedly telling me what else she knows, now that she's discovered she and I share a "dream" (about space tunnels and really really fast stars zooming past, as if one were travelling somewhere else at the speed of light). And what else she knows is this:

"Mum, you and me, I think we share something."
"Uh-huh," I'm saying it non-committally, as non-committally as I would if I were replying to a request for TV and an icypole when we get home with a "we'll see" and a nonchalant glance out the window as if I couldn't care less either way. But my interest is piqued at this point.
"Our heads. I've seen our heads and there's an arrow going from my head to yours!" she states, sounding relieved to have articulated it, as if she's known with some authority that this is what she sees.
"How cool." I say.

And the conversation ends.

May she continue to amaze me, and may I have the strength and the courage to bend with the winds and opinions of the wider world.

My little thinker:
Putting our heads together (I see no arrows here...)

The Barter System

You would be forgiven for thinking I have ditched this blog. I haven't. I am just hellishly snowed under this week, what with my home being overrun by visiting family who are staying with us until the weekend. You know how it goes.... It just doesn't seem appropriate to sit and write lengthy blog posts when I should be spending time with family I don't see, save for flying visits every two years.

So, in lieu of the myriad things I want to say, please delight in a typical exchange between Yours Truly and the beloved:

Me: *making a grand statement I didn't mean to have fulfilled* I want a cheese slice

He: *trudges off and returns triumphantly*

He: *hands cheese slice over between index and middle finger with an air of 'breadwinner doling out money to the trophy wife'* Git yourself something nice.

Me: Awww, ta... Hey, d'you think in the history of time, they ever paid for goods or services with cheese?

He: It's possible

Me: But what if they didn't have change? 

He: *nibbles a piece of imaginary cheese down to smaller denomination and hands over to invisible salesperson*

He amuses me no end. That is all.

Good weekends look like this

Our gorgeous Liquid Ambar tree

I chose a colour for my external office wall and hung
the wall plates Steve gave me for my birthday last year.
THANK YOU for your input, dear readers!

I'm very proud of these doors - my $70 French door Ebay win! Cha-ching!

Work break: home made meringues for afternoon tea,
looking out from my new office/workspace to the family on the (messy) deck

A spot of painting: Beautiful sepia colour for the internal walls.
I feel calm already! Looks like a good window to sit
in front of to finish writing a book....

Finished off by a stunning sunset (which I only thought to try
and photograph at the last minute.... Darnit! It was gorgeous)

And to top it off, the safe arrival of our newest family member. What's better in life than that?

So how was your weekend? Do anything productive?

Filled

I'm sitting here on an overcast, still, slow Sunday evening.

I was afforded some time today to stay close to my manuscript and work on the tricky end chapters of Part 1. They're tricky because I am chopping what is close to my heart, yet not so necessary for the flow of the book. My diary entries that I wrote each day (sometimes twice a day) beside Ella's side in the NICU. The reader doesn't really know - although they would have guessed by now - that they are barreling towards the sad end.

The LGBB and her Dad arrived home from a spot of swimming just before. Lolly walked in announcing she was going to watch "her" ABC (goodness, the marketing certainly works) with the headphones on. She started up her account where all her safe internet and program options may be found, and she started one of her favourite shows: Dirtgirlworld.

So I've got these two realities going on. Once again. Feeling closer to my lost newborn because that is where my head has been all afternoon, and yet closer in proximity to this young person who has sprung up seemingly before my very eyes and has raced at lightning speed through newborn, baby and toddler stages to now command the iMac like she was born knowing how.

I'm looking at the back of this gorgeous girl's head. Appreciating her so very, very much. Wanting to tear up, but not needing to. Giggling at the sight of art imitating life in this photo (I put her hair up like this so it wouldn't go in her eyes when she was swimming... I wonder if that's why Dirt Girl's mum did her hair like that).

Loving her. Loving her, too. And loving him.

He's cooking dinner so I can stay in my split world tonight.

"KITCH-EN!"

Today's post is a copy of one from May 22, 2008. The LGBB was just 22 months old. And I marvel now, looking back, at the character that she had already developed. If that's what one can call it. Nobody commented back then, when I had waaaay less readers than now. So I thought I'd do the whole repost shebang. I'm rewinding with the Fibro this weekend. The topic is 'Waiting'.... And as tenuous a link as this is, I was deep in the throes of waiting for our child to walk. Yes. At 22 months. (she did eventually get there just 3 weeks shy of her second birthday, but when you're putting this much effort into speaking - see below - I guess it's no wonder walking comes a pissy second in your importance)

We're still waiting for the walking to happen. But in the meantime, boy, has this kid got assertiveness all sewn up...

Last night, Steve was walking the LGBB to the bathroom. She was trailing behind taking her baby for a walk in the pusher.

S: C'mon, it's time for a bath.
L: *stops, busies herself* Wait a minute.

With this, the LGBB got to her knees and 'walked'* to the rug, where she had left her "pretty" (her headband is called pretty for some reason), shoved it on her head, smooshed it around a bit so it wasn't doing any of its intended purpose - ie. keeping hair out of ones eyes - and stood back up at the pram saying "Okay" and walked on.

And last night, standing at her table, the all too familiar smell wafted to me as I was starting tea in the kitchen. Yeah. I know. One of those ones if you can smell it from ten paces while you're preparing food. So I call out to her

Me: Hey, Lolly.
LGBB: Yeah? *turns to look at me happily*
Me: Do we need to change your nappy?
LGBB: *pausing, cogs visibly whirring in brain* No?
Me: Are you suuuuuure?
LGBB: *adamantly* NO!
Me: That means you're not sure. So we need to, I think (God I'm mean, catching her out on a slip-up of double negatives)
LGBB: NO! NOOOO!
(now, this is where she would normally just accede and allow me to change her, but I dunno, the combination of little biscuits, her dolls house, The Jackson Five - did I mention? She's a psycho for a high-singin' bit o' young Michael - just about presented her heaven on Earth, apparently)
LGBB: Mummeh! *holds hand out in Stop sign* You go..... Bye Mummy, bye. *I paused* Go-orn, Mummy. In. You go. In kitchen. Go-orn!
(and then she actually pointed to the kitchen and motioned for me to get back in there like she was telling Jazz to get outside)

Steve walked in the door then. What timing! He bundled the LGBB up and I said "We were just going to change Lolly because she's finished her last biscuit now." And before Steve could answer, the LGBB pipes up, "No, Mummy. Kitchen." She stared me down. From the arms of her tall father, my daughter actually stared me down. So I pushed it, didn't I?

Me: But.... your nappy *ok so I was really teasing now*
LGBB: *slight frown, staring at me as if warning me not to explain to Daddy and give her game away - er, as if the stench didn't do that for me* KITCH-EN.

I guess I get the 'tude I deserve. To be perfectly frank, she scares me a little. Absolutely gorgeous and lovely and compassionate and funny. But.... just a spoonful of scary.

So there you have it. A day in the life of Lolly and me at the moment. She's running the rings and I'm in the kitchen.


* Oh, did I mention? "We" are still not walking. First steps is all I could have called what she did a few weeks ago, judging by the knee-'walking' still going on here. Eughhhhhh *sigh*

Stymied

Image came from here

Stymied. I wanna be like Hymie (in Control). But I'm currently stumped. I lack my zeal. For anything.

I took a short break this week, didya notice? No, I bet nobody did. I guess I should quickly update that no news is not necessarily good news and that I went to Monday night's information night for the beautiful Heartfelt organisation. I went to their exhibition in the city and stayed for drinks, chips and a breath-taking (literally) presentation from Gavin Blue.

But, alas, I doubt my skills are going to cut it. It seems a piece of paper - or at least, more skills than what I possess - is what they are looking for. I have done all I can; sent in some examples at their request (I felt proud but a bit funny about using my personal photos of Ellanor to prove to somebody that, yes, I can use the tools of my trade and recreate facial features and whatnot, in order to show my talent).

Henyway, perhaps they're just busy. But I've heard nothing back, despite reading an update the next day that two new retouchers had joined up (no... I don't think I am one of them! nothing was formalised and it is a very well-run team). My best guess is they don't need me, so I'm thinking.... I wasn't good enough. And while on the one personal hand I'm gutted, on the other hand no mind! All that matters is a) that I went and offered my help, and b) that my skills have been perfect for me and Steve to see Ella without the heart-tugging reminders of her precarious journey through her short four-week life. And better still, it has allowed me to introduce our second daughter to her deceased sister - something I didn't realise until last weekend that I have gifted the LGBB. I need no further proof that my skills are "good enough" than that.

I want to thank each and every one of you who commented, emailed and .. er, twitterered (tweeted? that sounds better) about this and encouraged me to at least go. Without your support after I made this post, I would have stayed home and kicked myself for not going. Oh how I love to self-flagellate at whim for no real legitimate reason.

At the very least, all I can say is, whoever you know, wherever you are in Australia (if you do live here), please do keep this organisation at the front of your mind. You just never know when you might need to suggest them to someone you know. And they are, indeed, truly exceptional. Trust me on that one. I don't say it lightly.

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

So. As that was the start to my week, I have felt somewhat like a slowly deflating balloon ever since. Couple that with the hot topic around the Aussie blogosphere this week about whether you're a Mummy Blogger or not (STOP... my head.... it friggen hurrrrts!), on the back of what was (for me, at least, I still maintain) a wonderful and fun and personally fufilling weekend in Sydney at the Aussie Bloggers' Conference - and I am waning in gusto to do another post right now.

Despite the fact I didn't meet everyone in the room and possibly, therefore, contributed to this general view that is going around about people being snobbish or cliquéy or not letting non-Mummy-bloggers feel welcome (when in reality, I only stuck to the same few people I had already met by the end of the night because I am shy and retiring and get overwhelmed and sensitive towards crowds of energies in a room... and there were many and they were vastly varied!), I'm still so glad I went.

By the end of this very loooong week, I am trying to work out whether all I once saw in my blogging community is actually just a shadow or a farce or whether it was actually truly there (and still is), because WE made it so, collectively. All of us. Even the bloggers who are part of that particular community who aren't actually even mothers!

Put all of that above together and you are left with one sorry mess of a Mummy/Blogger/Wife/Friend/Disgruntled Pet Owner (I won't even BEGIN to bore you with the many ways the animals are giving me the shits) tonight.

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

I have actually paused a moment from packing (and putting together the kinder newsletter... oh yeah, there's still a hint of Mummy Blogger in me) to tell you I won't be back til Monday. Ok, Sunday night at the earliest.

You see, Steve, Lolly and I are taking a quick vacation down to the seaside for a little spot of internet-free camping.

I am desperate for the time out. An enforced break from this crazy whirlwind I seem to have whipped myself into.


So, I maintain, I am stymied. I bid you adieu, wish me luck and no rain (or lots of it, depending how much you like us). While I'm gone, I'll see if I can't string together a few more happy post ideas, eh? And a way to get my head around this current feeling of losing my community that I didn't realise was so important to me until it began disbanding.

Consider these my presents to you on my return. Because I sure as hell ain't bringing back any souvenirs. No more room in the car! Who knew you needed to take so much shite camping??

Thank God I Blog

When you pat my dog, Jazz, it's a really satisfying pat. You know like when you pat a horse? A really smacky-good pat? Well. There's something very comforting about giving Jazz a honking great pat. And she loves it. So that's a bonus. She is such a solid dog. If I patted Pepper like that now, she'd wince. She is far too frail for anything more than very gentle movement.

As Pepper slips further into senility (there is surely no further she can go, she is quite past it now), I am coming to really appreciate that little purchase Steve and I made during our first Christmas without Ellanor, in 2004.

Everything is speeding up, not slowing down. Do you feel it?

Jazz was a pup! I must have blinked, for now she is a middle aged dog.

Jazz and Pepper in 2005

And today, wisened old Pep and chunky Jazz the clydesdale

Jazzy was supposed to be an "only child" - Steve's cat, the beloved ginger and white boy we named Rusty - died in early 2005 from skin cancer, when Jazz was about six months old. He was 14. We still miss him very much and talk of him from time to time. Fact: He was 1m long from tip to tail, tall and lanky like his "Dad". He was our original "furbaby". He and Pepper were all we had, during all those years of trying to bring home a baby, and even before that - when we didn't even know what troubles lay ahead.

When we brought Jazzy home, Pepper was already ailing like she was at death's door. Now, she seems to be in a race to outlive the young brown Labrador who's been brushing things off tables around our home with her ridiculous novelty-sized tail since 2004. Pep should be dead. She really should. But something is keeping her here. She gave me the most intense, gracious, unconditional love and connection I could ever imagine an animal was capable of giving. And I am her palliative care nurse now. I owe her.

So here I was this morning, completing the enrolment forms for the LGBB. We've picked a school for next year! I am relieved it's sorted. Once Steve and I took the tour last week, it was a pretty clear winner for us.

As I signed the final page, I suddenly came over very emotional. And as usual, tears followed.

Not happy tears, not sad. Just tears. This is something we missed doing for Ellanor. With Ellanor. Here is our family, all around us, and I don't know what my little girl would look like now. I don't know whether she'd prefer to wear the school uniform dress or the track pants and polo shirt. Would she be chocolate ice cream or strawberry? Would she mercilessly tease Lolly? Would Lolly even exist??

So. The end of another era. I thought, somehow, the outings with the LGBB to local coffee shops (with Scraps, of course - he is such a coffee fiend) were never going to end. That we would be able to share these times with each other whenever we wanted. But I am about to lose her to school. Soon, these moments will be just that: moments in time. A thing of the past. And the thought leaves me quite bereft, for the time being.

"Thmile, Thcrapthy!"

It snuck up on me, this one. This little emotional release that was simmering under the surface.

I reached for the phone to call a dear friend who is forever going to be in the same situation as us with all these milestones. She lost her firstborn, a daughter, mere months after we lost ours. We lost babies in between, around the same time as each other, uncanny as it sounds. She called me after she got pregnant again (with the son who is now about to turn five) and told me she'd had a dream where she was riding a white horse and came to find me in the middle of a beautiful forest. She lifted me up on the horse and we rode it together. Less than four months later, the LGBB found her way to my womb.

I left a blubbery message for my friend this morning, for I was not teary before I rang. But just hearing her voice unbolted the safety valve and I blurted. I won't need to apologise. We have an understanding, she and I. I asked her in the message if she had filled out enrolment forms yet for her son and how she had found the experience. Surely a reason to catch up over a coffee sometime soon.

My little baby has been replaced by a young girl rapidly growing in her independence. Not that I would expect or want anything different for her. I have taught her to be independent. It's how I survived my childhood. One day soon, she won't need me at all. I didn't realise how much I need her to need me, this tall leggy blonde who already at the age of four has a joyous glow and the kind of knock-em-dead natural poise I always wished I'd had. I have the glow... but I don't have any poise, not like her, that's for sure (must get that from her Dad, he is, after all, the one I call Daddy Long-Legs). If she can overcome her shyness, this kid will be more than comfortable on a stage, she is that theatrical it's almost embarrassing at times.

"Life is a Cabaret, old chum"

I guess I just have to stay open and grateful to the times I am sharing with my beautiful daughter. They have become so much more precious and poignant this year already as I realise I'm about to be on my own again.

So it will be back to me and whichever dogs are still alive this time next year. I told my brother last time they visited two years ago that, surely, it would be the last time Pep would be here. I've been telling him that since the year 2000 - no kidding there - so who knows?!

Please, please let there be something solid for me to pat and hug. If Pepper does outlive Jazz, as she is threatening to do, I'm screwed.

The thought quite overwhelms me at times.

Thank God I Blog, that's all I can say. I think I might get that made up on a sticker for my car...



This post is part of FYBF, currently being hosted by Where's My Glow. Thanks Glowless!

Business as usual

The cat tried to climb the security screen door and got stuck half way up - she may still be there, I still hear maowing. SHUDDUUUUUP.

Pepper is as stinky as ever and now farting loudly at my feet. I can't get away from her. She needs to be right at my side because she gets a bit disoriented/freaked out about where I've gone if she can't see me (we find her asleep in the strangest rooms when she's gone in there to try and find someone and, I dunno, has another attack of the old lady tireds)

And Jazz is being her usual belligerent self.

The LGBB isn't taking a breath when she talks at me and speaks single sentences that are five minutes long. Each.

I had a nice big fight with Steve last night. Over housework.


Yes. All is still facing Sunny Side Up in our Animal House.

Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away...

This is a trackback/rewind (whatever the kids are calling reposts of old blog posts these days) from a post I did on my old blog about four years ago. With such a new audience now, I thought it time I embarrass myself even more show my real identity before the Aussie Blogger's Conference. So that when you meet me (if you're going..... and damnit, other-Steve, I am still bummed you didn't try harder to scrape a spare $3,000 together to fly over here for the day! You sure you checked in your car ash tray? There's always surprise coinage in there), you can feel much more relaxed in my presence. For I may be standing before you in a dress (or pants... or a tunic... oh hell, I still can't decide what I'm taking/wearing), but know this: I have had the biggest wardrobe malfunction in the worst place a teenager can have.

Imagine that when you see me, yeah? Me and my tighty-whities. Scrunched up in my hand.... Enjoy! (at my expense)

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

It's a little known fact that I am, in fact, a Superhero.

On one of our first, fledgling forays into the titillating area of our relationship, Steve and I got caught. I was 18, living at home with Dad. We were living in a rambling old '40s era house in an old leafy suburb, it was a great house. The front entrance was open to the lounge room to the right, the kitchen was accessed via one of two doorways, one straight ahead of the front door, the other facing the dining room and with a two-way swinging hinged door which opened onto that room. There was a sunroom past the dining area, tacked on the back of the open plan house. To get there from the front door, one went either straight through the T-shaped lounge room and dining area or, if in the kitchen, simply swung open the hinged door and through the dining room.


I am setting all this architecture up in your minds so that you can fully grasp the gravity of the situation that follows.


It was a typical school day afternoon. I was in Yr 12, Steve was supposed to be at uni, no doubt, and instead of doing something constructive we were fooling around in the sunroom. In broad daylight. Geez, those were the days *wistfully stroking severely distended belly with the painful welts - they're no longer worthy of being deemed mere stretch marks*

Anyway, I can't remember the specifics, suffice to say somehow I was the one who ended up pasty white and bare nekid while he had left on all his clothes and simply pulled down his jeans and jocks to his ankles (typically boy-style, complete with socks still on and all). It was late-ish afternoon, not nearly late enough for anyone to be coming home from work. Unexpectedly. With briefcase in hand.

But all of a sudden, there was the over-exaggerated coming-home noises being made by Dad. He (respectfully? fearfully? playfully?) was making sooooo much noise, I knew that he knew exactly what he suspected we were up to...... he was whistling a jolly, tuneless whistle, and in case that wasn't enough, he clomped very loudly up the three steps to the front porch (making the three itty bitty steps sound like full on steps to be reckoned with), and in case that wasn't enough, he was also loudly jangling/fumbling with keys for far longer than was usual.

I stood bolt upright, stark narkered, and ran to the far corner of the sunroom. Without my previously hastily-strewn clothes. Why I did that and not just throw on my clothes, I do not know. Guess I got the guilts. And I was no cool cucumber back then. Not when I was nude, anyway....

While I did prancy nervous steps on the spot, shaking my arms and flailing hands (like Homer when he's missing the Chili Cookout) and eyes wide with "oh God, oh God"s, I watched as Steve simply stood from his seated pozzy on the couch, hoiked up his pants in one swift move, did up the zip and sat back down to "continue watching the cricket" innocently.

Meantime, Dad was in the front door by now, putting keys away, whistling merrily. "Hello!" he bellowed characteristically joyously. I spurred into action and called out a greeting in reply, pulling my crumpled clothes towards me in a mad scramble (they were all inside out, which could have been deemed romantic because of the "heat of the moment" passion that got them that way but were now just a fucking nuisance to turn the right side out and make presentable again). Pulling on my top while Dad carried out some conversation with me as he slowly made his way through the kitchen to, I don't know probably grab a knife to skewer Steve with, I amazed myself in hindsight at how deftly I was able to use the chit chat as a decoy to what was really going on in the next room. Just that swingy-door between us.

I jumped into my pants and whisked them up, replying conversationally to everything Dad was saying about his day. Never one to just leave it at that, and I guess to prove to myself that I had triumphantly averted danger, I sauntered towards the closed kitchen door, chatting with Dad all the while as he stood in the kitchen reading the mail.

It wasn't until I'd almost rounded the dining table, hand outstretched at the door, that I felt my other hand brush past a rogue piece of material at my side. What was that? Looking down, as if in slow motion, I realised it was a pocket. It took me a second or two to realise that I hadn't pulled my pockets inside out in my haste.... oh no. Far worse. I had put my pants on inside out, complete with undies on the outside as had been the state they'd been discarded in originally. The hoppy, unsteady banging on the old stumped floor I made as I struggled to literally rip the stitching off my undies to get them down and step out of them brought me to not only Steve's very amused attention, but also caused Dad to sing out, "What're you doing in there?"

Needless to say, I waved that off with some excuse and breezed in through the kitchen door, undies scrunched in a tight tight ball in my fist, which was now stuffed inside my pocket. And I continued to, probably very flustered-looking and giving away eeeev-er-y-thing I'd just been doing, carry out my conversation with Dad.

I think I got away with it. He certainly never said anything. But then... he's too proper to, even in gest.

And from that day on, after I recounted the story to very amused girlfriends, I was known as Supergirl, given my supposed preference to wear my undies on the outside.

It's me or the mullet

I swear, I have uttered those words to my truly beloved. At the end of 1992, Steve could put his hair in his mouth. It unnerved me.

It also explained why his cute little cat, Rusty, loved burying his head in my hair for the rest of his life - he had been raised since he was a kitten by Steve and would curl up in the crook of Steve's neck, under the mullet verandah, and think warm kitteny-mewy thoughts, no doubt. Once he was a long, slender cat (he was beautiful, was our Russell - a brilliant white short-haired boy with patches of deep orange on his head and his back), it was a tad strange but still cute that he would come and seek out my thick mane to take a kip on. Or in. Not so cute was when he began drooling in his old age and that, sadly for Russ, was when I declared his hair-bed days well and truly over.

There were several things that had to go once I came along. One was the Cinderella 'Night Moves' album (it's a heavy metal thing - what is it with boys/computer geeks and heavy rock bands??). Another was the mullet. And despite all accusations to the contrary by him, I did not throw out Steve's Guns 'n' Roses 1987 tour t-shirt. Mind you, if I'd found the manky, ripped-up thing during my adjudication of his wardrobe, it would have been toast. But no. It wasn't me. My rule was always, "You can wear this around the house, but try and set foot out that door wearing your Motley Crue t-shirt and we are over." I drew a hard line in the sand.

I tried to tell him that I knew what was best for him...... and luckily for me, he willingly obliged without telling me I was a bitch for not appreciating his "lived-in" look. But that missing bloody Gunners t-shirt nearly tore us apart for a while there (years 1993 through 1998, to be exact) and it is STILL brought up every so often by him to this day, in a thinly-veiled accusatory tone that makes me very impressed by his passion for the tee... not the band, just the tee, I have NO idea why - maybe an ex-girlfriend gave it to him?? Maybe Axel kissed it for him??? Who knows.

Luckily for me, Steve decided it was worth cutting his hair short to have me stick around. And the added bonus for him was, he could see again without having the world's longest man-child fringe in his eyes.

But we were always destined to be. When we joined our two CD/record collections, we had doubles of far too many Kylie Minogue albums and also two too many Phil Collins Face Values for it not to be (at least musical) fate pushing us together.


Have you given your betrothed any ultimatums of a style/clothing/musical taste, etc., sense? Have they thrown down the gauntlet to you about anything you do or wear or listen to? Spill! But you know, obviously only if it's not going to cause you too much distress, revisiting how you had to give up your Wa Wa Nee collection.

Playing favourites

I know you're not supposed to. I've read people's confessions saying they do, sometimes. And last night was our turn.

I asked Steve, "Who's your favourite? Out of our animals, I mean?" We looked at each other resignedly, sighed and said simultaneously, "It has to be Jazz." And then we laughed uncontrollably over what we'd just done before patting Jazz and congratulating her for beating her two unworthy opponents.

We had weighed up instantly in our minds the pro's and con's of each of our beloved pets and then chosen the least annoying one - "the most independent", Jazz was voted. And we laughed because we had actually had to hesitate even to choose her.

Let's look at their stats a moment, shall we:

• Pepper has on average 1-2 elderly incontinent puddle accidents a day. She must be chaperoned around the house due to this, and also the fact that you must ensure she doesn't slip anywhere as she has terribly unstable legs not made easier by her claws that can't grasp the floorboards. She's had a bit of a larynx problem for years now which, in her old slow age, has meant that we now have to watch the tv at least 10 levels above what we used to (this is no exaggeration). She farts constantly - not one long, continuous one, I mean just pops every few minutes. She barks to salute the morning on first rising when she gets up to relieve herself, usually just before 6am daily - a dog that uses her bark as a sonar wave, I'm sure of it, so that she can gauge whether she's going to slowly stagger into that big mass (the house) in front of her and barks to judge the distance between herself and the house. She has dementia, is totally deaf and is completely in her own, retired world.

• Tabitha is .... I have no words. She's a nice natured cat and all but she's a lunatic. And a killer. The recently purchase cat bib that's supposed to stop her killing birds, if not hunting them, apparently still allows her to catch rodents - not an altogether bad thing ("and let that be a lesson to the rest of you residing under our house") until she brings the dead things home and plays hacky sack with them on the front porch, flinging them in the air and not caring that they are landing in our shoes. One day, I shudder to think what I will find if she doesn't cart all her kill away after maiming it on the front verandah balustrades. Ugh. And she pesters. This cat nags and nags and nags and bloody nags some more, even if you fed her five minutes ago. She's constantly darting ahead of you and across your path if you look to be walking up or down the hall anytime soon, which is where the laundry (her bedroom) is. And that's another thing: the cat litter tray. Can't stand them. Will never get used to them.

And that leaves Jazz. The crazy six year-old 30kg puppy with a tail the strength of a kangaroo and at just the right height to sweep all the pieces off the Junior Monopoly board game you'd left paused to grab a bite of lunch. Just the right height to swipe glasses and cups, plates and papers off any coffee, side, end or kiddy table she walks past. And if she doesn't knock them off with sheer force, the wind her tail creates makes sure they find the floor with the updraft created. She's boundy, expectant, pushes herself ahead of everyone in the family just to "win" and causes us exorbitant amounts of money on vet bills when she eats stupid things she shouldn't or causes damage to property that has to be replaced..... But she's our pick.

Do you have a favourite in the family? G'arn, you can tell me! It'll be our little secret.

iPhoto Year In Review

In January, to escape the ongoing catastrophic money pit home extensions, we spend two very slow-paced nights down by the beach in Gippsland. That's about all we do in January. Ahhh.

January:  On seeing Daddy in the ocean on his own, a blue-lipped and alarmed Lolly (the wind off the Southern Ocean was fuh-reeeezing) sat quoting her swimming classes' water safety motto to herself out loud - "Swordy says.... never.... swim.... alone." Daddy got a full reprimand on exiting the waves and rejoining us at the towels.

In February, I take the best macro photo I've ever snapped: a single dandelion seed for my sister inlaw's website. I try to burn the kitchen down by way of a pot of oil left on high flame on the stove (I don't think I ever even admitted to that one on the blog..... so ashamed... ruined a bloody good pot - and set of lungs - as well, damnit). Steve and I finish the back-breaking laying of the bitching bastard fiddly fuckers bamboo hardwood flooring and it looks spectacular. In fact, all the rooms - including the family and bath rooms - are finally coming together nicely, after works that began in August 2009. The dog gets in so many photos that I pander to her neediness for inclusion and take her very own special photo (smiling dork cutie that she is) so that she leaves me alone and stops getting her arse, waggily tail or head in all my shots. I ponder what else I could be doing with my time instead of hanging out black sock after pissing annoying black sock so much that I take a photo of them when I'm only half way through pegging duties.... The offending culprit black sock wearer poses alongside his Magna-doodled likeness (as drawn by the LGBB). Lolly starts writing her 'signature' and is very proud of herself. I rest easier at night, having finally found the right green for her bedroom walls ("Willow Tree" by Bristol, if you're wondering).

In March,  on the 6th at around 3pm, a once-in-a-lifetime storm event hits Melbourne ... right over our house. After 20 minutes on the ground, the hail stones are still about 20cm in diameter even after melting on the previously warm day. The damage sustained to our home, and more to others in the neighbouring areas, reaches well into double figures in insurance. We have to replace our annihilated roof - a bucket placed on our kitchen bench yields 5 litres of water through a ceiling light in the space of less than 2 hours. It's scary and a big clean-up but not as much as many others in the area. The hail bounces off the ground to around 10ft in the air (watch the video - the sound of running water half way through is actually a leaking window that was literally pouring water in onto our floors), the hail strips paint off our fences and goes clean through Lolly's trampoline and outdoor play equipment. Steve's car is totalled (a boon, which nets him a nice brand new car... small bonus, really) and we have to replace all our outdoor furniture and toys: thank you, RACV, what a blessing to be insured. The storm puts significant halt to our garage/home office plans (final stage of extensions), so we run away to the beach again, this time to Wilsons Prom with some dear friends for a memorable short vacation.

In April, the last surviving great-Aunt on my mother's side passes away. I visit their rural property in South Australia with my brother on a hastily arranged trip for the funeral. On reaching their homestead, I am overcome and overwhelmed with the feeling of home-coming for me, the house turns out to be a stately, welcoming old family friend, with many ancestral heirlooms - including the bed our great-grandfather spent the final seven years of his life sleeping in - and I feel a deep sense of belonging to this land which I have not visited since I was barely three. I cannot quite comprehend that in every direction I look, on waking to capture the sunrise the first morning, the family owns the farming land. I am choked and humbled and feel very small as I think of the original owners who have long since been driven out by white settlers. The colours are different here. And although it is razed almost completely and there is hardly a landmark in sight, the place is captivating, haunting and stunning. When I arrive home, the new tin roof is up and it looks marvellous.

In May, we go to Phillip Island for the day and have a blast together. This is despite the LGBB's very best hand-on-hips-ish pre-four year-old behaviour throughout the day, which is tedious and confusing and full of contradictions to say the least. Still, forging on, we visit a farm and Steve milks a cow, we go to the koala conservatory and make the obligatory Penguin Parade stop to watch the fairy penguins come ashore at the end of a long, cold trek for their food. Phillip Island: A highly recommended place to spend some time, if you're ever visiting Victoria. By the end of this month, we have dismantled the wall that surrounded our outdoor deck and the garage/office wall is up and ready for frame stage.

In June, I am lovingly made a chocolate birthday cake and the cake topper is chosen by Lolly herself - something to perfectly capture the love between a mother and daughter, a timeless gift that says "I was thinking of you when I chose this"... See it there in the photo? It's a rubber dinosaur. I take a photo this month of our old dog, Pepper, thinking for sure her days of warming herself in the winter sun by the window must surely this time be numbered (six months on, I'm still taking "this may be the last photo" photos of the old battle-ax). The LGBB has her mid-year toddler dance concert (her last in this class before she moves up with the 5-7 year-olds) - her motto seems to be "better to be over-dressed than under-prepared for any occasion, dahhlinks", as the other littlies turned up in sweats and hoodies, a floral dress at best. I blink and apparently miss my leggy little blondie-girl getting suddenly all child-looking... this is the month Lolly appears to drop the remainder of her 'baby fat'. She also discovers the joys of stay-on lippy and I catch her literally painting her face with it - after this photo, she covers herself from forehead to chin, colouring in all the bits she'd missed, and it will take me almost an hour to patiently scrub it off.

In July, our little girl turns four. I almost commit hara kiri with her birthday cake on the way to the party, Scraps discovers his hot chocolate addiction is serious and Lolly perfects her portraits of her Dad, adding features such as the all-over-face stubble and toussled-hair. I walk in one lazy Sunday morning expecting to find father and daughter sharing some quality time together and they are.... on their respective Apple gadgets, happily sharing high-score results and occasionally grunting to each other. They're happy. I shudder slightly and snap a photo, assuming this is just a taste of things to come.

In August, we take the LGBB to see the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra for the first time. Steve gets arty with his iPhone4 and a bunch of My Little Ponies, I get arty with bento (Japanese take-away/snack-box lunches) and Lolly gets arty with posing dogs. On heads of other dogs. It's a slow month.

In September, Lolly inexplicably begins breastfeeding Scraps out of nowhere and it is absolutely gorgeous - she even stops play to attend to her doggy every morning and asks to see photos of herself being breastfed as a baby to ensure she's doing it realistically. I take yet another last photo of Pepper (who is still wheezing alongside me while she sleeps as I type this post), and I capture the most delightful set of images on the way home in the long afternoon Spring sunshine. Pity about the dog's piss.

In October, Steve brings home his new baby - the iPad - and we're all immediately besotted with the dear little thing, Lolly takes to using the painting app on there and is chuffed with her hard work and even more excited that she can take a screen shot of her paintings and then print them out. Our beautiful old tree begins to get its leaves back. I'm treated to a Party In The USA impromptu tutu-clad dance routine (about 19 times in a row.... GET OUT OF MY HEAD, MILEY CYRUS!). Steve gets dressed up by Lolly. And we plant ourselves a little vegie patch.

In November, surprise-surprise, yet another 'last photo' photo of Pep, standing (barely) this time. Lolly gets quite taken with the sun shade being put up for her and Pepper to have picnics in the front yard. We're so proud of our girl who has her first end of year concert in amongst the older kids - she's tall for her age at four but is towered over by them - as she holds her own and keeps up with all the moves (wearing her Best, once again). We have a guest visitor on the first warm day - a possum who falls asleep for several hours on the clothes line under our deck. And speaking of decks... it's getting there! The office and garage are finished (shells only, still plastering and painting to finish), the outdoor room is looking good. Just need to decide what colour to put on the blue-board.

In December, there are cupcakes, carols and Christmas trees! Grandpa's tickles and Mummy's kisses. Fun under the Christmas tree. Kindy graduation and baked cookies. What more to life can there be?

So 2011 begins tomorrow. I have plans. Big plans. A few things already in the works. But for now, I'm so darn tired of 2010 that I just don't wanna talk anymore.

Have a good one, please have a safe one. Happy New Year!