Friday, April 30, 2010
Ivy had the post-pre-school emotional jitters and Teddy is currently eighty-two flavours of crazy. He shouts 'ME MINE MORE!' all day long, and even- at 3am last week - in his sleep. At dinner I heard 'ME MORE SOSS!' until my ears bled.
It took me twenty minutes of soothing talk about good times to calm Ivy down enough to sleep at bedtime. For me, it felt like dredging the bottom of a tapped-out emotional dam.
Some weeks when Keith is away are like that. By the time he is home I feel the weight of his emotional half-share lift off my shoulders with relief. Not for the first time, I thought about my single-parent friends, who carry that weight all alone.
Last week, after gastro ripped through the family like an evil fairy, I was all out of patience. I'd been dealing with irritable sick children for days, and one dinnertime, I had lost all my mummy mojo. Ivy refused to eat, and I had nothing left but grumpiness. Eventually, Keith appeared.
'Are you feeling very grumpy, Ivy?' he asked.
'Yes,' she whimpered.
'Do you know why you feel so grumpy?' he asked.
'No,'' she said, and burst into tears.
He folded her into a Dad-hug, and explained about sickness, and recovery, and trying to talk nicely to other people even when you felt very yukky inside, and he promised that tomorrow she would feel a little bit better.
I felt very grateful to have a Keith. And I thought of my single-Mum friends, without a Keith, who dredge that emotional dam all the time, and do it so well, and I felt very, very proud of them too.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
My bathmat from last week is finished and in high rotation - it makes me very proud to have a finished project, and one with flannel on the feet is an extra bonus as the weather turns cool.
So then I started working on a 'budget system' wallet; the pattern for which I bought through the clever peoples at wienerdogtricks.
I like to think of it as a marital aid.
Folks, I measured, and pinned, and did all sorts of other bits of business that go against my essential nature. Here are my little pockets, all sewn up, labelled, and ready to roll.
My proudest moment- my thousand joys- was when I attached the zipper foot to the sewing machine and sewed on a zipper. Oh, wonder of wonders! I was so het up I could have used a cold hose-down.
But my sewing high ended, as sewing high must, when I realised I had sewn the zipper on inside out. In-fricken-side-farkin-out. I poked at it a bit and the tooth bit flew off and dropped on my foot.
Here's my wallet, looking oh-so-nearly-finished.
And here's the gaping zipper hole, laughing at me with it's evil, metallic grin.
I'm over for today. Pre-school pickup beckons, and then all the housework left neglected while I experinced the emotional roller-coaster of a quiet afternoons sewing.
Better creative spaces over here.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Like most of my big ideas it didn't come off exactly as I had hoped.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Happy long weekend, everybody. Hope it's full of fun with raw chicken.
‘May you have an interesting life, ’goes the old Chinese curse. Or, alternatively, could I suggest: ‘May you have a theatrical daughter.’ Like a drunken executive at the work Christmas party, three-year-old Ivy can add the thrill of drama to the most mundane occasion.
Last week we started swimming lessons. I was a little nervous when I saw the sign ‘Nursery of Champions’ at the door, and the banner ‘No Crying! Just Trying!’ I’m your typical new-century mother: organic spinach lollipops and chemical-free chemicals all the way. Big John from swimming school was more of a suck-it-up, this-is-how-we-did-things-in-Nam, save-the-drama-for-your-mama type.
At intensive swimming school, kids go every day for a week. For the first two days, Ivy was a scream. With her goggles on awkwardly (‘I haffa do it myself!’), she squinted up at Big John as he swam her across the pool, flirtatiously discussing Chitty Chitty Bang Bang while he suppressed a smile and said ‘Stop talking, Ivy! Blow bubbles!’
Her two classmates were less dramatic in temperament. They practiced, and listened, and slowly they began to swim. Ivy, instead, used her energy to initiate conversation with Big John about her outfit or to paddle ‘her own way.’ By Day 3, she’d had enough.
‘I’m not going under that water, John!’ she shouted suddenly, and began to wail. Over the next two days, lessons degenerated. As John crossed the pool, there was no talk of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Instead, Ivy clutched his neck and begged him, like a daytime soap starlet, ‘don’t let go of me John, please hold me, hold me, hold me…’
Watching, it took all my strength not to snatch her up out of the pool and run to the car. I had to remind myself that this was the same child who could summon an Oscar-worthy portrayal of distress if I dropped her special spoon. And who often flung herself across my lap, fake-coughing and moaning ‘I’m sick, Mumma, very, very sick. I haffa need a Wiggles band-aid.’
The terrible climax came on Day 4 when it came time for the tiny swimmers to jump off the side and under the water so Big John could pluck them out. Ivy refused, point-blank. ‘Come on, Mum,’ said Big John impatiently. I unwound my small daughter from my legs and held her over the pool. Took a breath. And. Dropped. Her. In.
In bed that night, Ivy and I discussed the day’s events. ‘Mummy, you did throw me in the pool, ‘she said. ‘Yes, honey,’ I replied, ‘that’s engraved pretty deep on Mummy’s brain too.’ Ivy looked me deep in the eye. ‘I did think to punching you in the mouth today, Mum,’ she said.
In the end, Big John and his Nursery of Champions didn’t stand a chance next to my small daughter and her whim of iron. If she was going to swim, she’d swim on her own terms. A day or two after lessons ended, she began wearing her goggles at the dinner table, obsessively blowing bubbles in the bath and announcing ‘I’m a swimmer!’ to anybody who crossed her path. No leftover trauma for this child. It’s Mum that’s left with the psychological scars. I’m not scared of swimming. But I might cry if I had to enter that Nursery of Champions again.
It's a shame. I've tried to explain that my love affair can only impact positively on his life (i.e: his stomach) but he doesn't buy it. Last year he was more than a little alarmed when he came upon me weeping copious tears as I watched Julie's grand final win. He had to pat my shoulder as I tried to tearfully explain what had been so unexpectedly moving about Mystery Boxes and Invention Tests.
It's tough, because Channel 10 deals out Masterchef in huge doses, and while I don't watch it all, I want to. I really really want to.
It appeals so much to my twin loves of cooking and the absurd. In prime time, millions of viewers are gripped to find out whether a contestant's Beef Wellington has reached perfect medium-rare consistency. Half an hour is devoted to a salmon weighing competition. Who can be first to fillet a Tasmanian salmon into six steaks of 180 grams each? The camera pans lovingly. The crowd goes wild!
That is television, my friends.
Contestants fall apart under the pressure. They weep as their pasta disintegrates. They dedicate their desserts to dead relatives. Meanwhile, television's greatest sex symbol, the dandy Matt Preston, stares intently into the eyes of trembling cooks as he rolls their gnocchi around his expressive mouth.
Last night, wearing a tight white suit with Cuban heels and raspberry cravat, he threw a pork chop over his shoulder to the imaginary dogs of his Tudor court.
That is television, my- did I say that already?
At least I have Ivy. She gets it. I let her stay up last week to watch some with me, and curled against me under a blanket, she said breathlessly ‘Imagine if that was you and me up there Mum. That would be amazing.’
Thursday, April 22, 2010
This picture's terrible, but I'm making a bathmat from one of Amanda Soule's patterns in Handmade Home, using a vintage towel and a stripey flannel sheet. You sew towel strips on the top, with flannal in the middle and a big strip of towel for the back.
Quick-drying, and soft on tiny toes.
Fiddly, but fun. Lots of satisfying long, straight lines.
Youcan see more creatiev spaces over here.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Thinking back, he would have been Teddy's age. As we talked, she constantly - and without stopping her flow of conversation- chased and retrieved him as he ran in various directions, at full speed. Chase, bend, hoist onto hip, place on ground, chase, bend, repeat.
He was cute.
She was happy.
I was horrified.
How am I going to do that, I thought? With my rickety back? How? How?
I didn't think of that woman again through Ivy's toddler-hood. Ivy would sit and play, sit and read, stop at the side of the road. Her lunatic qualities were expressed in ways other than the physical.
Then I had me a little boy.
Today Ivy, Ted and I had a coffee together to celebrate the kids good behaviour at Pixifoto- oh my lord, more on that later. (Advice required.) Ivy painted her face with baby-cino, talked of various subjects of interest (masks, skulls) and made Spot talk in a squeaky voice to the senior couple two tables over.
Ted ran his fat little legs off. He ran at the door. He ran at the other tables. He ran; giggling, looking behind himself with thrilled expectancy that Mum would chase and yes! she chased! So he ran faster! Finally I strapped him into a high chair. Once he had caused an obscene amount of mess with milk and muffin, he managed to detach the seat and send it crashing to the floor.
And me, I was fine. A little haggard, yes. Crumby and milk-stained: sure. The pity object of a horrified first-time pregnant woman: possibly.
Actually, I was better than fine.
I was happy. I felt lucky to be blessed with a healthy and spirited boy-child, one who shouts 'Mine! Mine!' in his sleep, and insists, always, on 'more'. 'More what?' I ask him. 'Yes!' he agrees.'More what! More what! More what!'
He runs full-tilt at life, this fluffy-nutted child, and I'm deeply satisfied, somehow, knowing that he can take life at such a gallop because he's learned that Mum and Dad will be there to chase and catch him, every time.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Some are bound to die young
By dying young a person stays young in people's memory.
If he burns brightly before he dies, his brightness shines for all time.
If you notice any change to shape or colour of moles, see a doctor immediately. Australia has the worlds highest incidence rate for melanoma. You can read more here.
Rest in peace, Trent.
Ivy is currently enamoured with a book about mask-making, which she wants to read constantly. She gets upset if you just discuss the masks on each page though. 'Read it! Read it!' she orders, so currently her bedtime stories go a little like: 'Tools. White board. Black board. PVA glue. masking tape. Pipe cleaners of varying colours. Begin by clipping the paper plate, being sure to mind your fingers, '...etc, etc. She is gripped.
Unfortunately, young Ted- the most adorable barbarian you could hope to be cuddled by - is not at his best when faced with containers of glitter and cotton wool. The urge to destroy is too strong for him to fight. Ivy (whose current catchphrase is 'I just like to do my own thing, OK?') is possessed of an extremely independent spirit (i.e: stubborn as an old dog) and so any helpful suggestions are met with different versions of 'talk to the hand.'
Complicated craft just doesn't fly. Our mask-making efforts looked like this:
Soon he was even perched happily on Ivy's lap while she sat back for a snack, and surveyed her work, to made sure she hadn't missed any important bits.
Teddy's day-carer Wayne told me last week that Ted was the messiest child he'd ever come across in his career. It made me proud. He's got a get-into-spirit, Teddy. Not a touch of timidity. Will he be a swinging hedonist? A captain of industry? A yogurt-artist-in-residence?
Just got to get him through his toddler-hood first...
Friday, April 16, 2010
Meanwhile, in Canberra, Keith had been incubating the same horrible bug, but he had to sit in his hotel room, stomach roiling, and write a grant application to deadline. The next day, with no food in him, he still managed to play soccer. (Nothing will stop him from playing soccer.) He only lasted ten minutes, and he pulled his hamstring...
He limped home, I drove a terrible two hours from Nanna's, and we got out the Get Better Box, which contains a Thomas t-shirt with healing powers, a favourite book, and a pack of jelly to be made up in the special Jelly Bears bowls.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Ivy is home - details later - but amongst the memories she carted home a sweet little gastro bug that has laid us all under in the least charming of ways.
Too much information to follow soon.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
"WhenI turn four I am going to have a television party and the cake will be a television and everybody can dress like a television and at my party we will just watch television. So much television.'
But where are they? Are they warm?
I can't stop cleaning out drawers and pacing. I'm going to have a bath now and read about life on an olive farm in Provence, and try not to think about lions, and tigers, and bears.
Keith and Ivy have just left for their second annual Daddy/Daughter camping trip with our friend Tristan and his three-year-old Talia.
They are going canoeing.
On a river.
I am sure they will have a wonderful time, but they are out of mobile range until Monday night. It's only two days on the standard calendar but at least four years in terms of mother-stress.
Universe, an order:
Bring. My. People. Back.
Friday, April 9, 2010
So in this chapter, Keith has Mummy going for an interview at a local paper. An high-minded editor is interviewing me while Ivy and Ms Poppins make faces at me from the window.
This is what I just caught:
‘Finally Mummy burst out laughing and had to tell the serious man: ‘Look, I’m sorry, but sometimes I really do act like a fool, not quite on purpose, but I can't quite help myself, and sometimes people think that makes my writing quite funny.’ And then the editor said ‘Well, we’ll give you a week’s trial.’ And then Mummy ran out to the car and she laughed at Ivy’s silly faces so much that she wet her pants a little bit.’
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
He's teething, and has diarreah.
Did I mention we all lived in one room?
Apologies all around. Luckily for Ted, he is adorable with the equal impact that he is destructive.