Being a parent...

A year ago Juddy and I were fresh out of Karitane, released from that friendly, suffocating prison back into the world. The world wherein other children existed, as did a job I was about to return to, and two grandmothers who had no interest in routines… I should have known it was NOT FOR ME. A year ago I was at my lowest point, so angry at my little baby who couldn’t, wouldn’t fall in to line with expectations… These days, I know him so well and accept that his default setting is “challenging”. I know that he lives for cuddling, and that he is nowhere nearer a full night’s sleep than he was back then, and I am, mostly, fine with that. Last night he had a little cough and I cradled him in the crook of my elbow, that heavy cannonball head, now covered in long, obstinately straight strands of the loveliest gold, smelling so tasty and familiar, his hair tickling my nose. I could just make out his profile in the darkness, and I can honestly say I’ve never loved him more. He’s such a ball of fun. He loves dogs – “gog” is his favourite and first properly used word – and shoes “oo”. A little Clifford board book, in which puppy Clifford plays peek-a-boo in a shoe, is a treasured possession, featuring, as it does, all of his most loved things. He’s still having one breastfeed before bed, but I think his interest is waning. Now, if only mine would! Juddy adores Otis, and mimics his every move. His eyes brighten at the sound of big brother’s voice. He and I are up with the birds every morning, and he’s often quite cranky until Otis and Peggy appear. Big brother is as amazing as always. Our inventor gets more creative by the minute, and his school report earmarked his above average creative abilities, which we are doing everything to foster. I am learning, slowly, that being a parent is about welcoming and valuing the little individuals that are gifted to you, and I am doing my damndest to rise to that challenge. Be they shy, boisterous, sporty, arty, dorky, rebellious, arrogant or reclusive, I will love them and love every bit of them, even the bits I don’t understand. Peggy’s little personality – or rather, big personality – continues to develop too. She’s an emotional person – each day with her features multiple highs and lows. She’s so loving lately, and so focused. She’ll work at something for an hour or two, literally cross-eyed with determination, and takes great pride in her creations – a completed jigsaw puzzle, a drawing of a heavily decorated cake, a page of numbers and letters, sprinkled with glitter. Fashion is something she takes a keen interest in, and I am trying to just go with it rather than stifle it. 15 hairclips, a striped top underneath a floral summer frock, complete with pink tights, Snow White socks, purple sandals and hair elastics around her ankles? Sure. My Little Pony, the TV series, is Booroo’s current favourite, and she borrows many of her phrases from it. “Don’t I look smashing?” is sometimes the first words I hear as a knotty-haired monkey runs into my arms of a morning. My little tribe makes me smile. They make me scream too, but I think – or, at least tell myself – that the smiles outnumber the screams.

One.

One year ago, I was marvelling, yet again, at the miracle of life, cuddling my new baby boy, smelling his sweetness and enjoying the novelty of his red hair. I had the birth experience to beat all birth experiences, and I was on a high that nothing could drag me down from. I loved him with my whole heart and knew him from the moment he slid into my weakened arms. But his arrival ushered in one of the hardest periods of my life. Judd simply refused to do anything that baby books/modern science/old ladies/parents of ‘perfect’ babies/I expected him to. He would not sleep any longer than 20 minutes unless he was held, he would not suck on a dummy, he would not drink from a bottle, he would not fall asleep in the car or the pram, in fact all he would do in the car or the pram was scream. Life became a really awful game – one you would ‘win’ (ie, lessen the crying somehow) if you were able to work out how to get from A to B with a baby and two older children in under 10 minutes (10 minutes being the maximum amount of time you could handle the screaming without starting to scream yourself). Life was s&%t. It really was. I woke each morning willing the day away, I woke feeling sad and scared, despite the love I felt, despite the beauty I beheld every time I looked at my son. I just couldn’t work out how to take care of him to the degree he required it – swaddled to my chest, 24/7 – plus take care of two other kids who needed me so, so much, as well as, you know, eat, talk to other adults, wash myself. And I’ve never been good with a poker face. I couldn’t hide it, and I didn’t even try. Everyone who knew me knew I was miserable. Including my children, and that was the worst bit. We tried so many things to ‘fix’ Judd, but Judd was, and is, his own little person, with a definite agenda and a determined spirit. But slowly, the tension eased, bit by tiny bit, until, wow – life was happy again. I smiled – not just for fleeting moments, but for hours. The tension started to die the day I let myself off the hook, and accepted that I had a baby who was absolutely terrible at doing lots of baby things, but who was funny, delicious, and, when left to live as he wanted to, full of a palpable joy that touched everyone around him. Judd is cheeky. He is very physical, very busy, strong in body and mind. He loves to eat, as long as the food proffered is not baby food, and he loves to breastfeed. The ecstasy associated with our breastfeeding experience is so hard to put into words – it is something that only we share, something that is sacred and ours. Only twice a day these days – once, as he wakes, he sucks gently, half asleep and I brush his growing hair back from his eyes and enjoy the quiet. The second one is before bed, when he is playful and excitable, once it’s over he dives towards whatever has caught his eye, he is totally unstoppable. He walks now, ‘reads’ books, loves his Dad, hates to sleep, kisses cheeks and lips, playfully and randomly rests his head on pillows, bangs his many hammers, scribbles with crayons, cuddles into shoulders and under chins, and knows so much love. He took me to hell and then to heaven, and I am completely addicted to his firm, round body and his lively, loving soul. He finishes off our family of five. Happy birthday Bubba Boy. I always loved you, even when I hated the life we were living together, I promise you I did. These days, it’s all good.

School boy...

Oti, you were up early, wearing a nervous smile, a quickened pulse and a desire to get dressed in your uniform before eating your breakfast (which I didn’t allow… Honey on toast has the tendency to stick to clothing). You carted your school bag around the house with you, it sat right by your chair as you ate, and next to you on the couch while you watched TV. Like a cherished pet, it was never out of arm’s length, ever available for patting… Your uniform is crisp and a little baggy. The blue is deep, stark – it matches your navy blue eyes so beautifully. Your shoes look so chunky against your little sticks of legs. Your hair, full of body as always, looking professionally highlighted with those lovely white bits at your temple, sits as it should and smells fresh and innocent. You go to the toilet numerous times, giving you ample opportunity to wash your hands, a task you enjoy and really cling to. You are a very clean boy. Bordering on too clean. We brush your teeth, including your tongue – because you would hate to smell – and I stroke your head often. I want you to know that I know. I remember how it feels. We’re early – get used to it mate, I love punctuality – and Daddy and Grammy are there too, we all know this is a Big Day. We want you to bask in our love, to put our love for you in your pocket and carry it with you, to use it to give you strength when you feel unsure or lost. Your buddy arrives and your face lights up. You seem keener on being with him than with us. A sign of things to come, the move away from Mum and Dad, the move towards a social life that is independent of us. The very reason Mums often cry when their children start school… You two chat about Harry Potter and Star Wars and Movie World, a chat that I initially mediate somewhat, but then tell myself to exit. You draw, and you smile shyly. You ask me to take your drawing home, as you made it for Peggy. You proudly tell your teacher your name, and she is already aware of it. Its uniqueness is paying off – she has never met an Otis before. You stand out already. You don’t cry when we leave, but I do, once out of sight. Just a couple of tears. Tears for what we had, that I am sure I didn’t fully appreciate. Tears for the times you will miss me and wish you were at home. Tears for your relationship with Peggy, which will never be what it was. Now I sit here and picture your face. I hope it has a smile on it.

11 months with Bubba Boy...

11 months ago he burst forth from my body, and with him, a tidal wave of amniotic fluid and a river of misery. He was beautiful right from the start – that copper-coloured hair was something special, those black-brown eyes that were never blue, not even for a day. But he made me angry, because he wouldn’t do what babies were supposed to do, he wouldn’t do any of those basic, baby-ish things, and I used to ask why why why why why why over and over in my head. I’d be shushing and patting him in his cot while the other kids cried for me and struggled to wipe their pooey bums in the bathroom at the other end of the house, where I’d locked them away in an attempt to block out their happy noises – and to shield them from my growing rage. My beautiful, snuggly, overtired koala baby would not sleep in the car. He only screamed there, sometimes for an hour or more, and never to the point of exhaustion. He would not sleep in a pram. He would not suck on a dummy, or drink my milk from a bottle. He wanted me me me me every single moment of every single day. And I didn’t know how to break myself into three working parts. The anger, and the guilt I felt about being so completely dominated by him, and the guilt I felt about getting so angry at him, and the weariness, and the empty feeling that you feel when each second of the day is seen as one less second you need to endure… I remember it all and I putting it all here, even though it hurts to recall it. I stayed away from this blog because I couldn’t bear to face the words on a screen to cement it all and take it from the safe space of my brain… I can feel that stinging behind my eyes when I flick through the montage of his first few months. It was all grey, grey, grey, with bursts of sunlight every so often. A day when he surprisingly slept more than 20 minutes in a row… The first time he smiled at me… The way he looked when he slept on me in the Baby Bjorn, and how I was able to ignore the pain in my back, because he was beautiful and he was at peace. A friend showed me a photo of the inside of a mattress the other day – it looks like grey felt, with lots of tiny flecks of colour throughout. That was Judd’s first 6 months. And I wish it hadn’t been like that, but at least the colour was there… I guess. My koala boy is now nearly walking, and really talking – Mum, Dad, ta, “gog” (dog). His smile is this funny, tooth bearing, dazzling expression. His face is still dimpled, but overall he’s a little more slender than he once was. His feet are like soft pink balls with sausage toes attached, and his bottom is speckled with cellulite. He still doesn’t do what he’s “meant” to. He wakes up 1,345,612 times every night, and up until last week he was usually fed back to sleep. Now he’s only fed twice a day, but, boy, does he make those two events count. “Do you want booby Judd?” “Mmm!! Nyum, nyum, nyum…” He crawls over to me and his eyes are all huge and happy and he sniffs and licks his lips. And then he’s on, and he’s in his own little world, our little world, and I kiss his toes and stroke the hair that’s starting to grow into flicky layers around his ears, and I just adore him. We adore each other. His favourite song is “Locked Out of Heaven” by Bruno Mars. His favourite food is chocolate, but he also loves cold meat and bread. His favourite people, other than his parents, are probably Poppy and Otis. His favourite pastime is holding his penis! And his favourite moment of the day, other than the feeds, is the three-in-a-tub bathtime. I really need a photo of that.

Snippets...

I have failed to capture so much of this year, it’s been a harried whirlwind of new baby wonder and angst, toddler taming, house hunting, qualifications and career progressions and soaking up tiny wonders along the way… Here are some snippets: - Juddy sat well by 5 months, crawled and cruised at 7 months – totally skipped the commando stage – and has 6 teeth already, at 8 months of age. He also weighs over 10kg. His hair is redder and thicker, his eyes bigger, his thighs rounder and his smile sweeter than ever before. He is an unpredictable Bubba Boy, some nights sleeps quite soundly alone, other nights is only at peace in my arms. He bites and pinches without mercy. Loves eating pureed roasts and chocolate custard. Has no fear. Still breastfeeding 4 times a day – will keep it going awhile I think… He's my baby, my last, my final go at it. He smells a bit like the sea and is as yummy as can be. I just sniff him and eat him up all day long. - Otis lives in a world of his own making where pirates and superheros and Star Wars characters reign, and blood is often spilt - but if you die you can always use magic to be revived. If only it were that simple Matey! He loves books and drawing, building with Lego and blocks, crafting, eating anything sweet and cuddling those he loves. Continues to be a calm, compliant, obedient boy, and is a very calming influence on the other two. Has a tendency towards laziness – he’s a bit of a lounge lizard – which I am trying to change. Wants to be a builder, mechanic, fossil hunter, fireman and art teacher when he grows up. He’ll be busy! Is planning his Neverland-themed 5th birthday party. - Peggy. Stopped all night nappies and dummies the day she turned 3, as promised. Seems like she too should be getting a uniform and attending kindergarten orientation, she’s just so clever and confident. Just wants to be a Mum when she grows up. Likes to pretend she is the pink and purple baby. Loves skirts. Loves fairies. Wants a real fairy for a pet. Loves cooking, was so proud when I allowed her to cut with a paring knife for the first time yesterday. Loves to eat cheese, chocolate, butter and legumes, her favourite beverage is cold milk. She told off her doll for being “such a curious baby” the other day. She prances about practicing ballet moves all day long.

Things I love about Juddy – the ½ birthday edition…

The chub – the rolls, the weight, the heft of him. We call him custard boy because of his creamy skin and the way all that glorious fat wobbles. The multiple dimples in his face. The big triple chin. Yum. The eyes – the shape of Otis’, the colour of Peggy’s. Gorgeous. The hair – copper, soft, dead straight and growing and thickening rapidly. He never went through that awkward baby hair phase that the other two experienced. The smile – never has a face been so filled with pure joy. The look of him when I walk in the door after work – WOW. He looks entirely different when he smiles. Beautiful when serious and serene, cartoonishly cute when elated and excited. The smell – a cross between a sweet springtime flower and a bag of salty chips. It’s divine, I’m telling you. The kisses – open-mouthed, searching, full of love and gusto. He gives them on command. The babbling – the ‘mama’s and ‘dada’s and ‘baba’s have started. The nightly cuddles – yes, another co-sleeper. The best co-sleeper yet, in many ways. The sleeping has been so incredibly good and then so appallingly bad. A Karitane residential stay and a few psychiatrist visits are in my recent past. More on that to come. But for now, I am relishing the look of his silent, still face dimly lit by the small sliver of moonlight that comes through my bedroom window of a night. The fact that he’s mine.

Juddy, 5 weeks old...

Has a head of shining copper hair... Phil calls him "Coppertop".

Is a chubby, heavy thing, so unlike the other two were.

Has a face that echoes Oti's, with a few extra chins. And eyes that appear to be turning brown...

Loves his favourite ride - the Baby Bjorn

Fits into many a size 00.

Looks fab in bright blue.

Feeds well and often.

Enjoys the shower.

Dislikes the swing that we purchased for him.

Has very short sleep cycles, but can often push through and have a long sleep if I sit by the cot and firmly rest my hand on his back.

Refuses to take a dummy. We've tried numerous shapes and sizes.

Seems slightly scared of Peggy.

Smiles, crookedly and complete with dimples, a few times each day, with increasing frequency.

Brings us all bucketloads of joy.

Peggy's fears...

Peggy has always seemed so fearless. Determined and sure. But the last few months have seen her develop some fairly extreme anxieties, so extreme that they are starting to become a bit debilitating for her – and the rest of us.

It all started with the random, seemingly stray cat that would appear on our doorstep, or creep up behind us quit suddenly, numerous times per day. Phil uncovered some old tins of cat food under our house, so we are of the belief that the previous tenants fed this cat and thus made it feel welcome. I hate cats, always have, but I am not scared of them. I guess I just find them a little gross – all that dander and itchy-nose-inducing fur – and a little creepy. Anyway, she became very afraid of that cat. She started to try to avoid going outside. She’d watch from her window, her eyes screwed up with worry. She started wanting to be carried everywhere. And she began an all-day-long monologue about her love of (?)/fear of cats – ‘the’ cat in particular, and all cats, generally.

I like cats Mum. I do like them. They won’t eat my toes. No they won’t.

I ‘m really scared of cats Mum. I don’t like that cat. Keep me safe Mum!

On and on and on… Phil and I tried numerous tactics to rid ourselves of the cat when our attempts to reason with Peggy failed. Eventually, after being sprayed with water pistols and deterred by some strange cat-repelling substance purchased at Bunnings and sprayed liberally around the perimiter of the house, it got the message. Or maybe it died. We don’t know.

So, the cat was gone and Peggy seemed OK… Until Juddy was born. Then her fear of cats returned – the random sighting of one in our front yard didn’t help – and many other fears were added to the catalogue. Dogs – no need for them to be in sight, just the sound of one barking in the distance is enough to set her off. Lan’s dog Clapham is the dog she fears most. He’s a real bundle of energy, quite jumpy really, and she clings to me so hard when we are in their backyard, her legs a vice around my waist, her tears hot and pitiful. Birds, especially ones that swoop. And “anthonys”… It took us a few weeks to figure out that this is her term of reference for ants. We’ve had a bit of an infestation recently, and she was worried they’d eat her up.

Phil and I hate seeing her so distressed, and our backs ache from carting her around. She won’t leave the house on foot anymore.

It’s not only animals. The lawnmower’s groan gets her trembling, fingers in her mouth, a wail of “yayayayaya…” A motorbike speeding past – “What’s that Mum?? Mum?!!” And then the rangehood fell off the wall, with a crack and a thud, and she won’t walk through the kitchen anymore. She’s scared the oven is going to collapse on top of her pretty little head.

We’ve tried the tough love approach. Only makes things worse. We’ve babied her, as she clearly wants to be babied. I guess this is giving in and enabling, or something. My Gran suggested being honest – telling her that dogs do sometimes bite, but that we won’t let one such dog anywhere near her. My good friend Alana suggested a whistle, that she could blow to scare away a passing animal. I like this plan, but it’s obviously not a workable option in every instance.

I hope, as she grows accustomed to our new family dynamic and realizes that she needn’t be the baby in order to be adored, these fears will gradually slip away. We’ll file them away to tease her with when she’s grown. For now, though, the situation is far from funny.

The third time around...

Woah. Where to start? As always, the first few days at home with a new baby have been a composite of moments of utter peace and larger chunks of chaos. Overall, things have been much simpler this time. I have faith in myself, and I possess the knowledge that things will shift and develop, that there will be plenty of good days and plenty of not-so-good nights, and that although I may not be a perfect parent, my kids could do a lot worse!

The feeding. It started so well, it was effortless, completely effortless. The first week my boobs felt the way your face does when you have a severe sinus infection - heavy and throbbing. It must have been around Day 4 or 5 that I had my one and only teary moment, and that was due to the pain. My right nipple had been chewed up but my little guzzler, it was beeding and frayed, and there was some red streakiness on the underside of my boob that made me think mastitis was around the corner. But I iced it and fed from it, teeth gritted and back arched in a spasm, and lo and behold, all better now. Judd now weighs 4.55kg at 2 weeks of age, he's lovely and pink, doing plenty of yucky things in his nappy and is what I would hesitantly describe as "placid"... For now. But all signs suggest that he and I have quickly become a functional feeding team, and that is just the best thing. I feel very lucky.

The sleeping. It's not been too bad. I am just going with the flow for now, will try to exert a bit more influence over him when he gets to about 6-8 weeks, but for now just following his lead. It seems to be working. I am determined not to stress out about it. He refuses a dummy, makes the most disgusted faces when I try to push one into his little mouth... And then there was the time I made him gag and spew. Oops. Maybe we'll avoid dummies altogether this time? Ha. Unlikely.

The screaming... None. No screaming. He grizzles for up to two hours each evening, just the usual wind/reflux type symptoms, but most of the time he seems... Happy. Maybe it's the red hair? Hard not to be of a sunny disposition when you have a head of such vibrantly coloured hair!

The birth of our baby boy Judd...

So, I am finally a mother of three... Three little individuals, each such a wonder in their own right.

The last few weeks of my pregnancy were very rough. I was dealing with some gross tummy troubles which I won't detail here, symphis pubis dysfunction and increasingly frequent and intense Braxton Hicks contractions. I also felt like a bowling ball was twisting and bouncing inside my pelvis, about to explode out of me at a moment's notice.

The day before I went into labour, I was alone for much of the day, with O and P in daycare. I felt very ready to welcome this baby, really quite desperate to expel it from my long-suffering body. That evening, as soon as I lay down in bed, the Braxton Hicks started up again. At around 12 they started waking me up. At 1:30, the first real conraction hit... I literally leapt from the bed at this point, and felt that sick trickle of dread as I realised I was about to do it all again. As much as I had been longing for it, now that it was happening, all I wanted to do was crawl into a hole and hide.

Even though I *knew* this was it, I asked for Phil's validation. When he saw me start my Juju stomping, and get cranky when he (in his haste to please me) chose a non-maternity dress for me to wear to the hospital, it all came back to him. I had a number of people to call - Mum, Lani, my midwife, my mother-in-law - and was a little scared of jumping the gun. But really, much more afraid of delivering a baby alone in my house and scarring my kids for life with my murderous screams. So I called my sister, and she agreed it sounded like things were starting. I called my midwife Jane, and agreed to meet her at the Birth Centre in about 30 minutes.

For some reason I aways feel compelled to take a walk outside when I am in labour. So I did this. Despite the rain. And then Noelene showed up and we were off. I had a few contractions in the car, one when another car was stopped next to us at the lights - judging by the expression on his face, the driver could obviously tell something was very wrong (or right,as the case may be). We were lucky to get a park quickly and speedily made our way up to the first floor. This was at around 2:30am.

Jane was there, running the bath for me,and I was all set to hop straight in when my waters broke and - uh oh - they had a nasty greenish tinge. Meconium. The bath was no longer an option. So I settled for the shower. My support team took in turns to offer me water and rub my back, and meet my every need, basically, which I was pretty good at communicating via short, sharp, barks! The problem with the shower is that there is no back support, so sitting there on a chair and then a fit ball, I quickly grew tired and uncomfortable. I moved to a mattress next to the bed and leaned against the bed, kneeling. All the while, remember, I am banging either my feet or my hands during the contractions, trying to match the intensity and speed of this banging to the severity of the pain. This technique served me well when I gave birth to Peggy, and it was helping me again this time around. I have the scars to show for it - my toes ended up all scabby as a result.

The pain was getting really strong at this point. My back was aching too, and Jane started to think the baby was posterior, given the location of the heartbeat and the back pain. She didn't tell me this straight out, but I could gauge that this was what she was suspecting, and so I asked her. Big mistake. The minute she confirmed this I felt myself start to give up. I was so afraid of a prolonged second stage after what I had been through with Otis. But I rallied as best I could and kept on going with my leg/arm work. I focused on not screeching, on keeping the sound I was making low pitched and constant. I repeated "healthy pain" in my head, over and over. I moved around like my life depended on it. And when I started to feel like I was dying, all of a sudden that ferocious urge to push arrived, and I pushed Judd's big, red head out in one go! I think I surprised everyone in the room, no one was quite ready for that... Next contraction and he shot out of me, along with a few litres of fluid. Phil caught him with a little assistance from Jane. He passed him between my legs up to my very weakened arms and I wept with relief and love. The first few seconds all I felt was the exquisite joy of the birth being over, of the end of that torturous pain. The baby's presence meant little more than evidence that the whole experience had come to a blessed end. I felt the unparalleled sense of achievement that makes giving birth such a unique, life changing moment in a woman's life. And then I was just overwhelmed by love and admiration for this mucky, squirming, red-headed (!) boy I had just brought into the world. He was born at 3:53am. The birth was wonderfully straightforward and quick. It was a perfect way to bow out of my baby-making days.

Time sort of stood still then, but fairly soon after I popped him onto the breast, and, would you believe it, he latched on perfectly straight up, and fed there, contentedly, for an hour or so. I felt nothing short of elated! We were all so filled with joy at having experienced such a textbook birth together. Mum and Lan just adored him, and Phil was as proud a Dad and partner as ever. The placenta was delivered easily, the blood loss was TOTALLY NORMAL, my uterus began to contract back to size just as it should. I didn't take any of these things for granted - each aspect of the birth that went so swimmingly only served to make me more and more thankful, and to boost my confidence. It was all going to be OK. I could do this. My body could do this.

Judd Micah weighed 4.3kg, measured 54cm and had a head circumference of 38cm.

His eyes are a navy blue for now, but I think they'll turn brown.

His hair is a stunning shade of copper.

He's spoiling me with his settled demeanour, easy feeds and plenty of sleep, but that could all change with the wind, as I know only too well.

He looks like me, like Oti, like himself. He's robust, has an intense stare, and definitely feels like "mine". Love, love, love him.

Christmas is around the corner...

But you wouldn’t know it. Otis thinks that perhaps the Snow Miser, a favourite villain from The Year Without A Santa Claus (the movie that saved my sanity when Peggy was a screeching newborn and Phil was on the other side of the world), is sending us some snow for Christmas. Temperatures are lucky to reach the low 20s, we see at least a little bit of rain nearly every day (usually its bucketing down), and winter clothes are still in rotation. Shocking stuff! Where the hell is my summer? As a pregnant woman, so many sensory pleasures are unavailable to me... The warm, sedated buzz that comes from a third glass of wine, the salty goodness of Christmas ham and cold prawns coated in garlicky aioli... But I was relying on feeling the sun on my back, smelling of sunscreen and chlorine and spending many a golden day at the beach. Not happening.

To add insult to injury, I have a Vitamin D deficiency, so I am actually supposed to be exposing my skin to direct sunlight, which is simply not possible! I am taking supplements to prevent #3 being born with rickets! What an odd, first world problem Vitamin D deficiency has become. Cover up to avoid melanoma, but not too much, to avoid rickets. It’s complicated...

This pregnancy hasn’t been kind to me. I am icing my pubic bone nightly, wearing a brace most of the time, and limping along with a bit of a forced smile on my face. Peggy still demands that I carry her and “hold her tight”, and anyone who knows her knows that she’s not an easy person to say no to. I am as tired as can be, but underneath it all I am getting very excited about meeting this little one. I can’t wait to sniff its little (big) head, and gaze into its eyes for the first time.

I had to have a scan at 26 weeks after feeling really ill for a couple of months and not really knowing why... The baby was measuring very much ahead of dates, with an exceptionally large head. The sonographer looked a little perplexed, but I know better... It’s in the genes. I graduated the other day, and the woman who was fitting my hilarious Harry Potter-esque tudor bonnet was stunned by the size of my head... Big head, big brain, right? We can only hope!

All the scan confirmed for me is that this baby is super duper cute...

#3 has been referred to by a few different names by O and P... Bobba Fett (from Star Wars, for those not the parents of a Stars Wars fanatic), Smudge, Sanga... But the names we’ve chosen will remain a secret until we make our big announcement... The pressure is on! How do you match Otis and Peggy? It’s not easy, but I think we’ve done it.

Nearly 2...

My girl turns two in two days (and I turn 32, but I'm less fussed about that).

It's funny, it's not a case of "I can't believe she's turning 2". It's more "What? She not even 2 yet?"

Peggy was never really a baby, you see, and has never been content to act her age. She was throwing her little body down slippery dips before she could walk, ditching purees for regular food well before we expected, walking way too soon, speaking in sentences shortly after her first birthday, doing everything very much ahead of schedule. I used to fear I'd come across as bragging, but these days I accept it as fact - she's a clever little creature, cleverer than I ever was, and shows more awareness and understanding of her world than is demonstrated by some adults. What she did inherit from me is a dogged determination, explosive temeperament, and a capacity for love. She's also very practical and good at solving problems, which I think she gets from her Dad. No idea where she got her comic qualities from though... I do think she has a touch of her aunty Lani about her. She literally has Phil, Otis and I in stitches all day long.

She walks into a room and immediately all eyes are on her. It's not that she's an exceptionally stunning beauty or anything - she's very cute, but I think what it's really about is the whole package. The big almost-black eyes, the untamed Goldilocks hair, the assured walk, the grown up phrasing, the sweetest huskiest little voice you've ever heard, the constantly emotive facial expressions, the boundless energy, the golden skin. She's a bit of a star, I suppose. I guess you could describe it as charisma. She'll often latch on to a random person once she arrives somewhere - she'll make her selection and then almost seduce them with that little voice and a warm snuggle. No one can resist.

I am proud of how well-rounded she's becoming. Her brother's influence means that she loves Star Wars - cuddled her mini R2D2 figurine all night last night - and prefers to wear her Bob the Builder top to daycare over any other. She does love princesses though, and longs to do ballet like her cousin Isla. She's begun to really love reading, and will sit with her Maisy books for quite a while now, 'reading' lovingly to her doll Lulu, randomly pausing to tell Lulu off for not listening, making a mess or just generally being naughty. She really enjoys a good session on the swings, and if we ever discuss the park she'll start showing me her swinging action, throwing her little body forwards and backwards. She loves to build Duplo towers, sing nursery rhymes so as to comfort any sad-looking characters she comes across in books, 'write her name', shop - with her little trolley, a mountain of plastic food, as many dolls as she can cart around and the same number of bags - and to build cubby houses with her brother. Weetbix is her favourite breakfast food, blueberries are her preferred fruit, and she makes random requests for chocolate cake at least once a day.

She already adores her younger sibling. She pats my tummy gently, tickles it, and then asks to look at my boobs, and reminds me that they are for the baby. Once my boobs are out - at her request - she laughs, describes them as cupcakes, and then launches into 'Happy Birthday'.

She loves a cuddle, puts her arms up and shouts "UP TO ME!!", and reverts to baby mode for a few moments. I feel like she missed so much of her babyhood, and I love it when she puts on a baby voice and says "Mama, Mama", over and over.

She wasn't my first baby, won't be my last, but she's my Peggy. She's the only Peggy there is and I am so glad she's mine.

Otis and his pirate bag...

I think I’ve blogged about the fact that these days I can sort of/kind of/ in a very novice sense, SEW. With a sewing machine. I’ve always wanted to be able to, and over a year ago now, I bought a machine and enrolled in a class. I couldn’t continue with the classes because, at the time, Peggy was still being breastfed and the timing was bad and it created mountains stress for everyone in our house. But the three or so lessons that I did manage to attend provided me with the ability to turn on the machine and sew a straight line. It’s amazing what you can create once you master these key steps!

I make skirts for Peggy and all the other little girls that I know. I can do shorts, but not as beautifully. So, feeling guilty about producing item after item for my Booroo and nothing much for my boy, I made him a very basic little bag with a long strap that allows him to wear it across his body. It’s made of a grey and black flannelette pirate fabric, and a long piece of red and white striped ribbon. Really easy, a monkey could do it. No skill required. And wouldn’t you know, it’s his very favourite thing. The fabric is going all pill-y and worn, it’s dirty and smelly because he’s only ever let it out of his sight long enough for a spin in the washing machine on one occasion.

He fills it with an assortment of odds and ends. He just keeps on adding to it, and, like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag, it has an amazing and deceptive capacity, given how small it is (about 20 x 20cm, at a guess). At the moment it holds:

A scrap of paper bearing my signature, which he specifically asked for
A tiny, stuffed Han Solo doll
An issue taken from his large collection of K-Zone, D-Mag and Mania magazines
A plastic cob of corn
My old mobile phone
A plastic screwdriver
A Duplo canoe
Pieces of bark
A small rock
A tape measure

Only a select few are allowed to view the contents of the bag. I think it’s only myself, Phil and Mum, really. Peggy’s banned most of the time, but if she’s really cranky whilst we’re driving along he’s quite good about pulling something out of it to entertain her.

Of course now, being the copycat she is, Peggy's got her own bag and is filling it with her own random assortment. But the boy definitely started the trend. And being nearly 4, his collection carries more significance, even if that significance is sometimes a mystery to the rest of us. It definitely means something in his mind.

How number three came to be...

Well, I won't go into too much detail, never fear! As you may know, Phil and deliberated long and hard over how many children we felt would work for us. I had, and I guess continue to have, a bit of a fantasy of having four little ones. In my imagination I am able to embrace the chaos and the space on my lap magically multiplies. If I am honest with myself, I know that I am not cut out for mothering that many. I get too angry too easily, I do tend to despair over situations that other mothers are able to laugh about. And Phil, well, he can't quite work out how you hold on to three kids with only two hands, let alone four. So... three it is, for now. A vasectomy is on Phil's horizon.

We decided to start trying in May, which would mean that the earliest the baby could come would be February - right after my maternity leave entitlements kick in. Phil was hoping for quite a few months of actively "trying", me, well, I wanted it to happen quickly of course. And I suppose I had a feeling only a few days in that it had already happened, as I began a very relentless course of daily, sometimes twice daily, pregnancy testing. It was as if I believed that if I just kept testing, eventually that fat, glaringly blank, white space would turn into a pretty, promising, POSITIVE pink line. And it did.

My period was late-ish at that point, and I felt that heavy, leaden, unwavering tiredness that you can only know if you've been pregnant. Something was definitely wrong... Or should I say, right. I hated our old bathroom, found the bleach-resistant mould and cracked tiles repellant, but I'll never forget finally seeing a second pink line and feeling my stomach flip, standing right there amongst the debris of the kids' bathtime fun. I was pregnant, again, and probably for the last time. I was so happy, and yet already so sad that I'd never feel that same, indescribable, precious burst of joy again. I wanted to cup that feeling in my hands and never let it go.

My cycles had been strange, short, erratic, unpredictable. But an early scan predicted an EDD of 22 February 2012. Lovely. I've always liked the month of February. Another summer baby.

I've suffered again this pregnancy. Plenty of nausea, lethargy, hunger. Afew bouts of vomiting. Already my pelvis/pubis feels about to crack. My back's felt weak and worn. I have hairs sprouting in inconvenient places. But the joy in the kids' faces when they kiss my tummy and laugh at my nub-like belly button makes me feel all warm inside. And last week I saw my 19 week old foetus flipping around in my womb. I saw a perfect little profile, an Otis-like snub nose, thick, kissable lips. A little hand curling around the cord that joins us. And I feel so much love for this new baby, and so, so, so grateful to be growing another seemingly healthy little being.

Current O & P playlist...

Would go something like this:

Bob the Builder (Can We Fix It?)
You Are My Sunshine (Known by Peggy as Sunshine)
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star ("Tinkle")
Baa Baa Black Sheep ("Baa Baa")
The Pirate Song ("Pirate")
The Otis Song (goes like this: Mummy loves Otis, Mumy loves Peggy, Mummy loves Otis Hammond, Mummy loves Peggy, Mummy loves Otis, Mummy loves Peggy Jane Hammond. Mummy loves Otis James Hammond. Mummy loves Girly Whirl Booroo/Booroo Girly/Peggaboo Janey. Mummy loves Otskin James/Otis Milotis.)
I Think I Wanna Marry You (Changed to "I think I wanna marry Boo")
The entire Justine Clarke reportoire, especially The Witches Ball
Theme songs to various ABC Kids programs - Fireman Sam, Lazytown, Gaspard and Lisa

Phew.

Yep, I know, I've been absent.

Life has changed in a few huge ways.

We travelled overseas as a family and made it home alive and happy... Big deal sucess.

We moved house. Currently residing in a cute little three-bedroom brick home. Happy.

And I have a 17 week old foetus growing inside me!

Will be back to backtrack when I can find the time...

My dairy queen...

She loves cheese. Always has. Be it tasty, fetta, or a really pungent parmesan, she'll eat it by the handful. I classify it as a "healthy" snack, but really, it's full of fat and we all know it. Easier to just ignore that though, given how picky Peggy's become lately. I need to believe that cheese in abundance is good for her!

Lately, she's also been into milk. Requests it a few times a day, and can tell the difference between "Mummy's milk" (skim) and "Peggy's milk" (lite white). Ice cream has always been one of her favourite treats, particularly if it is of the "choc-ate" variety.

Peggy does not like fruit.

I purchase, slice and serve all types - mandarins, kiwi fruit (this is one she is anti than most, she'll at least have a lick), apples, pears, grapes... What else is there in June? I a hoping that once summer comes around and berries and magoes are back in rotation, she'll start a new love affair with those. But I've all but given up on the current fruit selection. I know that you are supposed to keep going, keep trying, keep believing that they'll eat the things you want them to, but really, short of holding her nose, I do not seem able to get her to open her mouth when fruit is on offer.

Cheese is just... easier.

Cheese, and dry Weetbix. These are Peggy staples. With milk on the side.

Dummies.

Hmmm. One of the most frequent discussions I've had with other mothers of young babies is the Dummy Chat. Do you give one? At what age do you give it? When do you get rid of it? How do you limit its use? Are there an ill-effects? Do you regret that moment when you first stuffed it in your screeching baby's mouth?

Well, I am a dummy fan and my answer to that last question is HELL NO.

I have documented Otis' love of dummies here. He was into the dummy from Day Dot. The little lips moved with a silent, urgent suck that was a little alarming to me at first. A rogue midwife actually recommended a dummy, and the love affair began. I think Otis was about 18 hours old.

You read in all The Books about dummies being dangerous sleep props that should be banned from about three months of age.

There was no way Otis would unclamp his lips long enough for me to remove it at that age.

There was no way I would have had the courage to bin the one thing other than my nipple that settled my often cranky boy.

I never really had a dummy plan. When he started to babble, I started to withhold the dummy more and more, as I felt it had the potential to inhibit his speech. Glad I did that. By about 18 months Otis was only having his dummy for sleeping, or if he was feeling particularly emotional for whatever reason. Sickness, of course, also equalled dummy.

I had some vague ideas about throwing it away when he was two, but honestly, the dummy was helping me get through each day. By then I had a toddler and a baby, one obsessed with a dummy, the other spitting it out and defying my efforts to plug up her cries. Eventually Peggy got her dummy groove on too, and before I knew it dual dummy love was the order of our house.

There have been many stressful dummy-related moments, being small and wielded by temperamental littlies, they do tend to go missing in the middle of the night. However, there have been many more moments wherein I have praised God for creating dummies and wondered how any mother ever coped without one (actually, one is never enough, a bouquet of dummies per child is what is needed).

Otis has a favourite type, the Nuk ones that come in pastels, and make a very slight squeak when sucked. I introduced these orthodontic ones when he turned one, to try to save him from bucked teeth.

Peggy isn't so choosy. Her attachments are Ted Bear and Wrap. Any dummy will do.

Easter just gone, I got the idea from my sister to use the Easter Bunny as a means of ditching Oti's dummy for good. He was, amazingly, all for it at first. He loved to tell all and sundry about how big a boy he was becoming. He lapped up the lavish praise we bestowed on him - in hindsight, we really laid it too thick.

About a month down the track, Otis fell apart.

I've never seen anything like it.

Not only were we battling with a non-sleeping 18 month old, but now we also had to attend to our 3 year old every hour or so throughout the night. The penny finally dropped after one particularly rotten night when I curled up in his bed and had his hold my ear all night, just so that he could sleep. It wasn't pleasant.

I worked out that he needed something to help him wind down and drift off. If it couldn't be me, perhaps it could be his dummy?

The suggestion alone completely revitalised him. When he took the first few sucks on the brand new lemon-coloured Nuk dummy, his eyes rolled back in his head and he appeared to be getting high.

Since we returned it to him, he's started sleeping all night again and having naps in the afternoon.

He's happy.

And so are we.

Maybe Santa can take the new ones next Christmas?

Wicked witches, guns, floods and earthquakes...

In an ideal world my little ones would only know sunshine and rainbows and cuddles and flowers and joy, joy, joy. But we currently live in a world that is stunned by one catastrophic natural disaster after another. The news is overflowing with increasingly graphic, apocalyptic-movie-like images of raging fires, quake-split roads, churches turned to rubble, muddy, disease-filled excess water and people waving toilet paper out of windows seeking rescue. There is something a bit sick about the way this stuff is shown on TV, the way Channel 7 goes into natural disaster programming mode and show unfiltered pictures of other people's pain for hours at a time.

When I wasa little girl TV coverage was obviously less immediate and therefore more censored, and I don't recall ever seeing the type of horror that has entered our living rooms of late. I can't help but wonder what it is doing to my kids...

I had a little panic the other day when Otis, in pretend mode, "killed" Peggy over and over with his "water pistol" (he only calls it a water pistol because I told him that guns, real and/or imagined, are banned from our home), and then, that same day, "shot" me when I asked him to do something he didn't wish to do. I sent him to his room and told him that all his good vs evil movies - the best kind, in his little drama-seeking mind - were being put away under lock and key. Snow White, his current favourite, plus The Neverending Story, The Little Mermaid... There is a real undercurrent of aggression in these films that I was/am starting to be concerned about. I guess I want him to stay that sunshine and lollipops boy who just cuddles and smiles all day long.

And then, today, I see him playing with his Little People... The plane is on top of the car which is teetering on top of a fire engine... "It's a flood, Mum! And an earthquake, look! They are all drowning and dying!!!" Cue huge smile of delight and mischief.

I can censor fiction, but I don't know how I can contain what is fact.

Chatterbox...

She never stops. Here's a little list, for Peggy to look back on with wonder one day. I don't mean to brag, truly I don't. But she's so full of life, and full of words:

Mummy
Daddy
Otis
Brother
Wee wee
Nappy
Dummy
Mine
My
Peggy
Baby
Doggy
Bird
Bear
Doll
Happy
Hair
Toes
Shoes
Nanny
Poppy
Isla
Indi (Didi)
Lan
Gwammy
Piggy
Book
Block (for ice block)
Yummy
Car
Bob (as in the Builder)
Fish
Bike
Side (outside)
Door
Cot
Wrap
Toast
Brekky
Duck
Cow
Bart
Jord
Yuck
Poo
Yeah
No
Hello
Bye
Bag
Boat
Apple
Bikky

And one beautiful, heart-warming phrase...

I LOVE YOU. (Sounds more like "I lup mmm")

16 months of age and already a great conversationalist.

The reluctant 3 year old.

Otis is now 3 years old. And I'm not sure that he's too happy about it. He tells me numerous times each day that he is "still a little boy, not a big boy yet", and that he doesn't want to be a dad yet. I try to reassure him that adulthood and all of its trappings are many, many years away. But still he reminds me, over and over again he defines himself as something closer to baby than he actually is.

It's all connected to the dummy. We had grand plans for getting rid of it in a very final and dramatic fashion upon his third birthday, but of course we left for our annual camping trip the day after and the idea of battling through tent sleeping sans dummy was intolerable to me. So I postponed the challenge of dummy eradication to an unspecified time in the next few weeks. He knows the dummy is on its way out and he'll do whatever he can to prolong his affair with it.

He currently only has his dummy for going to sleep. So his new thing is to tell me he's tired at random moments throughout the day, just so that he can lay on his bed and suck away with a gleeful expression on his face. Of course sleep is nowhere in sight...

With ageing, comes independance. In some areas Otis is determined to manage on his own - he loves to "read" aloud now, the story a mixture of rememberings and his own interpretation of the illustrations. And he is really thriving as a toilet-trained, pooing-in-potty person. He likes to flush and turn on the tap and use the soap all by himself.

But then he also likes to be fed, to be dressed, and for me to play game after game with him, day after day. I am working on this. No more feeding him... It was only ever dessert, we had a ritual of all sitting on the couch together after dinner, Phil and I feeding the babies their messy, sticky concoctions as quickly and cleanly as possible. But I've stopped that. And I don't dress him anymore either... Sometimes I have to instruct him as to why he has the wedgie from hell though! But he's learning. And growing. And soon that dummy will be history...

One more funny anecdote. He's worked out how babies escape the confines of their moummy's tummies. The tummy apparently breaks open like an egg, and the baby hatches. A doctor then glues the tummy back together, waiting for "the glue to dry" before sending the mummy home. Hence my stretch marks... Evidence of repairs I guess.