August 2007 Archives


Dear Holly

Omigod woman...when will it stop? What have we done to offend you and the Poo God so heinously? I mean really...

2 am!?
Chest to knee coverage?!
Screaming accompaniment waking up the entire household?!
A whole box full of wipes?!

You look so angelic most of the time.

O Excremental Omnipotence
Your almighty Pooness

Whatever we have done to offend you and your humble servant Holly...
We take back.
We rescind, revoke, repent...whatever it takes.
Just make it go away...sob
(or perhaps come a little more regularly)


There was a little girl...

Dear Holly

It seems a little unfair that your first appearance on this blog should be concerning poop, but there you go. A bit of drama never goes astray and let's face it. You don't really do a lot of interesting stuff yet. You're just a wee bit boring. You eat. You sleep. You cry. You get your Mum up twice a night to eat, cry and sleep again. Although it is true that I actually quite enjoy these times on the couch in the middle of the night...they're very peaceful. Sleep much overrated. Grammar and correct sentence structure also much overrated in sleep deprived brain. You do smile occasionally, it could be said. And what a smile! Your whole head creases up...all your gums are on display...your eyes all makes me blub up just to see it. But then I am a big mass of sleep lost, hormone overloaded Mom. I cry about abandoned Jack Russells at the RSPCA.

Anyway, back to poop. There was a time when you pooped basically at every feed. Which is fine. Then you stopped. And a day went by. And another day. Until there was three whole days with wee heavy nappies and no sign of poo. It became a little scary. I became rather anxious. What would the next nappy bring? You're a puny wee thing and there didn't really seem room for a surely increasing large mass of poo. Where were you storing it? Aha. We were to find out sometime on the fourth day. A day that rebounds again and again in my memory.

Now in the nonchalant state of non-pooping I had been changing your nappy on the couch. Come the fourth day this turned out to be rather ill thought out. There was quite a lot of bright yellow runny poop to be contained by something other than your body. The wrap on the couch came in quite handy for this. And maybe part of the couch itself. And your bodysuit and singlet as well. And somewhere in the midst of this, I thought it might be a good idea for you to have a shower. Imagine if you will, holding pooey squirmy baby at arms length waiting for the shower with the world's slowest heat up you had a mostly cold shower. Which (understandably so) you were rather unhappy about. And made your feelings known (quite rightly).

I am bad mother. Heartless and uncaring. And should no doubt be covered in poo for my sins.
Ah yes. Here cometh my uppance.

But we have moved on. The couch has been rejuvenated. I feel secure in the fact that you will have no memory at all of this trying time and I look forward to the time when your usurping of Finn's blog deals with a far more pleasant experience. Every day is getting better.



Dear Finn

It's a pretty exciting time to be a parent in this house. I'm hoping we can at least take some credit for your numeric genius, and perhaps if you're really lucky some of your academic marvellousness will rub off on us. Well on me anyway. Your Dad is continually talking about his (self-accessed) mathematical genius...he's probably still certain that that one day it may help him to pick up hot girls. What else can an ability to do simultaneous equations really be useful for?

A couple of days ago you started counting [movie, 3.4 Mb]. Up until then, you'd let us say the numbers while you pointed to the various objects. But on Monday you started saying the words yourself. It started with an easy ONE TWO and rapidly became a slightly more challenging ONE TWO REE OR IVE. F...what a nasty ass letter. It looks so easy to say, but it's really just teasing.

Later on last night we were trying to get you to go to sleep. You had no interest at all in sleeping but were preferring to count aloud. You had progressed to IX EVEN ATE NINE TEN. That S...what a bitch.

But wow. You're a speedy little thing.
From 0 to 10 in 2 days.



Dear Finn

You're starting to get used to childcare. I guess with only going two days a week it was going to take a little while, and it has. The fact that the staff seem to change as often as the kids is perhaps not so helpful. But as I say, you seem to be getting the hang of it.

Yesterday when I came to pick you up, you were waiting by the gate. Not crying, not hanging on for dear life yelling...but having a conversation with another little girl who was also standing by the gate. Babbling away your choicest chat up her all your attention. It was wonderful to see. They had told me you were starting to interact a little more with the other kids, and I could see it for myself.

Doesn't mean you're any less pleased to leave. As soon as you see me, you're off into your room to get your bag, you wave bye bye to any person or object in your general vicinity and you're gone. Gotta blow this pop stand, coz Mum is taking me for ccino. But again yesterday, you stopped to give one of your carers, Angela a cuddle goodbye as well as a wave and a high five. Is this love or what? I'm finally starting to relax about the whole thing. Maybe you are too. Maybe it's all coming good.

I find that I appreciate you much more, now that you're not here with me 24/7. I miss you with your simple pleasures, and the total chaos you create. I look forward to coming to get you, so that we can go and get coffee on the way home. Yesterday on the walk home we came across a lovely (if somewhat eccentric) man who had some chickens running around his front lawn and invited you in to pat them. Your curiosity about, and pleasure in, things like these, the most mundane of things, makes me open my eyes again to the world and all it holds. Your sense of excitement is palpable and I see how being a child should always be this much fun.

Your Dad now takes you to childcare in the morning on his bike. You love everything about this. The seat, the bike, the bag, the helmet.

You are so full of life. So much a brimming cup of curiosity and wonder.
It is a pleasure just to know you.

And to be your Mum...?
It can't get any better.


Working man

Dear Finn

Life for you these days is all about work. Little tasks that you consider yours alone. And we like that that you like to be helpful. But sometimes your inability to delegate is a little hard to deal with. Woe certainly betides anyone who attempts to a) help you do your job, or b) do your job for you. It really is not worth the ensuing soprano-pitched ear drum shattering screams.

Now Dad normally makes your breakfast. Mostly while I laze in my warm bed waiting for my cup of tea to materialize. And perhaps attempt to catch up on sleep that Miss H has stolen from me in the night. Dad is pretty good at the brekky run. Not good enough to actually get you to eat much of it, but that's hardly the point. Weetbix and milk has never before looked so stylish. The other day through a set of hopefully never again seen circumstances, I was required to attempt the Creation of the Breakfast. No tutorial. No notes. And it is quite possible that I did absolutely everything wrong. Like all of it. I didn’t let you put the lid back on the milk. Or put the milk back in the fridge. Or put the honey or the tea canister back on the shelf. Or let you carry your plate to the table. Ah well. There was a fair bit of noise, accompanied by tears, drumming of heels and flailing of arms and needless to say, the Weetbix in all its honeyed glory remained uneaten.

You also like to flush the toilet. We have encouraged openness around the whole toileting phenomenon, largely because on the whole we really don't give a toss about our dignity or privacy, and also we thought it might be useful when you came time to be trained in more grown up toileting ways. The other day, your Dad was obviously being a bit slow emptying his bladder. Your progress was being hindered. There was work to be done! You abruptly slammed the lid of the toilet down so you could flush it. Unfortunately you did not wait for your Dad to finish peeing first, causing some unavoidable spillage on his part, as well as a few succinct and well chosen phrases that we won't repeat here. Your Dad sadly, had to do some mopping up and was probably most annoyed that you ruined his hitherto unbroken record of never cleaning the toilet.

Additionally, you own the pushing of the lift buttons, the pushing of cross walk buttons, the putting back on of the rubbish bin lid and the placing of the washing basket back in the laundry. The emptying of the dishwasher is yours. Clean or dirty. It doesn’t matter. The putting of your plates back in the cupboard. The carrying of the car key down to the car. Disposing of your dirty nappies in the rubbish. The myriad ways in our lives in which you intertwine yourself and make yourself responsible, indispensable and oh so very helpful.

Feel free to delegate whenever you want, sweetheart.
You could do absolutely nothing at all, and still be completely irreplaceable.

love Mum