Happy Birthday

I can't believe my little girl turned one yesterday. From her traumatic entrance into the world, to her sitting in her high chair stuffing cake into her mouth yesterday, its been a wonderful 12 months; and happily, a completely normal 12 months, well perhaps expect for the finger incident.

We didn't organise a party because, well, she's 1, and its not like she cares or would remember. Some people love to have massive soirees to celebrate such a momentous occasion, but we're simple folk and as such so it was just a quiet affair with just us. It was a nice day. We did nothing out of the ordinary except for the mouse's present opening and cake scoffing.

When the little people partake in the unwrapping of gifts it's always a joy to watch. Usually they love the colours of the paper and tear into it with great gusto, however the mouse was actually more interested in what was inside than the paper itself. Perhaps she got her fill when she decided to tear apart the newspapers sport section instead. As an aside, I suspect I've already brainwashed her into following my team in the AFL. You see, my team, the Hawks, lost the Grand Final the day before and the cutest one was doing all in her power to console me, she was tearing up all the pictures of the winning team; that's my girl!

It was interesting to watch her, with the assistance of her big sister, unwrap a present and then give it a very thorough look and feel, before rudely (in her opinion it seemed) being thrust another gift to unwrap. She was actually extremely curious as to what these new things were, which goes against the wrapping-paper/box-it-came-in stereotypical behaviour.

So what happened to all that lovely paper which was begging to be torn up and played with? Well the eldest pair decided to go back to their roots and tore it to pieces; not shreds, but actual small pieces which they placed in a bucket. I might find out today what they have planned for it.

With such a low key affair, we hadn't made a cake, but Lord Vader whipped up some marvellous cupcakes, arranged them in a '1' and hey presto there was a cake fit for a one year old! And didn't she love it! I think this is the first time she has had cake, it took her a few moments, and some assistance from her brother, to work out you picked it up and ate it. But as soon as that happened it fast became a disappearing cupcake.

And there endth the first birthday, a sedate affair, but one which for me was magical in its own right. But in every tale there is a lesson (conveniently forgotten before hand), and somewhat similarly to rule 3 from theGremlins,

don't feed a little one sugar after dark, because they don't sleep!

And so I arrive at the halfway mark for my fulltime parenting adventure. I can't believe its been 4 months already. I can only hope the next 4 are as wonderful as the first 4.

Sleep, who needs sleep?

Apologies for not having posted for a little while, I've been tired. The mouse has been exhausting Lord Vader and I. The thing is she is yet to master the whole concept of sleeping through. Of course, I don't blame her, I blame Lord Vader and I. You see whilst we have always put her in her own cot for her night time sleep, she usually wakes around 1-1:30 in the morning for a feed. I don't think she actually needs the feed any more and its more of a comfort thing but regardless she wakes. This means one of us has to get out of bed and stumble to fetch her and bring her back to bed. Inevitably I, ill equipped for the task, fall asleep quite quickly after such an event, and Lord Vader is way to comfy and snug to dream of moving to return the mouse to her cot, therefore she snuggles in with us. 

There is something wonderful about cuddling a baby in your own bed. Something blissfully peaceful as if all is right with the world, until of course she kicks you in the face....... or fights your cuddle to escape, or crawls on your head, or tries to dive off the bed, or just cries because she's tired and doesn't want to sleep. All these things, tend to make a peaceful sleep impossible. 

It reminds me of a story read by Noni Hazlehurst:

Last week the mouse slept in her own bed through to 4am. She almost made it to 'sleeping through'. A couple more hours and she would have nailed it. I'll cop waking at 6am. You see the other two kids were good sleepers, the boy in particular still is, so we have always been able to sleep through to at least 7, until now. 

It got me thinking, "I really enjoyed that whole sleeping uninterrupted thing." so I decided to do something about it.

This week we've started to not feed her at 1 am and just get her back to sleep in her own bed. So when she wakes one of us (usually me) will go to her, rewrap her, and rock her to sleep. Thankfully its usually only 15 minutes and then she is fast asleep. The first two days she also woke at 4am and couldn't be rocked back to sleep after 40 minutes of trying so, fed up, I've dumped her on Lord Vader and then collapsed into a snoring heap. But at least she's learning to get to 4am.

Last night was, I'm hoping, a revelation. The mouse slept through to 5am; a new record! I didn't even hear her this time, and Lord Vader went to get her. I'm not sure if it was out of sympathy (very doubtful), or whether the lure of the spare bedroom, being so much closer to the cutest ones bedroom than our room, was irresistible to the exhausted wife. But she never made it back to our room, so I slept very peacefully. I'm very grateful to her, trust me.

It'll be interesting to see if this actually works, and if it does, how long it will take. I'll let you know.

The word no is such a wonderfully simply word. Easy to say, and we've been conditioned to understand its meaning via sound and tone. That of course is true if you have had a few years of experience with it, and some, like Lord Vader, who is sensible, practical and absolutely brilliant at keeping me (and the kids) grounded in reality, are excellent exponents of the word.

However, when you're a baby the word 'no' is often something to giggle at, as are most other words. It's said   that 'no' is the first word after their own name that a baby learns. It's probably true too. Afterall babies are inquisitive beasties, always exploring their surrounds and invariable getting themselves into things which you would prefer them not to get into.

The mouse has a couple of favourite things to get into and she is fast learning what the word 'no' means. Firstly there is the bottom drawer in the kitchen. No not the stereotypical drawer or cupboard full of pots and pans that can be lifted and dropped (although we do have a bottom drawer exactly like that, but the mouse has shown very little interest in it), she much prefers the one with an assortment of stuff in it. Mostly paper based stuff, but stuff nevertheless. The yellow pages is her favourite. She opens the drawer and then 'reads' it. 'Reads' each page, individually, after being removing it from the book. Once that is done with (and the yellow pages really has no need for a cover and index pages anyway) there is the take away menu folder; lots of fun pulling menus out and tasting them. Then the box of resealable plastic bags; what a lark! But finally the little tube like cannister of unused dog poo bags. Blue bags in a little round plastic thing. Brilliant because you can get you're fingers right in and then pull the bags out. Fantastic fun!

The second thing to 'get into', really more touch and fiddle with are the boy's guitars which are on stands in the living room (to remind us to remind the boy to practice). The cutest one loves to pluck the strings and pull the music stand down (I suspect to get at the very interesting sheet music, I'm sure she thinks it would be tasty).

The net result of this, other than soggy torn paper and bags thrown about the place, is that the little one is learning the word 'no'. At first I tried the firm 'no'. She giggled at me, enjoying the attention she was getting, and tore another page out of the yellow pages just to demonstrate how clever she was.

Then the playful 'no', the one where you speak in a friendly tone and drag out the 'o' sound. That brought on a smile and a few more bags on the ground.

But finally I settled on the 'a tad angry, bit of a growl, a bit loud, and short and sharp' 'no'. Excellent result with that one. She stopped, she looked at me, the bottom lip quivered, and then she bawled. A nice loud scream accompanied by real tears. Ok, at this point you may think me a monster for making her cry, but I'm not. I don't enjoy it (mostly) because I hate to see her upset, it pulls the heart strings. But, in a way it gives me a sense of satisfaction. Firstly because she actually stopped what she was doing, the thing I didn't want her to do, and secondly, because she is beginning to understand what not only the word 'no' means, but that she shouldn't do whatever it was she is doing. And that my friends, is great. Comprehension, understanding are all part of learning and I love watching her develop.

The trick is to be consistent. When she does something I don't want her to I can't molly coddle her with a weak pathetic 'no'. I have to use it the mean way, the effective way, and I have to be repetitive. Plus I have a great excuse for a soothing cuddle after.

Of course, we could use childproof locks and fences or playpens but we didn't do it for the other kids,  and they turned out ok, so why start now, or we could move stuff, but where would the mouse's lesson be then. At least this way the mouse is going to learn something.

Bugger! She's in the drawer again....'NO!'

What? It's not about me?

The cutest one has just clocked over 10 months on this wonderful planet. Time has flown by and we've watched our little girl grow from a tiny little baby to being a 'bugger-crawling-I-can-do-this-walking-thing-as-long-as-I-hold-onto-the-couch', cheeky little mouse. She's pulling things off the couch or the coffee table, and the boy is finally starting to learn that lego and action figures can't be within arms reach of the little tyke because when they are retrieved they are covered in saliva.

Last week was a week of firsts for the mouse. She cut her first tooth, she stood unsupported for the first time and she had her first surgery. By the way, everything is fine thus far. She doesn't care about her finger in the slightest, although she just loves playing the game 'pull-the-sock-off-my-bandage-just-to-shit-Dad'. Come to think of it, she's an independent little thing. Not headstrong so much, but a willing explorer, curious about everything and happy to wander around the house looking for ways to cause mischief. Not unlike myself really.

About a month or so ago, with head hung low and fair few mumblings and grumblings, I skulked to the local library after Lord Vader had informed me that it had weekly nursery rhyme sessions for little ones. She of course suggested, in the only way a Sith Lord knows, that I take the cutest one because she would enjoy it and it was important for her to interact with other little ones.

I suppose I've kept the cutest one all to myself really. Perhaps it was the novelty of being a fulltime parent, perhaps its because I'm rather shy and really hate being out of my comfort zone, for example meeting new people, at a library, who know how to sing, who know nursery rhymes, who know what they're doing and won't feel like complete gits when partaking in the singing of the nursery rhymes. Or perhaps its a little of column a and a little of column b.

So selfish me had to go somewhere I didn't want to go, to be with people I didn't want to be with, all for the cutest one's development. Sigh.

I hated it. I felt like a fish out of water, probably because I was. I tried to do all the right things, you know, like sing the real words, and dance, yes dance, and smile and make small talk. But it churned me up inside. I felt so intimidated by these bright, bubbly women who happily and without a self concious bone in their bodies would gaily sing and dance and manage not to look at me in a condescending way as I failed repeatedly to do anything right. I can't sing. I'm dreadful, an out of tune bear with a sore throat and no lozenge to salvage even that. As for dancing, I couldn't even manage the hokey-pokey. I'm pretty sure Lord Vader wore steel caps in her shoes on our wedding day, and that was only for a nondescript slow dance!

The cutest one, of course, enjoyed it. I'm not sure if it was the singing and dancing and other children to watch, or whether she enjoyed watching me suffer.

Needless to say, I didn't go back; not until last week that is. Last week I sucked it up. It really was high time for the mouse to get to play with and see other little ones in action. I've sheltered her selfishly for too long. Lord Vader didn't even pressure me this time.

So with trudging steps I shuffled to the other local library (we're lucky to live smack bang between two libraries). We got there early, it was still Story Time for the pre-schoolers, so we sat quietly at the back and listened to a few stories. At the end of Story Time the librarian who had been reading approached and asked if I was going to attend the nursery rhymes session. I mumbled that I was, and she breathed a sigh of relief "Thanks! Last week no one showed up!". This sounded promising.

I like small groups, they are a little more personalised (I was going to say intimate but you all would have gotten the wrong idea) and way less intimidating.  One other mum showed up, and she was as nervous as me. The librarian metaphorically held our hands through the ordeal, leading the songs, and dances, happily reassuring us. The cutest one loved it. I... coped.

This week we went back and I was much more comfortable, even though four mum's and little ones showed up, I was comfortable because I had an idea of what I was doing (even though I can't sing or dance), and of course the mouse loved it.

The next big step for me is to contact a parents' group. Pretty sure there is a Dad's group around somewhere nearby, but maybe I'll keep building my comfort levels first before tackling that.

Why her?

On Sunday evening after a very long day hosting family and friends at our home, the cutest one cut her finger. When I say cut her finger, I'm understating it. The doctors called it a partial amputation, which means its still attached, but that cut was damn deep. 

We're not really sure what happened. The beloved was cleaning one part of the house, I was vacuuming and the eldest pair were playing with and looking after the cutest one, and doing a brilliant job too I might add. They think that she got her finger caught in the door as it was closing, but we're still not 100% sure. Whatever it was, it was just an accident. Stuff like that happens from time to time. It certainly wasn't their fault in anyway shape or form, and I had to reiterate this over and over to my daughter who was extremely upset and blaming herself. When things like this happen, there is no point in blaming someone, or converting your own fear and shock onto anyone else. All it does is make a dreadful situation worse.

The cutest one was in a bad way, my daughter was in a bad way, I was in a bad way. I don't like blood, especially free flowing blood, especially from the cutest one. I felt helpless, I felt nauseous.. My little darling was in dreadful pain and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't make it better, I couldn't sooth her, just hold her and try to stem the bleeding. I hate being helpless when my family is suffering. There is no worse feeling. Your stomach sinks, you feel light headed and often panic starts to creep up upon you.

The beloved, shaken, but cool in crisis, rushed with the boy (a dependable calm lad) to hospital. She rightly decided I was no use whatsoever to her and that I should calm the eldest daughter. In some strange way it was good for me that she was so upset, because it took my mind off my own fears and concerns for the cutest one and focused me firmly on the needs of the eldest. She needed me now. I could help her. I could calm her. Even if I couldn't help the cutest one I could help another of my children. Hugs, cuddles, hair stroking and soothing, reassuring words. I can do that, and I did, and it worked.

A short time after they left a phone call from the boy explained that they had already seen a doctor, and were waiting for specialists. All good. Reassuring, to some extent, but at that stage I was starting to hate myself. I should be there. I should be listening to the doctors. I should be holding my poor baby. Damn helplessness! The beloved is more capable than I, and I had already done my fair share of emergency visits with the boy's asthma attacks. Now I was experiencing what she may have gone through. The fear of separation from your ill child, the constant worry of the unknown. 

A couple of hours after they left its a pleasant surprise to hear a key in the lock. I'm off the couch in an instant, and blabbing stupid questions to the beloved who is carrying the cutest one. If I had taken just a moment I would have noticed the little ones face; she was happy. Smiling away as if she didn't have a care in the world. Happy to see me, happy to see he big sister, and somewhat curious of the blue bandaged 'boxing glove' on her hand, but happy. Relief is such a cleansing emotion, its like all the fear is being washed away. With her beaming little smile, everything is better. 

The beloved tells me that everything should be ok, but the cutest one has to go to surgery the next day. I guess I expected as much so it doesn't surprise me. But we both agree that she'll take the little one, as I'm liable to lose the plot when then give her anaesthetic to knock her out. She's right, I'd be a mess. Even thinking about it now (she's currently in surgery), I'm glad I'm not there and I'm distracting myself with writing this and worrying about how to convey my emotions rather than the emotions themselves. Of course I should be there, for the wife, for the little one. But I'm not and I also feel like I'm betraying them, and not supporting them. Sure there are logical reasons to be at home, like the practical stuff of picking the other two up from school and going to footy training. Things that just keep happening regardless of what life throws at you. And that's really it. Life is like that. Shit happens, bad shit, but it doesn't stop the world from moving, it doesn't stop time, and it doesn't allow you to mope. You have responsibilities, and one of the keys to our marriage being wonderful is that we both work together to handle whatever life throws at us. This time, and for good reasons, I'm the one trundling on with those things that need to be done, and the beloved is the one dealing with the crisis. 

It still sucks to be waiting at home, waiting for a phone call to tell me everything is fine. Where's that damn phone call?

waiting

waiting

It came some 2 hours after the cutest one went into surgery, whilst I was revisiting the dreaded pumpkin soup (anything to distract myself). In the end we think all went well as no one said it went badly. Oddly no doctor spoke to the beloved before the cutest one was discharged, but I guess we'll find out more in a couple of weeks when the bandages come off. 

Plan B, don't leave home with out it

The school holidays finally ended and the two larger ones headed off to school on Monday. Don't get me wrong, I'm not using 'finally' out of desperation because I didn't enjoy it, because I did, more so from the little people's point of view we didn't really do that much due to my knee injury incapacitating me somewhat. So they were just a little bored. We didn't even play another game of monopoly, although moved on to Sorry and a few others instead.

We did manage one more significant activity; a trip to the the Scienceworks, a children's science museum located in Melbourne, some 70 kms from home. The kids were particularly excited because there was a Wallace and Gromit inventions exhibition on and they were rather keen to take a look.

The first thing you need to before going on an outing is to make sure that the thing/place you're going to go to is open. Tick. The second thing is to try and get excited children to get ready. I'm a firm believer in them taking responsibility for themselves. Heck their 7 and 10 and know how to get dressed and brush teeth etc. Still there is a significant effort on my part to strongly encourage them, usually via applying my dulcet tones to a higher volume than normal. Of course the snuggly small one can't do these things for herself (and she still has no teeth to brush anyway) so whilst urging my other charges on, I had to prepare the cute one.

Most her preparation is pretty obvious; nappy, clothes and dummy. Then recheck clothes to ensure she has enough to be warm; do I need her beanie? What about a coat? And then of course there is the packing for her. So much stuff to take including nappies, bags for used nappies, wipes, spare clothes, a bib, toys, change mat, dog collar...hang on what the heck is that doing in the nappy bag? Bloody kids....where was I? Food, bowl, spoon, pusher, blanket, spare plastic bags for god knows what, spare dummy, dummy chain, baby bjorn and probably other stuff I forgot.

Oh and always have a plan B, but more on that later.

"Have you got your iPods?"

In this day and age its easy to entertain older kids whilst going on a drive. Sure there are always books (for those that don't get car sick), car games like eye-spy and car cricket, and small toys with which they can play, but this is the age of handheld electronic device, and its brilliant; namely because it shuts them up.

When I was a child car trips were something a bit like this:

iPods and the like mean those days are over!

When we arrived at Scienceworks we found it just a wee bit busy. As we carefully tried to shark a car space we noted that the line we all the way around the building. That's a damn lot of people! It's ok, we'll get in, I'll just keep looking for that car park. er, no? No car parks within at least 500 metres, well stuff that, time to unveil plan B.

It's important to be able to quickly summarise the situation and make a call, otherwise arguments and kids getting upset (and noisy) will happen. And nobody wants that. So we made a call. That's right we. I've found the best way to deal with my kids in these situations is to lead them to the decision you want to make, but get them to think they are making it. So I involved them in the decision making process, all the while driving toward our new destination, the Museum. Even though it was another 20 minutes or so in the car, and there was no Wallace and Gromit exhibition there, it wasn't a difficult decision to lead them them to. "Do you want to go ALL the way home without having done anything?" "We could go to the Museum, it's not that far." "And there's a really good ice cream shop right by there." and so the decision was made, and the best thing was that I got to get some awesome Tiramisu ice cream, and yes that was always part of my plan B. Having a plan B is very important, because it aids in avoiding the upset children (and strangely often leads me to having nice ice cream).

So we did the museum thing, we got ice creams, we had lunch in a lovely park (in the drizzle); and we went home again. All in all a great day out. Thanks plan B! You're a life saver.

Oh and one thing, think really hard about the types of outings you might go on, because if you ignore the fact that its school holidays you could be in for a rude shock. Never go to Scienceworks on school holidays. Lesson learned.

Me time, where art thou?

It's been over a week since my last blog post and in all honesty, for the first time I've not had time. So here I am early on Sunday morning typing away whilst the wee ones and Lord Vader are blissfully asleep.

So yes, the last week has been busy, why I hear you ask, quite simply because it has been school holidays which means I have all three of the little people at home. Originally I had thought that due to having an infestation of small people, I might actually have more time to myself, mainly because the eldest two are pretty self contained and really enjoy playing with the cutest one. However once again my optimism has been misplaced.

"Dad can we play a game?"

"Dad can you do drawing with me?"

"Dad can we watch <insert movie/tv show here>?"

"Dad can you read me a story?"

"Dad I'm hungry, can I have something to eat?"

and of course,

"Dad, where's the baby?"

are daily questions. Nay, often they are hourly questions, and there are a lot more besides. The great thing is that I love doing all these and many more things with the kids, just perhaps not all the time, and not without respite. Keeping the little people entertained has become my temporary job. Yes it is lovely to see the older pair all the time but really is it asking too much to have a tiny amount of personal time during the day? Apparently, yes, yes it is.

Therefore my days have been filled with monopoly, boggle and other board games, children's TV (which for those of you who know me isn't a bad thing), Dr Who repeats (see immediate past bracketed comment), fetching and preparing snacks, including force feeding the boy fruit which he abhors, trying to palm the cutest one off onto the elder ones (with only moderate and short lived success), and all the while trying to keep house in order and get dinner on table to satisfy she-who-has-begun-to-don-a-black-helmet. Speaking of which and with reference to my last post, yesterday I apparently put the towels in the linen cupboard the wrong way; and here I was thinking I had not only been folding the towels in the right way but was continuing the right thing by actually putting them away too, but alas no. Most of the above list (pre-towel tangent) has been fantastic fun, other than not being able to get my accustomed me time. I like me time. I like it a lot. I like it so much I have been known to take a days recreational leave from work (the paid variety) to do nothing at all but stuff I want to do, as opposed to using it for errands, jobs, looking after sick children and even holidays. Me time is really important. It gives you a mental and sometimes physical refresh and prepares you for the rest of the day, or winds you down when you need it.

However there is a certain monotony to playing monopoly every day, so to break things up I planned or rather thought about, because planning implies dates, schedules, activities etc, taking the kids on outings. Perhaps a trip to the cinema, or the science museum for example. We managed one such outing, mini-golf, and it was enjoyed by one and all, especially me because I won; I don't believe in mollycoddling the children and letting them win because losing is a valuable lesson in coping with things not going your way and can may instil the fire in your belly to try harder next time and beat the "old man", oh and the boy had already beaten me three times in a row at monopoly and I don't like losing. And yes I'm sure there is an argument to support letting them win, something about confidence, but meh, I'll ignore that for now.

Unfortunately a knee injury whilst playing basketball (whilst on me time, a regular, planned, weekly me time which is very different to extra bonus me time) has meant that outings have been postponed until I can walk properly. Yet every cloud has a silver lining and I once again got to practice becoming a martyr and because my darling elder children are compassionate they take pity on their father and willingly help at any opportunity. However She-with-new-found-respiratory-problem is too wily; more martyrdom practice necessary for me. Anyway it looks like I'll have opportunity to get my revenge on the boy and defeat him in monopoly.