The meaning of Life

The thing I love the most about Patrick and Oliver growing up is watching them exploring and understanding their world. Those moments when, if you listen very carefully, you can hear the "click whirr clunk" as the cogs in their heads turn over. Ollie spent at least ten minutes in the bath last night closely examining a plastic flag that clips onto Patrick's tu.pperware bath boat passing it slowly from one hand to the other, turning it over, and occasionally popping it in his mouth for a thorough checking. He is nearly sitting up by himingself- and right now he is leaning gently against me, as I lie on the bed typing. He is carefully examining a (clean) pair of Patrick's underpants and demolishing a rusk (Multitasking in a boy. You gotta love that) with an expression that seems to say "If I can understand this, I'll have it all figured out. Existentialism- meh. It's all in baked goods and undergaments."

Patrick's developments of course these days are a little more cerebral, as he gets better at understanding concepts. Some of the things he is getting into are:
*Birthdays. Well, I'm sue he doesn't really know what the whole "this is the day I was born" thing but he does know it involves presents, a party, cake, and singing (What's not to love, I suppose?)
*Mummy and Daddy's "other" names- like "Jen" and "T.....". Apparently Oliver's "other" name is Ollibollen, whereas Patrick's is "Paddywhack". But he knows Grandma's other name is "(June)".
*Friends. I'd had a particularly crap day at work and Patrick said "Mummy you're my best friend". His toys have best friends too (The green train is the blue train's best friend and so on). Patrick has had two besties at daycare for a good while too- lets just call them Poppy and Bianca, and he talks about them at home.
*Sick. We had a run (pardon the pun) of gastro- Patrick kindly brought it home from daycare, and he confidently told me "the food in mine tummy came out mine mouth". He also helpfully told me "Daddy's done a spew". He knows the food goes into his mouth, into his tummy, then it goes round and round and comes out as poo- we were attempting to gt him to stop eating sand which terribly irritates his bum when he decides to poo in his nappy.
* rewards. We had been going really well with toilet training but hadn't really woked out how we were going to progress fom going pants-less to wearing underpants, as the last tim I tried it he just weed an poo-ed in them. Also he was waiting until he had a nappy on to do a poo- which was triply bad because a. you had to change a nappy almost as soon as it went on, b. that was normally only when we left the house and c. it means he can hold on, but just wasn't going to do it on the potty. My mum suggested a star chart. I didn't think he was old enough to understand the whole action-consequence thing, but what do you know, it's working. We've had him in pants at home for the mornings most of this last week and he's been really good. Only trouble is we are running out of his favourite star sticker(the star in a car).
*boys and girls. He knows mummy is different to daddy, himself and Oliver because "mummy hasn't got doodle". You know that feeling you're being watched? I get it having a wee. Patrick's looking hard to see if I really haven't got a doodle, or if it's just really small. (MrT confuses the issue by saying "Well, mummy has sort of got a doodle..." let's just leave the finer details of anatomy out of it until he's in, say, high school, eh?). He is convinced he has boobies (teaching a 2 year old to say "nipples" just doesn't seem right) and MrT has a fine set of pecs (ok, moobs), and Ollie has big fat moobs, so that doesn't really register. Poppy and Bianca are boys as far as Patrick can tell, (and he is sure they have doodles). But he is getting there.

Other news- mrT and I both got much bigger than expected tax returns, so we're thinking of heading here for a few nights. Or here. We can't decide. At least we know it will be hot in sunny queensland, and the other one is close enough that we could conceivably dash down there any time we choose. We're also doing Christmas with my family in coastal Victoria: on of my aunts has an amazing beach house (One of those ones where they bought a fibro shack years and years ago when they were all as cheap as heck, and then replaced when tit was falling down and they were able to afford to do so), so the cousins will be able to play together for a week which we are looking forward to.

Rigt the battery on the laptop is almost out and I can smell MrT burning something on the stove, so I have t6o go.

My sewing machine still spends more time on my desk than Miller

Here's what I've been sewing.

As it started to get warm about 6 weeks ago, I realised most of Paddy's t-shirts were getting a little snug, so I decided to make him some shirts. Firstly, this cute as heck Hedgehog one


Hawai'ian

Pirates

Trains

and these are the two t-shirts he ore for breast cancer week at daycare
I sent the love train on down to adorn Drew, a fellow train-lover, but Patrick liked it so much I had to make him his own

Finally I made this for ME a while back. I love the fabric (I couldn't find an Australian stockist so I had to order it in from Etsy) and the best thing about it is pockets! Oh, and it is pretty snazzy


And here are my favourite sites at the moment, too. (apart from failblog, of course)

Ugliest Tattoos
Awful Plastic Surgery
It Made My Day- little moments of win
There, I fixed it
Regretsy (thx, minnie)

Sticks and stones

Ok before I start, I am typing this with Ollie in his new (second-hand) Bum.bo and Patrick playing trains next to me so I may have to go at any moment.

What do we do about bullying?

I was hoping to not have to consider all of these issues until Patrick was ready for school.

But.

The daycare P attends is having a week-long fundraiser for breast cancer, and they requested the kids all wear something pink. Considering I had nothing better to do than study, I immediately accepted the challenge to make Patrick something to wear. I made two t-shirts- one a white one with a pink star on the front, and another pink one with a train. He wore the pink star one on Monday, with a pair of skate-y long shorts (and the waistband of his Wiggles pullups showing. Dawg).

As we walked to his room I as astounded to hear two older boys (in the pre-K room, so 4 or 5) say as we approached "Is that a boy or a girl? Look, he's wearing PINK so he must be a GIRL" lol lol lol.

Luckily I don't think Patrick got it and he walked on, regardless.

But.

I'm probably drawing a long bow here* but maybe there was this discussion at that little boy's home: "They have to wear pink this week"
"Bullshit. Pink's for girls, my boy's not a girl, he's not wearing pink. This is bloody political correctness gang bullshit. Next thing you know they'll be having Ramadan and banning Christmas" (Ok the last bit is a bit OTT, but you catch my drift).

At least they didn't call him a poof.

As I said, I was shocked, so i ended up not saying anything to the staff, although now I think I should have.

But what to teach Patrick?

Part of me nods in agreement with each side of the fence on bullying. "Bullying is unacceptable, leads to children being isolated, unhappy and stressed and should not be accepted in any setting" but also "we can't insulate our children from all the bad things in life, and teaching them to deal with the bad stuff will make them more resilient and prepares them for the ugliness of real life". After all I was bullied at school and look how I turned out.

Insecure, with poor self-esteem and still hurt by all the barbs. Hmmmmmmmm

If you teach the child to answer back to the bullies it potentially opens them up to more bullying. Similarly, no-one likes a dobber, and he may be tauted more for being a crybaby.

Probably the best defence against bullying is to laugh. "With" them, not at them. If someone's trying to make you feel bad, laughing makes them feel that their jibes don't hurt and it de-powers the insult. But how do you explain that to a 2-year old?

We all want the best for our children. I think I've said it before that the thing I don't want the most for either of my boys is for them to be nerdy, daggy outsiders. The ones whose only frinds are the fat kid and the weird smelly kid. Because that was me, and thank Christ I was academically gifted because otherwise I would've quit school early, as the only thing of interest to me was learning. (sorry Alex, Renee, but it was true and I think we all know it). I don't mind them being 'just another kid', not the most popular, but also not the loner. (I'd really love for them to be the nerdy but sporty one with the looks- the one that the cool girls all have a secret crush on, but would only ever admit to under threat of 'truth, dare or torture'...
Girl 1: "Patrick?!"
Girl 2: "Yeah, Patrick- he has the most amazing green eyes, and have you seen him in boardies? HOT"
Girl 3: "I saw him surfing the other day and he is awesome"
Girl 4: "He's so lovely- he was my partner in chemistry last year and he's really funny and smart, and kind. He was so nice to me when I didn't understand something, and he'd explain it to me really well."
Girl 5 (the slutty one): "Yeah, I'd do him"
-more lolz-
Girl 1: "I can see it, now you say it, yep. He's hot"
Girl 3: "His little brother Oliver is hot too, he's in year 9 and all the girls there love him but no-one would say it"
and Patrick suddenly becomes the bookies' choice for school captain 2025.

Yes, this is a fantasy of mine I spend some time thinking about, normally when I'm doing laps and some school group turns up and I can see the group dynamics forming... which one would I like Patrick to be?

)

Wow, that's a long way off course.

What to do. Suggestions?

Next post: photos


* speaking of which, MrT and I are addicted to the Ranger's Apprentice series. Sad, very.

Teeth and other dramas

How does it go? There's nothing like a looming deadline to focus the mind? Something like that, anyway.

My official return to work date is Monday, but thanks to some creative rostering I now have until the week after that. It seems like such a long time since I was at work, but it also seems that Maternity leave has gone so very quickly this time. The days didn't ever seem to stretch out for hours on end like they did with Patick, probably because I haven't been on my own with a partner working 14-hour days. And for that I am eternally grateful.

But now with the prospect of my easy life coming to an end, I am feeling i am feeling increasingly stressed. And down. Yesterday found me in the baby change room of Taronga Zoo crying my eyes out: I was tired and frustrated. We had left our modest hotel at 10am, and now it was 1.30pm and all I had seen of the zoo was the shop (it was pouring rain and I didn't have a raincoat and had neglected to bring one for Patrick) and the inside of this changeroom with Ollie having done an enormous poo, and no-one in the zoo seemingly able to tell me where the baby change room was. Ordinarily I would've just changed him on any flat surface, but it was too wet. He had been howling, but by the time I found the changeroom he had fallen asleep, so I had to wake him up to change him which just felt cruel.

The day before we had driven down, with the plan being that Patrick and MrT would catch trains galore whilst I went to my favourite mall: a three level job dedicated ntirely to discount outlets. But when I got there I just found I kept thinking "what's the point? what am I doing here? why do I want to buy just more stuff? It will only clutter up the house..." and similar thoughts. I bought several pairs of shorts for Ollie, some new bath toys (meg the cat has eaten most of the ones we got for Patrick), socks for MrT, a funky laptop sleeve to use as a change mat for MrT when he's being "Mr Mom" when I'm back at work, some drink coasters and a mini of perfume I have been trying to find for a while (Daisy). I immediately felt guilty about the perfume.

yup. down dooby-do down down, comma comma down dooby-do down down. etc.

I'm not looking forward to work, but I'm not entirely sure why. I enjoy my work. I like using my brain. I like my co-wokers, by and large. I really enjoy the company of the nurses and working with them as a team (I know that sounds like the crap you come out with in a job interview, but no, seriously, I really do). So what is it I don't want to do?

I don't look forward to having to beg and plead for time to go and express. I don't look forward to having to find an alternative room in which to do that (there used to be a spare office we all used). I'm not looking forward to the grind of study and "when are you sitting your exam? What year are you again? Which module do you need?" and "have you presented anything at teh meetings this year? Are you doing journal club?" And all that crap.

I'm not looking forward to having to scurry to get there by 7am, leaving Patrick and Ollie in tears behind. I'm not looking forward to not doing any excercise. I'm not looking forward to having to prove myself.

I'm not looking foward to all that.

It's probably too late to see my therapist before I go back, so I desperately need to start trying to think positively. The only problem being that the more you try and fail, the more of a failure you feel. I've increased the dose of my meds, but all that seems to have achieved so far is feeling hot and sweaty and increased... crapulence (literally. if that's even a word)

What a muddle.

Ollie has the tiniest corner of a tooth showing in his perfect, pink gums. Byebye to his gorgeous gummy smile. He is nearly able to sit up by himself. He is hooting and cooing. At not yet 6 months, he is now fitting into some of the clothes Patrick was wearing when he was a year old. He is getting too long to fit onto my lap to breastfeed in polite society (I need to spread out on a lounge to support his weight with my knees- and -shock, horror- not every cafe or restaurant has a couch (I know, it's a shock to me, too)). He is still, for the most part, a happy, smiley, ... jolly individual. His biggest worry is having his toys stolen by his big brother (MINE bird! MINE elephant! MINE MINE MIIIIINE!) who regularly says "I Like it. It's mine." (that 'rules of a toddler' thing, said literally).

It is far easier to do this the second time around, but there is a nagging feeling that he too often gets left propped up on the couch with his toys whilst we attend to Patrick or something else, so he doesn't get nearly as much attention as Patrick did at a similar age, but I guess he is not the first second sibling to fall victim to this. I ought to know, I'm the youngest of 4! Thankfully his naturally sunny nature means that he doesn't seem to mind for the main part. I suppose it is no different to me putting Patrick in the pram and hauling him around various shopping malls to pass the day when he was young. At least this way I'm saving money.

I waste too much time on FarmTown.

Ok, I have to go. There's too much to do. I'll try and write again before long.

Oh man, I need to have an hour to sit down and write a meaningful post about how it is to do parenting 2.0 but this will have to do

It's getting warm again, so Patrick's been wearing last year's sandals. I noticed they looked a little tight, but it wasn't until he hobbled across the road I realised just how uncomfy they were.

So we went to a department store to buy some new ones.

I'm fairly fussy about Paddy's footwear, especially stuff he will probably be in day after day fo months on end, so I wanted a nice pair of study leather sandals with and enclosed toe so he can't stub his toes.

$89.95. WTF????

Ebay was bringing me no joy either. I looked in Trget and K-.M.rt and they ere all crap.

When did kids' shoes get so FREAKING EXPENSIVE!

We made a road trip to the outlet store 45minutes away and made a day of it. We had to: Ollie did an enormous Poonami that went, literally, from head to toes. (Ever wonder why they have deep handbasins in Parents rooms? For emergency bathing). That particular shopping complex didn't have a store with kids clothes in it, so we wrapped him up in a blanky and popped a too big t-shirt on him. Then we visited the westfield down the oad and got Gruen-ed into staying there for a few hours...

Why am I telling you this? Aaaargh! Too much sewing to do and only 2 weeks of leave left!

shy

Prosopagnosia. There's a word for it. Pro-soap-ag-nose-ee-ah.

All my early life I wondered how the other kids were able to recognise (and ridicule) me at school when I didn't recognise many of them. If a kid changed their hairstyle or maybe grew taller, I just couldn't tell who they were.

As I've gotten older I've leaned to cope by trying harder and harder to remember solitary facial features and attatch a name to them, like a kind of facial mnemonic- Kristen with the blisterin' freckles, A-MOLE-ia- or other features that set them apart- Big Steve, Bearded Casey, and so on. Things reached a peak in my early residency because all the ward nurses seemed to be young, thinnish, slightly taller than me, and have brownish hair in a ponytail. I'd only remember the fat, old, red-headed or male ones. Or ones with strong accents.

None of this makes for an easy time making friends. That, coupled with the fact I've always been somewhat different (new, smart, bookish) has meant that I've always been kind of shy. No, actually, make that A LOT shy. My regular friends laugh at this suggestion, because I'm rather outspoken and bolshie once I get to know someone. But it's the getting to know that is the hard part: I mean, how do you say "Oh Hi there" to someone you've only met once socially if you don't have a clue what their face looks like?

This is a weird disability, because as a child I actually had a photographic memory. I remember vividly doing a science test in year 8 and being able to recall what was written on the pertinent page in my excecise book exactly as it appeared. As I've grown older, the photographic memory has faded, although bits remain: when I was studying anatomy I could recall illstrations in the textbook photographically, but not the labels attatched. So I could say "Oh yeah, that nerve that wraps around there and then it goes up and under, and passes though that muscle" but never remember what it was called.

But never, never for faces.

Well, kind of. To remember what someone looks like, I remember (photographically) a photo of them. So whilst I can't sit here and recall or imagine exactly what my husband sitting behind me looks like, I can recall a photo of him. And that (and still making up mnemonics) is the only way I remember people's faces. Ironic, eh.

So today was the first time we've gone to a 'school' playmate's party for Patrick. I mean, we've been to other friend friend's birthday parties, just never the "invitation in the school bag" kind. And I was terrified. Well, maybe highly anxious is a better term. Here was a bunch of people I've only ever met fleetingly whilst picking up or dropping off Patrick, and I didn't have a clue what any of them looked like, or whose child belonged to whom. Luckily, it was faily obvious when we arrived who the birthday boy was, and his parents were happy to re-introduce themselves. But then Patrick started asking "Where's Liam? Where's Liam?" and I didn't have a clue. But luckily, it seems Patrick is not accursed with the same affliction, so once he had spotted him, off he ran. Phew.

One of my biggest fears for Patrick and Oliver is that they will be lonely, ostracised or friendless at school. I don't remember high school with any degree of fondness, apart from the one or two good fiends I did manage to make. But if today's anything to go by, I needn't worry.



Patrick helping to check my ski gear was in working order

Don't call DOCS on me yet

The one thing Ollie really enjoys doing is laying in his bouncinette watching the washing flapping on the line.

So why do I feel like I'm neglecting him if I leave him there so I can do some stuff in my study, barely 2metres away, with him fully visible to me?

Maybe it just smacks of Truby King too much...

So much to do, so little time

I have so many things i want to do right now, and, yes, one of them is blogging. I have been missing putting my thoughts to the eter lately, and there is a lot that has been happening between my ears recently, but there never seems to be the time to get it down. Right now I'm between loads of laundry from our skiing trip, so I've got, maybe 15 minutes to try and get some coherency out.

The simple stuff first: we went on a road trip to the snow. We spent a day in Sydney at Luna Park, which Patrick really got into, but not as much as the first time we took him there. Then we drove down to Canberra to see the outlaws, and then on to Jindabyne. The idea was that the outlaws would look after the boys whilst me and MrT hit the slopes, but on the first morning as we were getting ready to go, MamaT floored me with "I hate the snow: I hope you're not expecting me to hang around up there". I mean, FFS, that was the whole idea. And she knew it. She then proceeded to make the entire trip one long whinge fest. The accomodation wasn't good enough. It was too cold (I told her to put the heater in her room overnight, but, noooo, that would mean she had nothing to complain about). The boys were bored. It was too sunny. It was too windy. It was raining. Moan moan moan. I'd suggest something like "Take Patrick out to see the diggers (the snow groomers)", and she'd say, "Oh, no. I culdn't do that". "Take him for a ride on the chairlift" "Oh, no. I'm scared of heights". "Take him on the skitube and ride up and down the mountain" "Oh, no. I couldn't do that.""Take him out on the toboggan run""Oh. No." Let's put it this way: a two year old boy spent three and a half days at a skifield with his grandparents, and how many snowmen did they make? None. Not a single one. This is the level of apathy and crap we- no, wait, I had to deal with. Because I forced her to go there. All she had to say was "No, I'm busy that week" and I would've flown my mum up. And to cap it all off? Apparently I wasn't grateful enough. FFS. FFS. The answer is easy, though: I'll never ask her to babysit again. Simple. We spent 2K on a week where I felt that every time I was having some fun, I was personally responsible for her having such a crap time.

We spent 2 days on the way back in Canberra: Weston Park- which I remember as being the most awesome place in the universe as a kid- is now a sad, sad shadow of its former self. Whilst we were there, so many young adults came along and said "This used to be the BEST playground"- and it was. It looks like the ACT government hasn't spent any money there in the last 20 years. Truly sad. The next day we went to Questacon, which IS great: Patrick enjoyed it, but so did we- several times me or MrT were playing with something and then we'd look at each other and say "Where's Patrick" and have to run off and find him. He was both enthralled and scared of the robot dinosaurs: he kept on saying "More Dinosaurs!" but as soon as we took him in, he'd point at the exit "no! There!". A great place to visit.

Now- the harder stuff. Except I can hear the machine is on its last rinse.

Motherhood 2.0 is both better and worse. I'm not as depressed, but I still have days when I don't even want to get out of bed, and I can't see the point of doing much, as I have so little time to achieve anything. But there are also days when I feel so at peace and happy, I could just die. Oliver is a totally different baby to Patrick: he is happy and laid back. But he is also easily bored. MrT and Patrick caught the train home from Sydney (he blew our cover as cool Sydneysiders- we caught the train into the city from our suburban motel and he was "Train! Another Train! Blue one Train! Mummy! More Trains! Big one! Train goes FAST!". But his enthusiasm brought smiles from other commuters- a rare thing indeed). What was I saying? Oh, yes, easily bored- so me and Ollie drove home after a trip to Ikea: after stopping to feed him he started crying in the back seat- I figured out he was upset becase it was now dark and he couldn't see his toys- once I put on a light for him he was as happy as a clam.

Right. More... later, because the washng has finished and Ollie needs feeding.