The Chicken

reaches for things she knows she is not allowed to touch, saying "no, no no" even as she grabs the forbidden object

blows noisy kisses to say goodbye

races through the backyard to make the precarious climb up into the cubby house

looks far too small to be walking and running

has the cheekiest smile I have ever seen on a toddler

loves picture books but not stories

plays with the computer mouse but looks at the screen as she does so

is starting to build with megablocks

delights in the aeroplanes that fly overhead

eats with great enthusiasm, and particularly loves fruit and tuna

adores being the centre of attention

asks me to sing to her by doing the actions to 'open, shut them'

waves regally to indicate that she is finished something (I tried to teach her the sign for finished but this is how it manifests)

spins around and around in circles giggling until she falls over

still thinks peekaboo is the funniest game ever

amazes me every day and has my heart wrapped around her little finger

Obsession

I was listening to my ipod on shuffle the other day when it threw up a song I hadn't heard for years. A song I used to love but had completely forgotten about.

I actually thought I'd moved past the point where music could reach right into my core and grasp my soul. For some reason I'd written that off as something that was only ever possible for someone living with heightened emotions. As a teenager music was all consumingly important to me, but of course for teenagers angst is a constant companion. All the years between 13 and 23 are a roiling pit of heightened emotions and it makes sense that this gives something for music to twine it's way around.

Since then though, I've been all 'grown up' and even tempered - generally content in a way that has few peaks or troughs and doesn't really allow for obsession. These days I still love music but the stuff that catches my attention does so because of a jaunty tune or clever lyrics rather than because it speaks to something inside me in a way that words can't.

Or so I'd thought anyway. When my ipod played this song it all came rushing back. Angst, obsession, the knowledge that it is possible to seek expression or release in something other than words or actions. I still generally feel like I don't need that anymore, but it's very good to be reminded that it's still actually there when I want it.

About the boy

I didn't get around to my other posts about sleep school but I think the time for that has passed. Instead I'm going to focus today's post on my other child. The following list of questions were put together by a friend of mine who plans to annually film her children answering them as a bit of a record of what goes through their mind at each age.

The boy somewhat begrudgingly answered them for me today. He was a bit suspicious of my motives, and somewhat self conscious about his answers when he saw I was writing them down. So even at this young age there may be a certain element of playing to the audience (in this case me) with some of his more virtuous responses.

(1) What’s your full name?
Actually, I'd better leave this out - but it's a lovely name, better than 'The boy'.

(2) How old are you today?
Five (and three months)

(3) What would you like to be when you grow up?
One of the triple zeros. An ambulance man or a fireman or a police man
(I would like to note here that I will be doing my best to subtly talk him out of being a fireman. Too dangerous for mummy's little boy!)

(4) What are mummy and daddy’s jobs?
Mummy is a speech pathologist and Daddy is an engineer. But mummy cares for us right now.

(5) What do you like about school?
Seeing my friends and literacy groups

(6) If you were King of the world, what would you do?
I would control the world. If there were bad guys I’d ring the police

(7) What’s your favourite animal and why?
(2) Dinosaurs because they were scary. Mammals I guess if we're talking about animals that are real now. All of them because they're furry and interesting.

(8) What makes you happy?
Playing with my friends.

(9) What makes you sad?
When nobody wants to play with me

(10) Who are your best friends?
Dominic and George and Vivek

(11) If you could have a super-power, what would it be?
Protecting the world (even the police!)

(12) What’s your favourite food?
Chicken wraps, chocolate, tuna pasta

(13) What’s your favourite book?
Any book about myths

(14) What’s your favourite toy?
lego

(15) What’s your favourite thing to do?
Play with my friends.

Notes from Last week #1.

A woman dressed in feathers and holding a piano accordian is warbling away in Finnish on the small TV that sits in front of me. It makes me think of my daughter. Last year I watched the Eurovision broadcasts from my hospital bed, having just given birth. This year I'm sitting in a hospital chair in a fluro-lit slightly cold lounge and watching it quietly so as not to disturb anyone else. Nobody is sick, I'm just here because the daughter whose arrival so unexpectedly coincided with Eurovision last year simply doesn't sleep. The ins and outs of that are fodder for a different post, but my two consecutive hospital-viewed Eurovisions have opened my eyes to a fundamental (and in hindsight, rather obvious) truth. Eurovision is more fun with company. And possibly alcohol too.

There are many other parents here at the residential parent support centre run by our local health service. Some are engaged in the wrenching task of teaching their children to sleep, something that had me in tears earlier tonight. One lucky couple is out on their 'date night' - all part of the service here. Others, knowing there's probably a tricky night ahead have sensibly gone to bed. A few are watching TV but they're in the other lounge cheering on their footy team.

But me - well I'm hardcore. It's a box of BBQ shapes and hours of cheesy Euro-pop for me. Of course if someone walks in wanting to watch NCIS I'm going to pretend that I just happen to be sitting in front of a TV somebody else turned on - I'm not sure I'm ready yet to confess my love of Eurovision to random strangers. (not ones whose facial expressions I can see anyway.)

It's all a bit empty though. I'm worried that if my daughter wakes I won't be able to respond as quickly as she deserves and popping up to check on her frequently is stopping me from getting cosy (the fluro lighting doesn't help either). But it's the lack of company that makes the biggest difference. Eurovision isn't for merely sitting back and watching. It is an interactive experience. There are costumes to be giggled at, earnestness to be mocked, non-musical bravado to be marvelled at, and one or two songs to get hopelessly stuck in your head and hummed for at least a week. Without all this it's just another really, really bad TV talent show.

Next year I think I'll tape it and watch it during the day while the little chicken is awake. She can watch it with me and sing, dance, giggle and marvel at the costumes the way that only two year olds - and Eurovision tragics can. And if she should grow up and end up representing Cyprus or Malta in the competition one day I can't say I'd be surprised. She's barely one and she's already shown a distinct penchent for dramatic behaviour at Eurovision time.

(written 28/04/10).

Mother's Day

Mother’s Day was perfect this year. It was the first year that The Boy fully understood the idea of a special day for celebrating mothers. He put a touching amount of thought into buying me a present and he worked hard to make sure my day was a lovely one. I was promised a pancake breakfast and a chocolate cake for after dinner but neither eventuated. I was, however, the joyful recipient of a garden gnome courtesy of the primary school Mother’s Day stall. The Boy handed it over, bouncing on his toes with excitement, bursting with pride at his purchase which he knew I would absolutely love to bits. And he was right of course – how could I not be delighted by something that was given with so much love?

We put together one of our traditional slacker's picnics (a large bag of Baker’s Delight stuff and some bottles of flavoured milk) and went out to Wentworth common for lunch. The Chicken is always at her best when she is outdoors and had a wonderful time crawling around, investigating other people’s picnics, and pointing out every plane that flew overhead. The boy is still thrilled at his newfound ability to ride his bike without training wheels and decided to put it to the ultimate test by riding up the large hill that overlooks the common.

It was lovely to spend the whole day together as a family like that – a whole day blissfully free of the simmering frustration and crankiness that sleep deprivation has made commonplace around here recently.

Remembering

We’re approaching the chicken’s first birthday. It doesn’t feel real – I look at her and she is far too small to be turning one. The past year has an odd condensed feel about it, as if we’ve squashed a lot into a smaller period of time, or as if nowhere near enough has happened to fill a whole year (sometimes it feels like one, sometimes it feels like the other).

But it’s definitely true and if the calendar wasn’t telling me so, other things would be. The past weeks have been full of little things – smells, sounds, sensations, events - that have been triggering vivid, almost visceral memories of how I felt this time last year. The first camellia of the year stopped me in my tracks a few days ago. It was later this year than it was last year because of the warm weather we’ve been having, but I was instantly transported. I remember my son carrying it, floating in a silver cup, into my bedroom and telling me that because I couldn’t go outside to look at it he was bringing it inside to me.

The advertising for our local fire station’s open day and the public school’s kindergarten information night reminded me of missing those events last year. Lying in bed, counting kicks and worrying about the baby but also worrying about not being able to do these things with my son.

The smell of chimney smoke drifting inside as the weather cools reminds me of sitting in the loungeroom with my feet up, directing my mother as she cooked dinner and tidied the kitchen. It reminds me of the weird stress involved in seeing something that needs to be done and not being able to simply get up and do it.

And then there are the other memories. Driving down Lyons road in Autumn’s early morning sunlight has words echoing in my head. My obstetrician peering sympathetically over his steepled fingers as every sentence he says settles into the numb place inside my head. Pack my hospital bags. Could need to deliver at any point from now on. Do I think I can stay in bed if he doesn’t admit me to hospital right now?

Driving down Paramatta road? Well it doesn’t trigger a breastfeeding let down like it used to, but as I pass the turnoff to the RPA it still elicits a feeling that is an odd combination of exhilaration and panic. I quite like that one actually as it always makes me feel like the luckiest person in the world.

And so on, as the memories keep tumbling in. While I am dwelling on them a bit I don’t see this as a bad thing. These memories are precious to me. Some of them are not particularly comfortable and I feel myself becoming a little jittery and unsettled as The Chicken’s birthday draws near, but they are part of my story, and part of The Chicken’s story. What happened last year helped to shape the interesting little person she is and helped to shape the way that I interact with her. They also helped to shape the way I look at the world. So while these memories do make me think of a time in my life that was very scary, they also make me think of a time in my life when I was very, very, lucky.

I think it would be lovely if looking at the first camellia of the year always makes me feel lucky.

Neglect

I've neglected this blog a little bit. After starting out with great enthusiasm and congratulating myself on managing a quartet of posts on an artful range of subjects I ran out of steam. That's an even shorter run than I usually manage with passing fads and I'm sure (or I hope I'm sure?) that I'll do better this time around.

I suppose the key to keeping a blog is motivation - knowing why you're writing it. My motivation for trying this again is twofold. Firstly there is the pleasure inherent in writing. I'm never going to be great at it but it is fun in a narcissistic sort of way to sit down and watch your thoughts play out on paper. And the second is the diary element. Since my last post I've really learned that life ticks by quickly, kids grow up without you realising, and memories that you think will always be bright and shiny do start to become ragged around the edges.

Second time lucky perhaps? We'll see.