Making The T-Shirt Fit The Crime

It all started so innocently. A bit of afternoon painting to fill up the time in between coming home from preschool and eating dinner. Sounds great right? Whatever could go wrong.

Allow me to present a photo essay of what could go wrong:

Declan likes to consider himself a post-modern impressionist.

He decided he needed a different application method.

I should probably make a crappy joke about being caught red handed here.

Right about this point I made the silly mistake of turning around to get Connor some milk. I turned back to see my eldest has moved on from paper and is now turning himself into an installation piece, smearing paint over his face and arms. Cue a quick dash to the bath with strict instructions not to touch anything.

Despite his protests I eventually convinced him it was going to take a little more than washing his hands to get rid of all the paint.

I’m not sure what’s worse about this photo, the state of his face or just how shaggy his hair is getting. The kid looks like he’s waiting for Fagin to contact him about an opening in the petty crime career path.

Lesson learned – never turn your back on a three year old when he’s armed with poster paint.

Little Conman was less that impressed with all the chaos.

Robyn’s Birth Story

On Thursday morning, the 18th, my waters broke whilst I was laying in bed having a chat with Declan. We dropped the boys around to my in laws and made our way off to hospital. The midwives confirmed that my waters had broken and, in exactly the same way as I was with Connor and Declan, I wasn’t contracting. They explained that as I wasn’t quite 36 weeks yet they’d delay inducing (again, as they’d done with my previous pregnancies) until 37 weeks. I was pissed that I’d have to spend an entire week eating hospital food and sleeping in a single bed, and was bummed about missing Declan’s third birthday the following day, but I was happy that this time I’d managed to make it to 36 weeks meaning that I only had a 7 day wait instead of the 3 weeks I was in hospital before delivering Connor.

Dan and I sat and waited for a room to clear out on the ward. We finally, after much debating, decided on both a boys name and a girls name. We laughed about how unprepared we were this time around, we still hadn’t bought a bouncer, and we needed a double pram because Connor still refuses to use his feet. He left early to clean up the lounge for the carpet cleaners, promising that he’d come in the following morning with Connor.

They found me a room not long after he left and I got settled in, I wrote a book review for CraftBlog, ate dinner (well, ate the potato from my plate and then went to the hospital cafe to find something more edible), watched American Psycho and went to bed.

The midwives checked me and gave me anti-bs at 12pm, 6pm, 9pm and again at 12am, baby was always around 150bpm, my temp never went higher than 37* and my blood pressure was excellent. I threw up the antibiotics given to me at 6, so they gave me another dose to make up for it, as well as some anti-nausea meds.

I fell asleep early, slept a few hours and then tossed and turned the rest of the night, the air conditioning was rattling, the baby in the next room was screaming and my own little one was kicking me over and over again in the ribs, I remember shifting my position to try to move her down so it wasn’t as painful. I turned my phone on to check the time, 4am, I put some scrunched up tissue in my ears to block out the sound of the air conditioner and fell back asleep.

The night shift midwife, Macca, came in at 6am with a cheery good morning, set my antibiotics down and got to taking my temp and blood pressure whilst we chatted about me getting a day pass to get out to celebrate Declan’s birthday.

When she placed the doppler on my stomach and didn’t pick something up straight away. I wasn’t concerned in the slightest, I’d felt her moving so much during the night that I figured she’d just found a new spot to lay in, I joked that the baby was just like its Dad and liked to lay in, I said that I was glad one of us got some sleep through all the noise of the ward. She pressed it into my stomach over and over again, having me roll from side to side. She said it was probably just an issue with the batteries and went out to change them.

I lay in bed and poked my stomach, had a chat to my belly and told the babe to wake up otherwise they were going to make me drink a tonne of orange juice, and that would play havoc with my heartburn.

Macca returned with fresh batteries, and another five minutes of prodding. She assured me that the baby was fine, she could hear a heartbeat, but she wanted to get a clearer one to reassure me, she showed me the readout saying 120bpm and told me it was the baby’s. I remember thinking at the time how low it was, my previous BPMs usually sat around 160, only looking back did I realise that she was probably showing me my own heartbeat as I started to panic.

She explained that it was probably just her being tired and not being able to find the right spot, so she called in a second midwife, and CTG machine. I was still waiting for them to find the magic spot, I wasn’t thinking about the baby, I was getting annoyed that they were putting so much ultrasound gel on me that it was getting all over the sheets as I moved into different positions, I wanted to go back to sleep once they found the heartbeat and now my sheets were cold and wet with blue gunk.

The second midwife explained that she was just going to give the doctor a call so she could do an ultrasound and make sure all was okay. Macca asked if there was anyone who could look after the boys at short notice, I wasn’t sure why she needed to know, she told me to call Dan and tell him to come in straight away.

That was when I clicked that this was more serious. Though I thought that the baby’s heartbeat was  just low, that it was in distress the same way that Connor was and that they were going to take me in for an emergency c-section. It never crossed my mind that it could be dead.

The doctor, Minka, showed up, she also did my initial appointment, I was so glad to see someone I already knew instead of yet another fresh face. I apologised and said how sorry I was for making her come in early. Macca stood next to the bed and held my hand, I remember hating it, I don’t like people touching my hands, not even Dan.

My belly was already drenched with the ultrasound gel, the doctor didn’t need any more. She put the wand on my bump and there was just silence in the room. I looked at the baby on the screen, it’s spine was at the top, my 20 week ultrasounds had all been with the back at the bottom on the screen, like they were laying down. This baby was suspended in mid air, limbs hanging down, no pulsing blob in its chest, no movement. I looked over at Macca and she had tears welling up in her eyes. Minka explained that the image currently on the screen was a close up of the chest, and she couldn’t see the heart beating. Suddenly that hand holding mine didn’t seem so bad. All I could think of was that I had to call Dan and tell him to hurry up.

My one regret was telling Dan over the phone. I needed him here immediately, I needed him to know how urgent it was, to not stop to talk to his Mum or anything. I asked him what he was doing, he was just packing the kids into the car and asked if I was okay. All I could say was “the baby’s dead.”

I was certain that someone had stayed with me whilst I waited for Dan to come in, but he says that I was alone when he showed up. Minka returned and said that she’d booked me in for 8am with the hospital ultrasound so that they could confirm and make sure there weren’t any other issues that may affect the birth. My room was right at the back of the ward, the midwives were gathered in a huddle half way down the corridor and totally parted for me as I walked through them, I was convinced that everyone was staring at me, everyone we passed, even down to the guy cleaning the carpets, they all knew I was the one with the dead baby in me, and every one was looking at me.

I didn’t even look at the screen on the second ultrasound, just at Dan. I’d wanted to find out the sex then, it didn’t feel right having a “it’s a boy/girl!” moment with a stillbirth. Dan didn’t want to, so we didn’t.

I didn’t so much walk as run back to my room, everything was going fuzzy, I had an IV that I bumped into everything as tried to get away from everyone staring. The bumping made me think that I was attracting even more attention to myself, stressing me out more, making me go faster and making me crash my IV into more things. We got back to the room and I said there was no way I was giving birth, I told Dan I had to have a c-section, that I couldn’t go through the pain of labour and not have a baby to show for it.

The rest of the morning is a blur, my in laws came in, with Connor, and I cried a lot, midwives that had treated me over the last 24 hours came in and said how sorry they were, and I cried a lot, Dan and I sat dumbfounded and together we cried a lot.

The doctors finally came to see me at 11am to explain what the process was, I don’t remember much, just how adamant I was that I wanted a full autopsy. I was so scared that it was something genetic that could be replicated in any children we may have in the future, or lying dormant in one of the boys. The doctor kept on using the phrase “drop off the tree”, there’s still a lot of Australian phrases I don’t know, so this one baffled me, I saw it on a par with “drop off the twig” which isn’t exactly the most compassionate colloquialism. Dan later explained that it’s actually a euphemism and is a nice thing to say, but the entire time she was talking to us I just blanked out and focused on this phrase.

As we waited to go to the delivery ward I cried because I hadn’t taken a 36 week photo, I’d been taking one every five weeks, and had 15, 20, 25 and 30, but I’d forgotten to do it the previous Friday and had instead just put it off until I was 36 weeks. I wanted a photo but I didn’t want a photo of me with a dead baby inside my belly.

12pm I walked across the corridor to the delivery ward. I sobbed the entire way and told Dan that it wasn’t meant to be like this.

We got settled in the birthing room, there was one of those faceless clay figurines on the shelf, a happy mother and father looking down and cradling a newborn baby. It made me bitter and angry, I asked Dan to hide it.

I’d asked for an epidural and we were waiting on the anesthetist, they got everything laid out and set up, only for me to change my mind at the very last minute and go for a Patient Controlled Anesthetic instead. They don’t normally use Fentanyl during labour, it makes the baby too dopey and sleepy, but obviously this wasn’t an issue. Suddenly it became very important for me to feel the birth, I didn’t want that feeling of being completely disconnected.

One of the things that bothered me about Connor’s birth (where I had an epidural) was how distant I felt from it, I didn’t feel the contractions, I didn’t feel him come out, then when they whisked him away so quickly to special care I just sat there totally confused. I’d had a baby apparently, but I hadn’t felt it, and I hadn’t seen him, so I wasn’t entirely certain.

The pitocin began at 1pm.

The PCA did an awesome job of taking the edge off the pain without completely dulling it. I knew there was no way I was going to be able to get through this if I even thought about the fact that the baby wasn’t alive. So we all carried on like it was a completely standard birth, Dan and I chatted to the midwives about where we wanted to travel, we laughed and joked and it felt normal.

I spent the first half of the labour sitting on the bed with my legs crossed underneath me, rocking through the contractions.

At 2pm, 1 hour after the induction begun, Jedda, my midwife, checked me and I was already 4-5cm dilated.

Tiredness was kicking in from my restless night as well as some dopey-ness from the meds, so I stayed laying down and dozed in and out as the contractions came and went. I clicked the button on the PCA every time I felt a contraction beginning and by the time the peak hit it just took away the sharpness. I remember trying so hard to stay peaceful, I was humming through each contraction at the begining, as it went on the humming got more animalistic though – I don’t think I could ever be a silent birther.

I loved being left alone with Dan to just focus on the labour, at one stage when Jedda came in and checked me she rubbed my thigh to help me through a contraction. I have no idea what she did, but it helped so much, I spent the next half hour trying to direct Dan on how to rub my thigh properly to ease the pain and getting frustrated at how he wasn’t doing it right. At one stage, just as I was coming into transition based on my reaction, Dan moved the PCA so he could get closer to the bed and accidentally clicked it off. I don’t remember much of my reaction, just how I felt, most of which was pure anger, I don’t remember saying anything, but according to Dan I completely exploded at him and it took Jedda to calm me down.

Not long after that the PCA hit its two hour limit and ran out of meds, a midwife went to call the anesthetist to either get her permission to readminister the Fentynal or to get her to come and do it, I have no idea. I’d switched to gas by this point to cover the gap, I was sucking in so much during each contraction that I was going into those little gas dreams where everything spins and everyone is repeating themselves.

That’s right about the time I told Dan I had to pee.

Hindsight tells me I should have clicked what that feeling was, and it wasn’t pee, but I didn’t. I felt like I was going to wet myself so I hurried to the bathroom, Dan trailing after me pushing the IV and the PCA stands that were still hooked up to my arm.

Then it goes black.

I don’t know if it was the gas or just my brain trying to block it all out, but I only remember flashes.

Watching Dan walk away to grab the gas I was demanding and screaming at him “the baby’s coming”, I felt this intense pressure and reached down to find her fully crowning.

Black.

Holding my hand over my crotch trying to support the head so I didn’t tear. I was still sitting on the toilet, I wanted to push, I wanted to go back to the bed and I wanted to wait for the midwives, but they seemed to be taking so long.

Black.

Looking down and seeing Jedda, she was talking to me but I couldn’t understand her, I was angry at her, her mouth was moving but it was like she wasn’t making any sound.

Black.

Someone helping me stand up, feeling the baby leave me with a final push.

Black.

Looking down and seeing her in my lap, I was sitting back down on the toilet. I thought it had been a mistake, I remember thinking so clearly that she was alive, she just didn’t look dead, she looked like a normal healthy baby, just asleep. I wanted her to wake up so badly, I was still convinced that they’d all got it wrong, that she was fine and was going to surprise everybody. As soon as I realised that wasn’t going to happen I wanted someone to take her away, I didn’t want to touch her.

Then nothing.

I don’t remember delivering the placenta, I have no idea how I got back into bed, just a massive empty hole. I woke up, laying on my side, my arms wrapped around her, swaddled in a pink and blue blanket with my face pressed into her head, she smelled amazing, sweet new baby smell. I heard Dan on the phone, sobbing as he told his Mum that we were calling her Robyn.

Robyn Jade was officially born still at 3:15pm, weighed 3.1kg and was 50cm long. I don’t remember if there was an “it’s a girl!” moment, it seemed like everyone just knew. I’m glad we didn’t find out at the ultrasound and I’m even more glad that I birthed her instead of opting for a c-section, she deserved that. It was my favourite labour experience so far, I felt in control, I felt supported, and I enjoyed feeling each contraction.

Dan and I spent the afternoon cuddling and holding onto our little girl, the midwives bathed and dressed her for me, took photos and hand prints. Midwives came in and out to hug me, my in laws came to visit and cried as they held onto her. It was truly the most surreal experience of my life.

___________

The following morning I asked for her back so that we could say our final goodbyes. I took off her booties and hat to save in her baby box. Her cheeks had turned pink overnight and she was wrapped in a warm blanket, she looked perfect until I opened up the blanket to take her booties off and her legs were blue and purple, and there was a smell that I could never forget, not overwhelming, but the best I can compare it to is when you open a pack of chicken breasts and you know they’re just not good to eat.

I swaddled her tightly, my overwhelming thought was that I wanted her to sleep soundly, and not have her arms go up and scratch her face. I needed to put a hat on her because I knew that she would be going to the morgue and I didn’t want her to be cold.

I asked a midwife to take a photo of the three of us, in the same way that I have photos of each of the boys as we prepared to go home. It felt weird, and I didn’t know whether I should smile, but I’m very happy I have it.

I kissed her head, laid her down in the little plastic hospital bassinette and told her how much we all loved her, and reminded her how wanted she was. I placed a pink blanket over the top of the bassinette and called in a midwife to wheel her away.

Dan and I held each other and just cried, probably more than I ever did over the previous 24 hours. Birthing her was easy, saying goodbye was the hardest part.

_________

This was just two weeks ago today, my bleeding has all but stopped, my breasts are completely empty and my stomach has gone. It’s like the last nine months have been some kind of crazy dream, sometimes I feel like I was never pregnant, although often I wake up in the night and in my half awake state I think I still am pregnant. I want to remember all of this, but at the same time I want to forget, I want to move on, but I want to mourn at the same time.

I feel like a walking contradiction most days.

The fog is begining to lift, but I’m still struggling to see clearly. I still feel exactly the way I did walking down the maternity ward corridor, like I have a sign on my forehead, like everyone I pass in the street knows that I’m the one with the dead baby. I think people feel like it’s contagious, or if they mention it to me I’ll break down sobbing.

For now I have to just focus on healing, physically there are no issues, but mentally I still feel like someone has taken a hammer to my self confidence and strength.

I’m just dreading the first person who asks me how many children I have.

Best Laid Plans

Dan and I decided to have a business meeting (as much as you can call us scribbling away at notepads and drinking coffee a business meeting) at an indoor playground yesterday.

In hindsight, I do not recommend it.

One grumpy one year old, and one hyperactive three year old (that has no concept of fear whatsoever) combined with the rainy weather of the last week causing everyone and their dog to have the same idea to bring the kids to play and get the sillies out of them. Lets just say none of it did much to help productivity.

But Declan playedran around like a headless chook and Connor got to eat a cupcake, so I’m fairly certain they considered it a raving sucess.

Inspiration

One thing I keep on hearing over and over again since Robyn’s birth is how “inspirational” I am.

I feel like a fraud.

I certainly don’t feel inspirational, in fact I think I feel pretty much everything but that.

Today I felt jealous. The green eyed monster planted himself firmly on my shoulder in the early hours of the morning and has resided there for most of the day. I’m jealous that suddenly everyone seems to have a baby but me. I crave a little newborn to hold and cuddle, I long to feel movement in my belly again.

I wake at 3am most mornings and lay there staring at the ceiling willing myself to fall back to sleep. I’m shattered most of the day but can’t bring myself to nap. I shouldn’t be suffering from sleepless nights because of the thoughts that run through my head, I should be suffering from them because I’ve been awake all night with a baby attached to my breast. The spot in front of the window where the cradle was meant to be haunts me.

I have so much hidden bitterness to the world around me right now, that I’m trying so hard to contain, that I feel anything but inspirational.

And Breathe.

The festivities are over for another year and we came out of it relatively unscathed.

Once again I learned the hard lesson that the kids really couldn’t care less about whether the honeycomb set properly, whether the tags matched the wrapping paper or whether we left out oats or carrots for Rudolf. They (and my husband) care more about having a sane wife and mother instead of me stressing out because one silver ribbon is more metallic than the other.

Fortunately I got my meltdown out of the way on Christmas eve, allowing us to have a fairly calm Christmas day in the heat with Dan’s family. Christmas morning was a little overwhelming for Declan, meaning he refused to take a nap before we left for my in law’s house for lunch and more pressies. Before the seafood was even served he was crashed out on the rug and snoring.

I know officially I should probably be bothered by having Christmas lunch without my eldest, but eating an entire meal without getting up and running around to tend to his every whim was probably the greatest Christmas miracle ever, it’s amazing how much better food tastes when it’s fresh.

Now we’ve had a few days off and it’s back into the swing of things. Bring on 2010!

Not Such A Happy Christmas

Last night was Declan’s Preschool Christmas Pageant. He’s been practicing the songs for weeks, he had the actions down perfectly and spent all Friday afternoon telling me about Santa coming to visit preschool that evening. The whole family was excited about it and we’d even dragged the in laws along for the event.

I’m sure you can guess how the evening went.

I wasn’t prepared for how packed it would be, you would have thought we were attending Elvis’ comeback tour. I went into a full blown anxiety attack before we’d even got to the gates.

The PreSchool owner got up on the little stage to welcome everyone, and with a crack of thunder the heavens opened, it continued to rain for the entirety of the kids’ songs.

Not that it mattered of course, because Declan refused to get up on stage with the other kids, he wasn’t having bar of it, not even with the coaxing of his teacher. Instead he gave us our own performance under the shelter of the veranda, including some awesome Thriller-esque moves.

We were meant to wait for Santa in the individual classrooms, which Declan did great at, right up until other people came into the classroom. Seeing his room packed with the legs of people he didn’t know lead to another meltdown. No amount of promising that Father Christmas would arrive soon was enough to calm him down and we were out of there before you could say Rudolf.

No pageant, no raffle winnings, no visit with Santa.

Seriously. I made cupcakes for this and everything.

A Mum’s Take On The Clean Feed

Everyone’s busy shopping, finishing up a hectic final week at work and visiting with friends and family to celebrate the season. Steven Conroy is sitting in his office gleefully rubbing his hands, what better time could there be to roll out a new government policy that will affect everyone in Australia with access to an internet connection?

This evening the Australian government greenlighted the plans to go ahead with an internet filtering scheme.

From the SMH (emphasis mine):

The Communications Minister, Stephen Conroy, said today he would introduce legislation just before next year’s elections to force ISPs to block a blacklist of “refused classification” (RC) websites for all Australian internet users.

The blacklist, featuring material such as child sex abuse, sexual violence and instructions on crime, would be compiled using a public complaints mechanism, Government censors and URLs provided by international agencies.

[...]

“Most Australians acknowledge that there is some internet material which is not acceptable in any civilised society,” he said.

“It is important that all Australians, particularly young children, are protected from this material.“

There are so many flaws here that have been listed by plenty of other bloggers and websites, and I won’t even start on the issues that would arise from a public complaints mechanism, there’s no point in me repeating everything that’s already been said, and probably far more eloquently than I can put it.

What I can give you is a mother’s take on the whole thing.

My sons are growing up surrounded by computers. My almost two year old know that Mummy and Daddy use them for work, he has his own laptop to play DVDs on and he’ll even ask to watch a certain music video or film clip on YouTube – recently The Proclaimers have been on high rotation.

As odd as this may seem to his grandparents, it’s not odd for his generation. He is being raised in an age where the computer and the internet is king. The entire world is just the touch of a button away, and I’m quite happy to sit down with him and allow him to explore that world, under my supervision.

Not under the supervision of the government.

Because I am fully capable of looking after and monitoring my own children, I don’t need Kevin Rudd and Stephen Conroy to do it for me.

My issue lies with the fact that once censorship is brought in the lines become very grey. If my teenage son starts to think he may be gay and goes to seek an online support group to help him come to terms with who he is, will that be banned? If one of the boys decide that they’ve had enough of my heathen ways and wish to look into some religious groups, will those searches bring up red flags? If I ever have a daughter (or one of my sons doesn’t shrink wrap it) and she ends up in a situation where she needs to look into the options available for ending an unwanted pregnancy, will she still be able to see an unbiased argument from a range of different opinions?

In all of these situations I would hope that my kids would be comfortable in confiding in their parents, but I also know teenage-hood doesn’t work like that. If their first step is using the internet as a form of support through a difficult time in their life then I don’t have an issue with it, what I do have an issue with is the government cutting off that support, because some of those opinions may differ from what is considered “right” by the governing bodies.

I want my children (and of course myself) to have access to the WORLD WIDE web, not the PG rated version filled only with content that our government deems safe.

I like to think that I’m a capable mother.

Capable of teaching my sons what is and isn’t acceptable.

Capable of sitting down with the boys to teach them about internet safety.

Capable of looking after my family without Kevin Rudd and Stephen Conroy fighting a battle to “save the children”, a battle which does nothing more than infringe on my, and my family’s rights.

I strongly advise every Australian (or not) to contact their local representative and let them know that this is not a wise use of our tax dollars, to encourage them to move forward instead of back, and let them know that the rest of the world is laughing at us as a country.

Five Things I Should Have Done More Of Before Spawning

My friend, Tamsyn, is scheduled to have her first baby on Tuesday. It’s been awesome reading her blog and bringing back all of the feelings I had whilst pregnant with Declan. Her last weekend of being without a small being dependent on her for his every need has got me thinking about my life before kids, and what I wish I had taken advantage of whilst I didn’t have children.

Don’t get me wrong, my kids are (mostly) awesome, but there are a few things I am kicking myself for not doing more of before they fell out of my froot loop.

1. Gone to the cinema: This is our number one regret as a couple, we used to go every fortnight or so to see a movie, and it’s something I miss terribly. It’s not that we can’t go to the cinema, it’s just that it now it’s a huge production with many players. We have to arrange a time to go, arrange my mother in law to babysit BOTH children (Connor isn’t an issue, Declan is a whole other ballgame), prepare the kids, pack up toys and snacks, listen to Declan screaming as we leave and this is all before we’ve actually agreed on a movie. Before we would go out to lunch, drive past the cinema and decide on the spur of the moment to go and catch whatever film was on next. Of course I can also rejoice in how much money this is saving us, last time we went to the cinema it cost us $40!

2. Indulged In My Hobbies: This one is a little different, I’m very lucky in that Dan is more than happy to watch the kids whilst I indulge in sewing, but I long for a day when I can sit down in the morning with an idea in my head and spend ten solid hours bashing it out on the sewing machine. Everything is done in bits and pieces now, what would have previously taken a day now takes a week or even two. I can get some stuff done in the evening assuming everyone is in bed in a timely manner, but my creative brain works better in the early morning for some reason. Unfortunately, Declan was my reason for learning to sew, so I only got a month of uninterrupted sewing before he came along.

3. Eaten Hot meals: Like most mothers I have adjusted to lukewarm food and drink. We eat about half our dinners as a family around the table, and the other half I cook for the kids and then cook for Dan and I when they’re in bed. Family meals are spent fussing over who wants what, replacing Declan’s green fork with a pink one to avoid the breakdown and telling Connor off for throwing food at the wall. Meals with just Dan rarely go without being interrupted by Declan coming out of his bedroom with various requests or Connor deciding that sleep is for the weak. Although they’re more regular than they were during the newborn stage (try breastfeeding whilst eating Honey Mustard Chicken!) those hot fresh-out-of-the-pan meals are still far and few between!

4. Had wild monkey sex: I’m sure you know the kind, the kind of shag that pisses off the neighbours. Similar to the cinema trips, sex is a huge production: Both kids asleep? Check. Total silence to ensure things stay this way? Check. Suitable position to navigate around the gigantic pregnant belly? Check. Complete lack of enthusiasm and spontaneity? Check!

5. Enjoyed the floor: I promise this isn’t related to point four – perverts. Not until you’ve stepped on a Duplo brick in the middle of the night, tripped over the Corn Popper and taken your shin out on a Tonka Truck will you truly understand this one. I haven’t seen my lounge room floor in three years. I can spend 3 hours cleaning it all up only to walk into the kitchen for a drink and return to find it covered once again. On those odd occasions that I do manage to get the floor free of toys I roll about on the carpet like a cat in heat, right up until a stray lego that’s leaped out of the toybox jams itself into my shoulder.

I love the kids, I love the change that they have brought in me and my life, but every so often I wish this whole Mum job had better holiday benefits. Just give me a week off with movies, wild sex, hot food (and cold cider) a quilting bee and clean floors and I will be a happy woman.

What’s your advice for Tamsyn, what should she spend her last couple of days enjoying?

Fairy Tale Creatures And The Lies We Tell

Recently a discussion came up on my online mother’s group about Father Christmas. One of the Mums had picked up her 5 year old son from a playdate only to find that he’d informed his playmate that Santa didn’t exist, and in return had copped a beating. Her son has from day one been told that the jolly fat man isn’t real, his playmate had been brought up being told that he very much existed, and his response to the differing opinion was to lash out.

It’s made me think about the myths and legends that develop in childhood, and how to approach them with the boys.

My Mum was a little funny on the whole Santa thing. She didn’t like the idea of teaching us that a strange bearded man comes into our room once a year and leaves presents, and although she let us visit “Santa’s Grotto” (an English tradition, usually a gingerbread house or huge Christmas tree shaped structure surrounded by elves and set up in the centre of town or a shopping centre, you’d hand over your couple of quid and in return got to queue for half an hour, sit on the fat man’s lap, put in your requests for Christmas and pull a toy out of the lucky dip box, they didn’t do photos 15 years ago, but that’s probably changed now) it was always teamed with a discussion about how we don’t go up to strangers normally, sit on their lap and accept sweeties and gifts from them.

As we got to talking about it once I had kids I found that a lot of it was resentment. My mum was a single woman raising four children, there was no way she was letting some bloke from The North Pole take all the credit for how hard she worked to give us the Christmas she felt we deserved.

The alternate Christmases spent with my Dad was another matter. He was (and still is) a big kid, he delighted in the magic of Christmas. He once spent hours cutting strips of wrapping paper so that he could wrap the lilac coloured bike Santa left for me when I was about five, he didn’t just throw a sheet over it, he wrapped the handlebars, the pedals and every single wheel spoke. I clearly remember faking my belief in Father Christmas for years past when I knew the truth simply to foster the magic that surrounded Christmas for him. I remember thinking to myself that I couldn’t let him know that I knew in case it ruined his Christmas.

Of course these two completely opposing views have had an affect on my thoughts on the Santa fable and how to deal with it with the boys. It’s not something that’s really come up before this year, but Declan is coming home from preschool talking about Santa bringing presents and for the first time has an awareness of the holiday and of St. Nick.

So, with my kids, this is how Father Christmas will be operating:

• - Santa brings a stocking and one large present, the remaining gifts are from Dan and I (other family aren’t an issue at this point as I’m fairly adamant about spending Christmas morning with just the four of us).
• - I will happily foster and encourage the magic and excitement of Father Christmas, we leave homemade honeycomb and milk out for him and a carrot for Rudolf, have a “Santa Key” left on our doorstep for him to allow him access to our chimneyless house.
• - I don’t intend on visiting Santa or doing the photo thing unless Declan (or Connor when he’s old enough) requests it. Whether I’d buy the resulting photos is still out for debate – I’m not too keen on the idea of paying $30 for the privilege of having a photo of my kids sitting on the lap of a complete stranger.
• - If (when) the question comes up, I will be prepared to tell them that no, he isn’t real – if they ask a direct question I wouldn’t feel comfortable lying to my kids. At the same time will take care to remind them to keep the magic and spirit for other children and their younger siblings.

Of course, this is all theoretical right now – give me a couple of years and the first time I hear the dreaded “but Jack at school said Santa wasn’t real!” and we’ll see how I do!

As for the mother in my mum’s group. As far as I’m concerned, both little boys were in the wrong. Her son should be aware of other children’s feelings on the matter and not be a smart arse about it, and I think explaining that should be part of letting your kid in on the secret. But his friend had no right to react in such a violent way, and needs to be taught that there’s a right and a wrong way to deal with beliefs that differ from his own.

Of course, both of these are fairly advanced concepts for a five year old to take on board, so whilst it may sound wonderful in theory, the reality might be another matter all together.

Does Santa visit your home? If he does how do you intend on dealing with the inevitable questions that will eventually arise?

Ravioli Night

There are few certainties in life, the trip home is always faster than the trip there, the milk will always be soured on the mornings that you REALLY need a coffee, a babies cannot eat an orange meal without taking the time to smush it into their cheeks and feel the texture of the tomato sauce on their skin.

Ravioli Night in our household is always followed by baths, baths that involved copious amounts of soap and scrubbing to remove every last bit of food debris.

At least he’s cute, right?