Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Four Months Old

Our Wonder-Girl has been in the world a whole year now - nine months forming and three (and a bit) months on the outside. It's a truly awesome thought.

And while I admit to being entirely snowed under and surviving on coffee (hello coffee my old friend, I love you sooooo much) our wonder-girl is a constant joy.

Studies have shown that babies smiles release the same good-stuff in their mum as cocaine, and not having taken cocaine, I can see how people become addicted. Wonder-girl has the most incredible, slow-growing smile that does serious things to my insides. While the smile is slow to form, once she smiles she smiles and smiles and smiles, then giggles then smiles some more. Life is just so good.

She finds everything about the world amazing. While the other three kids are very busy telling me exactly what I've done wrong (Adventure Boy loudly, The Extravaganza at length and in detail and Giggle-Bear with exasperation) Wonder-Girl thinks I'm perfect just the way I am. Well, as long as the milk keeps coming.

She has discovered her feet and thinks they are the Best. Thing. Ever. After the milk. Although it appears she keeps forgetting she has them, because every time she finds them again she looks at them with wonder and awe in exactly the same way.

Hands, she's known about for awhile, but she's going through a stage of intense sucking, chewing and drooling that could be the fore-runner of teeth - or could just be a drool-fest for the sake of it.

As she becomes more interactive the kids are becoming more taken with her. This is good - Giggle-Bear being gorgeous and stroking her face. "My Anna-baby. Mine baby."

And not so good. The Extravaganza trying to sneak her out of the house to show her off to all her friends.

She's sleeping in her own room momentarily - as we've moved her bassinet into the little-girl's room in preparation for it's life as a doll-bed, but have not yet put up her cot in our room so she is - gulp - sleeping in her own bed in her own room. Some nights she's the only one who does. I like to think of my nightly pretzeling as a form of yoga. She's sleeping a nice solid nine hours - with only occasionally waking for a snack. I go through to her in the morning and she's doing her stretches and playing with her toes, and then she sees me, and gives the biggest grin in the world.

And - this is very exciting - it's been cool enough recently I've got to put her in a onesie with feet. And wrap her in blankets. I almost wept with joy. While I am glad, in general, that she doesn't need blankets as it's so much safer... it's such a treat on nights I do get to tuck her in.

If the other kids would only sleep like her...

The cot putting-up-ering has become a matter of some urgency as she is rolling with vigour, loves arching her back, and is an old hand at scrunching her way along on her mat and doing bottom-ups, using her chunky little thighs to push up her lower half. She can actually move a foot or so just by pushing off with her feet. I feel some gratitude she has waited so long to be mobile(ish) as I was talking to a mum at playgroup whose niece rolled over at three days old. And then did it again. And again. Busy blinking - that child will be a monkey. Having had a child who was regularly climbing into the kitchen sink before the age of two I do not wish a monkey child on anyone.

Her hair has lightened, and become less thick. Her eyes are most decidedly blue - we wait with interest to discover the exact shade. Her expressions range from awed to owlish, daintily observant, overjoyed to all-out-furious.

As baby number four, she spends a large amount of her time in the baby-carrier and it's so lovely being able to look down to her serenely sleeping face, or give her a quick feed on the move. Going around the shopping centre today I noticed lots more mum's with carriers - and they are such a great thing - babies seems so much more peaceful and I think the contact is good for mum and baby. Now, I often find strangers grinning at me, then realise that she's giggling at them through the side or making eyes at them over the top, depending on how she's being carried. Anyone who can not smile at a baby smiling at them is clearly a monster. It's a very simple test.

She's shown her first interest in food - peering intently at her daddy eating chicken and then following it with her eyes as he moved it around and then reaching for it. She then did the same with my cherries. We'll wait until she can sit up by herself, but as soon as she can it'll be all systems go and I'm so looking forward to seeing her faces when she tries the non-milk.

She remains a water-baby. We've been going swimming two or three times a week and pool or sea she's delighted to be in water. Shower or bath. If it's wet she's happy. I hold her head and she floats in her sister's bath. (They think it's a massive treat and ask for her) Splashing, waves, none of it worries her.

Four months, so hard to believe, the newborn stage has been left far far behind and she's stepping into her position as one of the big kids. ('Ma-ma! Hair. Anna! Ouch!' - Giggle-Bear-ease for - she pulled my hair!)

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Woo-Woo turns Two

 "Mama, Woo-woo? Dada?"

She whispers plaintively, as she has every night we've been away. Mummy, where are Wolfie and Daddy, I miss them. Although her vocabulary is fast expanding, her sentences still have a way to come.

Tucked into my side as we sing the last songs before sleep, she always says the same thing. Woo-woo, Dada.

And I realise that it's true, Wolfie is Giggle-Bear's best friend, the one who's always with her, the one, apart from me she sees the most when the big kids are at school. He's been with her for her first step, her first memories. They play together and squabble over toys. He's gentle with her, rough with our rough boy. They've sat and waited in the front window together for the big kids to come home, watched the big kids playing in the street. When she plays in her sandbox he's beside her, when she naps he sits guard or lies beside her. He's there to lick the ice-cream off her face and steal away the high-status toy.

Wolfie turned two yesterday - celebrated with diced beef, some bones, a big walk and a lion toy Giggle-Bear stole for her own - the stealing goes both ways. And I looked over some old photos and reflected on how lucky we've been. At two Wolfie is mellow and calm and steadily affectionate, and Giggle-Bear's best friend. While in his wild-puppyhood he'd almost pull us over on walks, he now plods amiable - and only pulls a little bit when he spots a random cat. We really lucked out.

While Wolfie was slow to bond - no 'I-Love-Everybody-Labrador' he's loyal and gentle now. A toddler can, and has, picked up his bone without danger, he loves to come swimming with us in the sea and he's never met another dog he hasn't been desperate to be friends with. Having had some less friendly dogs this is a massive relief.

So in celebration of our gorgeous Wolfiekins and in hopes of many more years... girl and dog, growing up together...

 First Meetings

 I've got this. Keeping guard.

So Woo-Woo, this is how you do it.


Saturday, January 28, 2017

the aftermath

Earlier, I posted about the birth of our last little one. But of course, her birth was only the first part of the story - those precious first hours of newness were far more full of wonder, fear and drama.

And yet despite that, already my memories are blurred - did that happen then? when did that happen? Hmm. According to the photos that happened. Although the first immediacy is gone, I'm going to try to write it down so I don't forget yet more.

It's now a year since our little one first sparkled into being - the promise of all she'd reveal herself to be coming together in an almost to-small-to-be-seen miracle of cells, and it's set me remembering.

Our wonder-girl was born three months ago at 1.56 am, one of the hours of deep darkness, with many more to go before the dawn. White vernix still streaked her mass of dark hair, her skin was still plumped from her long immersion. Beloved handed her up to me as I stood naked in the bath, shocked that she'd arrived so many hours before we were expecting her. Slippery, perfect. After so long we met face to face. "Hello little one, you're here. You're here. Hello, my darling."

The joy of having her finally in the world, her little red faced scrunched up, aggrieved, her tiny fingers and toes still ridiculously wrinkled, was overwhelming, but other factors were impinging.

I was too dizzy, too scared of the jelly of my arms to hold her, so I relinquished her to the midwife to carry, wrapped a towel around myself and clambered unsteadily out of the bath. Leaning heavily on Beloved and dripping blood and water, I hobbled back to the birth suite bed. As soon as I lay down my little one was returned to me, warm, silken, wet, impossibly new and sweet smelling.

I played with the remote on the bed until I was sitting up properly and there was a flurry of happenings around us. There was a sharp stab into my thigh as they injected the oxytocin, which speeds up the delivery of the placenta and aims to prevent excessive blood loss.

The third stage of labor the expulsion of the placenta was a slighter pain - hardly memorable - lost in staring at our little one, working out who she was, exclaiming over her little toes and her mass of hair, the swirls of down on her arms, her tiny ears.

"Look at that hair on her back, she's a gorilla!" Beloved exclaimed. I looked up to glare at him.

"She's perfect!"

"A perfect gorilla."

The placenta, like most placentas, was hideous, a flattish liverish looking mass. It had done it's job well (apart from the whole gestational diabetes thing) and it seemed a bit ungrateful to be so eager to be rid of it, but I was happy to have it taken away for inspection.

While I held our little mite to my chest, waiting for her to show signs of wanting milk, my midwife clamped the cord then held it out to Beloved. "You ready?"

It was the fourth time he'd cut the cord so he was prepared. It's tougher than it looks, an odd greyish, slightly twisted thing, that doesn't look like it's supposed to be on the outside of a body. It's a bitter-sweet moment, when that last physical connection goes, but you finally get to hold your baby on the outside.

And it was about then that I felt the first big gush of warmth.

I shifted slightly, and there was another. It felt like I was sitting in a pool.

"Ah, I think there's a lot of blood," I told my midwife.

She had a check, then took the mat under me away to be weighed. More blood gushed out. I tried to pay attention to how it felt so I could describe it in my writing, but it was hard to pay attention. It was beginning to feel familiar. I lost a lot of blood with my first - enough that I needed a transfusion - this was feeling very similar.

Our babe was starting to make movements as if searching for milk, so I brought her higher, showed her where it was and that the supply was plentiful.

Shortly after that the midwife connected a drip of clear fluid into my cannula and then put in a catheter. I didn't recall a catheter being so painful. It was a sting, a sharp discomfort.

And sometime in there my midwife started pounding on my somewhat tender uterus. And there were further warm gushes.  I gripped to Beloved's hand with one hand, held our baby with the other arm. Deep breath, deep breath.

While my little one began showing an interest in the milk - licking, kneading, but not quite ready to latch, there was a steady flood of blood. The mat beneath me was changed again, and then again.

Deep, slow breath. I have memories of them doing this with my firstborn - pounding on my tummy as if it were  a boxing bag, but I was a lot more hazy then, half passed out with exhaustion and lack of sleep. This was sharp and clear and it hurt.

Breathing deep I struggled not to tense, worried I'd squash our little babe.

I told myself This is nothing, our babe is here, look at her darling toes. Who are you my little one? I'm in awe of the promise of you. The joy and honour of seeing you show yourself. 

The doctor came in - she looked fresh and alert and very capable, with short dark hair and well done makeup. She pounded on my abdomen as well, and more blood gushed out. And more.

Darling babe. I stared at her face, trying to memorise. Remember.

The kneading was just a distraction.

"Have you decided on the name yet?" my midwife asked. I looked up at Beloved. We'd been in negotiation for awhile, although I'd never had any real doubt about whose choice would win out. It does a lot to put the ball in your favour to have recently gone through several hours of intense pain and still be bleeding a substantial amount.

Our little girl is Anna. My choice. I love the simplicity  and elegance of it, the history of it. And I have never met an Anna or an Anne who wasn't lovely. Obviously, Beloved will call her by his choice, now her second name, and she'll decide when she's old enough.

Cold wrapped around me. I started to shiver. Someone brought some warm towels and wrapped them around my shoulders and I tucked them around Anna as well. I adore warm towels - one of the many perks of hospitals. Warm hospital wraps are loosely put around Anna so we are cocooned in cloth and warmth.

Hunger started to attack. After a few months on a hospital ordered limited carb diet for gestational diabetes I'd been dreaming of this moment.

I look up at Beloved. "Pink donuts. I'd really, really like some pink donuts." Of course, being the middle of the night there was nowhere to get any and, despite my capacious bags and much wracking of my brain over what to bring, I didn't have any donuts with pink icing packed. I had some rather disgusting dairy free chocolate instead. It had some sugar in it so I ate it.

"I'm going to have to have a look and see what's wrong," the doctor said. That didn't sound good.
"Have you taken gas or anything?" she asked.  I shook my head.

"Would you like some?" I shook my head again. The time I had gas with my first born I threw up.

"Would you like some endone?" I'd never heard of endone. It was more than thirty hours since I'd slept and so hard to take things in, but I was fairly sure I'd never come across endone in my research on painkillers.

"What are the side effects?" The doctor was a bit sketchy, but told me they'd give me some medicine for the nausea. Nausea?  I was decided. I didn't want anything that brought nausea as a side effect. I'd prefer to get the pain over with and not have any lingering stuff.

"No, thank you. But I'd like a panadol." There was general laughter but I'm a big believer in placebos.

I returned to studying my little one. This newness goes so quickly. The skinny toes, the narrow feet, yet to plump up. Her little mouth. She had darker pink markings on her eyelids and forehead, similar to ones her oldest sister had. They'll fade in time, but for now I'm glad of their distinctiveness. It would be impossible to mistake her.

The doctor reached up inside me. (This translates to 'shoved her fist up me'.) I couldn't help an indrawn breath and concentrated on not holding Anna too tightly, on steady breathing. O God but it hurt. Hands should not go up there. They just don't fit and everything is raw and sore and deep breath. I can't tense up with the pain, I'm holding my baby. Muscles relax. The catheter dragged and ached and I swallowed. And swallowed again. This kind of pain was supposed to be over. It was in the contract somewhere, wasn't it?

Inhale one two three. Exhale one two three. I didn't go to any childbirth classes with this baby, or indeed the last two, but made a real effort to get to prenatal yoga, relishing the time out from busyness to concentrate on the one within. The breathing practice was a God-send. I congratulated myself on making the right choice. One two three breathe out, steadily.

I studied the wet swirls of Anna's hair. The small streaks of white vernix. Her weight and warmth were so exactly right in my arms. Nothing (except the other three) had ever felt so perfect. There is nothing softer than her silken skin, her hair. Her little foot was smaller than my pinkie finger. I ran one finger along her sole and her toes flexed. I held her miniature hand, besotted.

Surely, it couldn't last much longer. Surely. What was the doctor doing up in there? Excavating? Surely not much longer.

"What exactly is a clot?" I asked, feeling dim. "Why do I have one?" I remember clots the size of lemons coming out after Adventure Boy. It freaked me out a little. It turns out the clots are just congealed blood. As a concept I didn't approve and I still didn't understand how the blood congealed quickly enough to have formed the lumps after the birth. It hadn't been that long.

Finally she stopped rummaging and withdrew a large chunk of dark, jelly-ish red, about the size of her fist.

I heaved a normal breath. Through the window overlooking a courtyard, the sky was beginning to lighten. Although we were in the hospital less than two hours before Anna arrived the other 'stuff' took nearly twice as long.

"How much blood have I lost?" I asked, as the mat was taken away again to be weighed.

"Not enough to be interesting," Beloved told me. I rolled my eyes but it was strangely reassuring. Interesting is bad. Boring is good. It turns out to be over two litres. "More than with Adventure Boy."
I think they've just been better at weighing it, not being quite so panic stricken. I know how much I lost with them both and I lost way more with Adventure Boy.

"I don't think you should go into work today," I told Beloved. His face had a worrying greyish tinge.

"Neither do I," said the doctor, who had recently had her fist in my innards. It turned out she was one of Beloved's bosses. It was somewhat odd having a husband doing an obstetrics rotation, thereby knowing all the doctors and midwives, when you're having a baby.

Anna was taken from me to be weighed, measured, pricked and blooded again, and we commented on the shock of having a dark haired, small (for us - average sized really) baby after three large, baldish, blondes. We knew she was going to be small from a late scan, but the shock of the dark hair is a delight. Blonde was lovely but a change was welcome.

Relieved that Beloved wouldn't be starting work in a couple of hours  I sent him to look for coffee to help him make it home in one piece.

Cold again, I asked for more warm towels. Seriously they're the best. They descended around Anna and I in a cloud of delight. I could sink back and close my eyes and... try to forget that I was sitting in a pool of gore and attached to two cords...

The crowds left. Beloved returned with coffee and and then, under supervision, rifled through my suitcase to find Anna's first clothes and dress her - her little onesie - her beanie to keep her warm. The midwife swaddled her in the hospital wrap and placed her in a perspex bassinet. Further instruction unearthed PJ's and a robe and slippers for me. The robe had me so excited. I was actually chilled enough to wear it.

Beloved reluctantly left, and although I begged him to get some sleep, I doubted he would - he'd probably try to stay awake to drive the kids to school.

I asked if I could have the cords out - they were both uncomfortable - two persistent, sharp aches. The midwife considered, and then removed the catheter, but looked at the cannula and decided it needed to stay in, although it was disconnected from the drip. It was all blood smeared because they had to put it in during a contraction and it was very hard to stay still.

My vitals were checked again and then with one last look at my sleeping little one, only her face visible from within her swaddling, beneath her blue velvet beanie, I pealed myself from the bloodied bed and hobbled to the bathroom and the blessed relief of the shower. As I made my way into the bathroom where I had laboured I heard someone say "It's like a murder scene."

The water ran red as I showered and though I'd just spent nearly two hours in the bath it felt so good to be clean. I inspected the flaccid sack of the pouch that had held Anna for so long, but this time, unlike after my first baby, I was prepared for it. My balance was off, not having the solid weight of Anna within me, and I was ponderous with sleepless-ness and blood loss. Everything seemed slow-motion-y. Clean and dry it took me a long time to work my limbs into my pyjamas, get my arms through the sleeves of the robe, work out the maternity pads. I steadied myself against the sink. Warm and in fresh clothes I savoured the knowledge our baby was truly here. Through in that other room slept our baby.

The world was a wonderful place.

Emerging from the bathroom it was time for us to leave the birth suite.

I was beyond tired. I shuffled along the corridor pushing Anna's bassinet - the midwife had gone on ahead to prepare my room. I couldn't remember what number room she'd said. Everything seemed momentous. Each step was slow, ponderous. I couldn't walk faster although I'd like to. I stared down at our little one, sleeping so peacefully. The corridors seemed to go on forever, and had a dreamlike look to them.

This is the beginning. She is so beautiful.

I was beyond tired.

I finally found my room, two curtained beds in it, both empty. If it weren't for the bassinet I was pushing I would topple over. I looked around the room with gratitude. Here, my little one and I would spend time together, become properly acquainted. At home the chaos, madness and full-on-ness never-stop, but this would be our sanctuary, our time apart from the world to learn each other.

Wheeling the bassinet over to the side of the bed, making sure her head would be on level with mine so I could look over and see her face, I tumbled into the bed.

Crisp sheets. Mmm. So weary each cell in my body seemed weighted, to be trying to sink into the ground but mmm. Crisp sheets. I burrowed in. Turned to face my little one. Stared at her in the pale light of morning easing through the window.

She was here. Our wonder-girl. Our Anna.

Sunday, January 15, 2017

In Mama's Garden

Mama in her garden - enjoying the heatwave. 

The girls and I have flown north to join Beloved and Adventure Boy back home in Queensland.

I've inspected my fruit trees - the sunburnt mango, shrivelled coffee plants and row of oranges, and they've become a lot happier with watering and the recent rain, but they don't compare to the lush abundance of my mama's garden, the product of thirty years of adding a few more fruit trees every year. The jungle of figs, strawberries, apples, mandarins, grapes, avocados, cherries, cherry-plums, lemons, oranges, pears, peaches and plums is amazing. At any time of year you can walk down and there will be something ripe to eat. This year I gave her a cold-climate banana to add to the bounty.

This year my brother gave mama three red hens, the first poultry in almost a decade, although I grew up with an array of ducks and chickens, including Veronica, my darling white silky bantam rooster, who used to sit on my shoulder and groom me. These hens are tame - although not as tame as Veronica - and determined - they jump underfoot as you walk down the garden, and will leap up to peck watermelon from your hand.

Giggle-bear adored searching for the 'eggies' every morning, and then making them into cakes. She was also very determined that the 'yoo-kies' should stay in their little house, picking them up and carting them up the path and into their very snug little living quarters, where they would cluck, aggrieved, until we came to release them (again!)

When I remember the garden when we first moved in - the long block waist high with sun-bleached grass and the gully so full of blackberries we didn't know there was a gully, a couple of cherry plums and nothing else - the change seems magical.

I love the many shades of green, and the way the light fell so honey-gold through the leaves.

Wednesday, January 11, 2017


Extravaganza - twilight on the shore of my favourite beach. It means so much to see my girls playing here at the place I love so much. We can only come south for a few weeks a year but it's such a precious time. Here my Extravaganza, six going on sixteen, is loving the feel of a vintage silk petticoat and a soft as soft jumper in a very gentle twilight. We let them stay up late for their last night by the sea, to see the sun set.

Giggle-Bear  She loves this hooded top. The hood kept falling off and each time she would stop and wait for us to put it up again. She is very precise about such things. I love seeing how she reveals herself - her precision, her bravery (she has no fear of the water at all - terrifying but exilerating!) and her constant joy and wonder. 

Wonder-Girl - our wonderful, she spends her time in wonder as she studies the world around. Here she's sleeping in the front room of the coast house, the late afternoon light spilling through while the sound of the sea surrounds her.

Last year was hectic, and hard, but amazing - growing and birthing and getting to know our latest and last (this time we really mean it) while running to keep up with the other three. I'm watching our Wonder-Girl now, lying n her bassinet as she plays with her fingers and looks in complete awe at the ceiling.

I discovered it is a lot harder to take photos when keeping an eye on two wilful school kids, a mischievous toddler and growing or carrying a little one. There just aren't the hands free and the bulk of the camera is just one more thing. Carrying the camera around became something strictly for those times when there was someone else (preferably two someone elses if all four are around) to help carry random stuff, scoop up runaway toddlers and keep an eye out for Life Limb and Sanity Threatening Events.

I started using my phone camera a lot more - which is so handy and the photos you can get with a phone now are incredible- but I did miss playing with the light, the settings. I missed experimenting, really playing with it, to get what I see in my heart.

This year, I really want to take it up again. My little ones are growing so fast, and I forget so much, so quickly. So I'm really going to try to capture one moment a week of at least the three youngest - our eldest boy is so quick-silver he's a little hard to capture every week.

So - here's the first week of fifty two - a little late, which I'm sure will become the tradition. Start off how you intend to carry through so there's no false expectations!