the first days - sleepless

*This was written three years ago - but I never got around to posting it. Recent research I've been doing around birth and breastfeeding (although a millennia ago in Constantinople) for one of my Master's subjects had me going through old birth posts and I realised this one got lost in the newborn haze.

More tired than I ever remember being, I push the perspex crib containing my hours old baby and follow the midwife from the birth suite to my room. It's the small hours of the morning and I'm woozy, confused after the birth. She hurries on ahead and I lose her. The corridor seems to stretch forever and I didn't see which door she turned into. I stand still, lost, wondering if I should just start peering into all the rooms. It seems so much effort. I'll just stand for a moment. 

After a time the midwife returns for me, and I follow her into a room with two empty beds.  I park my newborns' crib beside the bed next to the window and fall onto it. Every cell in my body seems weighted towards the floor, gravity pulling me earthward. 

My labor was quick, but I hadn't slept for twenty hours prior, the patch up after the birth took hours and the official documents say I lost three litres of blood in the somewhat traumatic post-birth. The one that involved the doctor shoving her fist into my innards without anaesthetics. That one. 

I am so tired. I ease into the pillow. The blissful crisp sheets. I love the familiarity of the hospital bed, the mattress protectors, the special easy-clean pillows. Bliss. I am sooo tired. 

But although I've carefully placed my baby next to me, she's looking away from me. Obviously I want to drink in her tiny, perfect face as I finally tumble into sleep. 

Slowly, I jolt upright and stumble around the bed to move her to the other side so I can see her face. (Not that her little ear and soft black hair isn't perfect either.) 

Uh oh. The movement sets my post-birth blood gushing faster. I feel it seeping beyond the bulky maternity pad. Reluctantly, I head to the bathroom and yep, it's gone through the mega-pad, onto the oversized undies and stained my pj bottoms. 

Weighted, robotic, I stumble out to find clothes in my suitcase, a bag for the stained ones, and jerkily change. By the time I'm clean, my baby is stirring, her little mouth pursing for milk, I pick her up - so tiny, so light - I savour her newborn smell. In bed with me, she drinks eagerly. 

Holy hell. That hurts. With my first baby the afterpains weren't that bad. With number four it's intense cramping. I breathe through it as she feeds. I admire the perfect line of her lashes, her tiny fingers, her little nose, her dark hair. 

The feeding increases the bleeding. And damn it, after I put her down again I need to change again.

When my little one falls back into sleep I  return to the bathroom. I need new clothes again. This time I use two pads. I stumble back to bed. I'm hungry sooo hungry. When's breakfast? I check my bag.

In hormonal craziness I have vegan chocolate that tastes horrific. Why? Why would I do that. I also have yogurts that I forgot to refrigerate. I eat the horrible vegan chocolate as I'm dizzy with hunger. 

Surely breakfast is soon. It's light(ish.) Morning approaches. 

I should sleep. I know I should sleep. But I'm so hungry. That three litres of blood won't replace itself out of nowhere. 

I distract myself with taking photos of my wonder baby. The most beautiful baby in the history of babies. With the exception of my first three. 

I watch the changing light of the dawning as it falls so gently on my newborn. 

She is so different from my first three babies. They were all large and very fair. She is small(er) and has dark hair. I wonder if she'll grow up to have dark curls. (Spoiler: she rapidly becomes blonde. My dreams of a little dark haired child are thwarted - my children are variations on a theme when it comes to colouring. Grandkids. I'm putting in my order for red hair and black hair.) 

Everything she does seems miraculous. She flexes her fingers and it seems momentous. Her face contorts into something resembling a smile as she sleeps and it seems like the first sunrise. 

Breakfast arrives. 

My Beloved arrives. He looks worse than I do. He doesn't have the pink donut I requested but he does have a hot chocolate from the mum's kitchen around the corner of the ward.

The kids are off to school and all is good. He leaves.

Something is wrong. My baby is crying soundlessly. She's a funny colour. I pick her up. I assume she's hungry although she's just fed and I even remembered to burp her. I put her on my shoulder and pat her back. The crying eases. 

I return to the familiar pattern of feeding, eating, getting changed, feeding, burping, feeding, forgetting to burp, everything is brought up, changing, re-feeding, burping. 

I am so tired my eyes keep falling shut, but every time I am half asleep something happens. A nurse arrives to check my blood pressure, a nurse arrives to check my baby's blood sugars, my baby wants more milk, I need to change my pads. 

The ward round doctors enter my room in a mob.

This is not the way I wanted my husband's bosses to see me for the first time. Puffy and splotchy with half-concealed blood-stained clothes in the open suitcase beside my bed. The shower I had after birthing seems aeons ago, although it's less than eight hours. They talk words and go. 

The nurses check my blood pressure, they do stuff to check my iron. They check my baby's blood glucose. 

I can't take in enough. My brain feels as if it's been put into slow motion. It takes me awhile to work out what people are saying. 

I concentrate on my baby. 

The nurse comes in again. 

My baby is again crying silently and oddly. I'm about to pick her up when the nurse motions me to stop. She gets out her watch and looks at the time. I think she sets a timer. 

My baby is having non-breathing episodes. 

I can't quite get my head around it.

My baby is taken away for monitoring. 

I slowly find my way through to the infant intensive care room. It is not so very far away, but blood soaks through the two pads and stains the seat when I'm feeding her, carefully, because of the cord attached to her.

I try to clean the blood up, moving slowly, and cumbersomely. It takes a long time. 

Sugar. I need sugar. Caffeine. I need to stay awake, aware. I'm scared to sleep. 

Stuff it. On my return I start wearing my baby's nappies. 

My parents arrive, bringing supplies. Already I need new clothes. I brought a suitcase and thought myself silly. Not so much. 

My older children arrive while our littlest one is still in the nursery. I guide them through and they study her with awe. For some reason my son is wearing a face mask, as you would for snorkelling, but I don't ask. 

We sit and watch. She is so beautiful. Her skin soaks up the light. It is so strange to see her placed on her tummy, the crib at an angle, when we spend so long never placing babies on their tummy. 

My wonder-child is returned to me by nightfall. I stay up most of the night, nursing her, watching. Afraid her breathing will stop. I read - a fantasy book about a heroine who saves her world against all odds. 

A nurse brings hot chocolate and I gulp down the much needed sugar desperately. I dare not fall asleep. I cannot stay awake much longer. 

The next morning my Beloved drops by before starting his shift - again he looks worse than I do. And I am still wearing nappies and have not slept in... o I can't work out the numbers. He has spent the night putting up the new trampoline. As you do. The kids are not coping well with me not there. 

Again, in the morning, my parents walk to the hospital with changes and necessities. They hold my little wondrous one while I have a quick shower - I have been too worried to leave her for more than the time needed to stumble-trip to the loo. Being clean feels good. Washing away the blood feels good. I am still clumsy, ponderous, sleep hazed. My darling is all that is perfection and I am so scared my concentration will slip, that I will sleep and she will stop breathing. 

Later in the day my things are gathered up and I am wheeled through to a much larger, single room, although the last room contained only me. (A far cry from the ward I was in with my first, when there were four - or maybe six -of us in a room and another mother's children ate my breakfast). This room is so light and airy and I feel very spoilt. Although I did not enjoy everyone and their side-kick descending for ward rounds (and let us be clear, as a general rule I dislike obstetricians) - this almost makes up for it. 

I spend another sleepless night in this new and airy room, obsessed with the changing light as it embraces my little one, so new to the world. I dare not sleep - I watch, besotted. Her tiny hands, her movements still those of one who has been held in fluid for all of their existence. 

This is the last time it will be just me and her - I savour it, willing the time to slow. This is the time apart. The honeymoon as I learn her face, her addictive newborn smell, the rightness of her weight in my arms. 

All to soon it is time to leave the hospital and return to the chaos and rush that is life beyond the hospital walls. Tomorrow I will be doing the school run and listening to stories and being pelted with hugs and demands and injustices needing to be immediately adjudicated. 

I still haven't slept. The world is blood and milk. 

But my wonder-baby is all that is wonderful and I rejoice that she is mine and I am hers. 

Anna-Saurus

Reluctantly, but not (quite) tearfully, I have been forced to admit that our littlest one is no longer a baby. Or even a toddler. She is not, as she assures me, a dinosaur, to be specific a brontosaurus, or occasionally a pterodactyl (but not a t-rex). But she is no longer a baby.
Our littlest one turned two and a half recently.
I figure at two you are still so young that half years count so I paused to reflect.
Our Anna-saurus is feisty. She is determined. She is humorous. She is joyful. She is wondrous. She is adventurous. She is imaginative. She is brave. She is affectionate. She is giggle-some. She is a spectacularly bad liar. She is co-ordinated. She is communicative. She is a climber. She is protective. You're never in any doubt about what she is thinking or feeling or what she wants. She is creative.
It is completely impossible to imagine the world without her, but it is equally true that four kids is the handful everyone comments on when we go out. Four kids - some with challenges - is more than a handful. But our Littlest is still the best decision we ever made. (Along with the other three.)
I cannot imagine being without her expressive mimes, hand-hiding-her-mouth-giggles, awed 'Wow!'s,  fierce kisses and plentiful hugs. She completes our family.
She is now entirely one of the tribe. (Or pack. Maybe pack is more truthful. A rather wild and wilful wolf pack. Except with less order.)
She is her big brother's favourite. On account of her savageness and penchant for biting. He gives her lee-way in a way he wouldn't dream of for his other sisters. He gives her piggy backs and if they team up, he's on her team. Which isn't fair, because they are by far the toughest.
She is her five year old sisters best friend and near constant companion. They spend hours in the garden together making mud-messes and climbing trees. Part of the reason we decided four was the magical number for us was so our five year old wasn't left out as her older siblings are very much a team with similar interests. And it worked. Although our Anna-saurus is frequently too rough with her much gentler older sister, they love each other fiercely.
She is her eldest sister's toy, experiment, puppy and cuddleupagus. She is read to, taught gymnastics, carted around and made into a fashion show. Her big sister is amazing at helping locate her, and make sure she hasn't escaped, or got into the eggs again.
Anna-saurus is afraid of nothing except pelicans (and possibly me disappearing.)
If someone comments on what a pretty girl she is, she shakes her head emphatically and Rarrr!s. She is clearly a dinosaur. Or sometimes a puppy.
She can climb to the top shelves of the inbuilt wardrobes and I often find her hanging out up there, looking down on the rest of us. She loves to crack eggs. I don't think she has a partially for carpet, but it definitely seems that way. I now hide our eggs at the very back, at the very top of the corner cupboard. She adores drawing on walls. And herself. Luckily crayons nowadays wipe off easily. Running away giggling and going 'na-na' is just about her very favourite thing. Particularly if we have to go somewhere in a hurry. In which case she'll run and joyfully hide under the bed, or circle the car.
Her favourite songs are 'open shut them', 'incy-wincy spider' and 'there were ten in the bed,' but she also adores all variations of This Little Piggy. (I get bored with pigs, and tend to move on to fairies, possums and dinosaurs, who climb gum trees, fly, and eat cup cakes and blossom)
Her favourite books are Baby Cakes and Curious George and anything about dinosaurs.
If I let her she would watch Peter Rabbit and Dino Dana - a show about a young girl who studies dinosaurs -  all day long.
I often wonder what my children will end up doing with their lives - so young it's impossible to tell, but as long as my Annna-saurus never loses her mischief and joie de vivre I'll be very happy. 

Littlest (eleven months)

Dear heart,

My cheeky delight. It's hard to believe that this time next year I was lumbering heavily with you within, waiting so impatiently to meet you - and here you are now - so very you, so very here.

In the last month your mischievous side has been fully unleashed. You crawl quickly, with great determination to the puppy's water bowl, turn to give me a nose-crinkled grin, then empty it. (And on that subject your favourite food is dog food - I have to be crafty about when I feed our puppy as you have a talent for sniffing it out.)

You spend the entire time we're at the supermarket trying to get out of the trolley seatbelt to stand up like the little Boadicea you believe yourself to be.

You have begun throwing spectacular mini-tantrums if denied the items you believe to be rightfully yours - mobile phones and bank cards are your favourite.

You remain entirely adorable. From the way you say 'up, up!' as you lift your arms to me, the softness of your warm fingers as they close around mine, to your giggling delight as you play with your sister or bask in any time your brother choses to give you, you are perfection. The way you optimistically throw your chubby knee up on everything remotely climbable. You're not walking yet - although standing and doing little bouncing dances - but o boy are you a climber. I thought one in the family was bad. Deep sigh at two.

When you nurse you curve one hand protectively around the milk, while the other explores my teeth or the bones of my neck.

You are incredibly curious, always peering around my shoulder to see what's happening, observing solemnly in a perfect Queen Victoria face of judgement until breaking into your great belly-laugh. You still grunt and growl more than any baby I've ever met. (And I've met quite a few!)

This month has been a month of change - we've moved into our new house, we've sold our house in Victoria, severing the last tie of the past four years of study, and we have a beautiful new puppy. Your daddy was determined on a large dog, as the area we've moved into is a tad rough (he grew up here) and we settled on a swiss shepherd as they're supposed to be good with children and quite mellow.

It was only after we got out puppy that your nana reminded us that her mother had two white shepherds in Romania, before the second world war, and had lost them when the Russians advanced. (I am still getting my head around half your daddy's family seeing the war from the other side.)

We love our new house, little one. I wonder if you'll have memories of it, or if we'll move on too soon. It is light filled and open, and after our tumble-down fibro amazingly low maintenance. Your daddy and his cousins gave it a coat of blinding white and it now smells delightfully new-house-y.

But that bit about the area being a tad rough? The morning after we moved in I got back from the school run to realise that three palings were missing from the fence and there was a hole in the laundry security door right by the lock. Neither of those things had been there when we'd played with our puppy in the garden before school that morning and although nothing was missing it was still unsettling.

Your big brother was devastated he forgot to ask the policemen who came over to see their handcuffs and called out to all his new friends in the street 'Come and see our robber-hole! We have a robber-hole!'  And your daddy sprained his ankle coming down from the attic where he'd been putting in all the security cameras he deemed necessary. Which have actually been handy for adjudicating fights as we've been descended upon by hoards of not-too-gentle neighbourhood kids.

My sweetness, you sleep now beside me, the soles of your little feet resting on my leg, sprawled out, your head on your daddy's leg, your fingers, palm up, slowly moving. You hear a noise - your legs draw up, and then you stretch out again, your arms flung up above your head.

Giggle-bear, we're so glad you're here, we're so glad you're ours.

Ten Months, Giggle-Bear

Dear-heart, you are now ten months (and quite a few days, this is ridiculously late) and the sweetest little bundle of cuddles and chortles and determination.

As you catapult towards your first birthday I've been going through old photos of when you were first born and all the months in-between and oohing and sighing and aahing and crying (just a wee tad, just the suggestion of tears, my last baby all grown up). From your tiny, perfect, just-out-in-the-world-and-smelling-of-newness-and-milk self until now, your very loud, humorous, easy-going self, each day you've been with us has been a blessing.

You can clap your hands now, and do so with great frequency and delight. You love waving to people as well. You make deep and meaningful eye contact with complete strangers and slowly, oh so slowly, start to smile, and then treat them to your overjoyed grin.

You think peekaboo is the best game ever and play it with overwhelming delight, giggling and giggling as you draw a piece of curtain or some clothes over your face and then take it away.

You remain devoted to water and whether it be sea, swimming pool or bath you twist and turn to be allowed to play and splash.  I quickly put your face under for half a second at the swimming pool to accustom you to it (your big sister hates putting her face under with a passion and it makes swimming lessons problematic) and not only do you love it, but you twist to try to do it yourself.

I love watching you hit the water with your chubby hand, watch the splash and then do it again.

Your face changes so rapidly I could just sit and watch and watch. You wear such an expression of reflection and judgement in repose, so serious and stern, and then something will happen to make you laugh and suddenly you're completely overwhelmed with joy and delight and deep gurgles and giggles.

We've turned your car seat around to forward facing as you were protesting so much about getting into it, twisting and arching and grabbing, and you are a lot more content being able to see more, and most particularly being able to see me. It's still not your favourite thing in the world, to be stuck in a car, but you can just about put up with it.

You love making all sorts of sounds, and you particularly love blowing raspberries but you're also trying out trills and growls and squeals, as well as saying mama and dada, hello and up.

You remain devoted to your siblings, and while your brother is casually fond of you, although generally preferring you in a different room, particularly if he has lego, your sister adores you and loves to carry you around and hold you. Sometimes, admittedly, you don't exactly want to be held and cuddled, you want to go exploring, but mostly you think she's amazing.

You remain devoted to blueberries and I've never met anyone as excited by broccoli as you are. Even as I cut it up to steam you start making urgent noises of desire. Presently, you are the most adventurous eater of all three of you - let's hope your tastes stay broad!

This is a time of great change for us - in the next three weeks, we sell one house, buy another and move in and… get a puppy. While my head is spinning with contracts and forms and things to sign and did I post that and why hasn't that arrived yet and are we sure we want that kitchen cabinet over there, wouldn't it be better over here, we are almost more excited about the new puppy. This will be (God willing) the dog of your childhood, my little one. He'll be the dog to watch over you, stay by you, through your earliest years. The breeder assures us of his gentle nature and we know he's spent his first weeks with other kids around. You are too little to understand, but we are all sooo excited and I know that you will love our new family member too. Soon… soon!

My little one, everything about you brings me the deepest delight - from the tuck of your little mouth to the dimples on the back of your hand. This baby year of yours has raced by far, far too quickly and I wish I could go back and re-live every moment of it that I got to spend with you.

I love the way you stretch right out just before you wake up, your chubby legs going straight as straight, your toes curling out and back, your arms raising straight above your head, your bottom lip pouting out. Then your eyes fluttering open, and then you look for me.

We make up silly rhymes (that generally end in blowing raspberries on your tummy or kissing your neck.

Lilli-Bear over there, Lilli-bear in her chair, Lilli-bear eating pear. Lilli-bear over there in her chair eating pear! 

Lily has the pretty toes, pretty toes, pretty toes, Lily has the pretty toes, yes, yes she does. Who does? Lily does! Lily has the pretty toes!  

And you laugh and laugh and laugh. You kick your little legs with delight.

Sweetheart, each and every moment of every day, waking or sleeping, you enchant us.

Photos from a nearby beach - enjoying the lovely breeze in the dusk at the end of a stinking hot day. You have mud on your face - collateral damage from your siblings mud-fight. You loved crawling in the shallows (and they stretched for silty miles in the low tide) but began getting chilled (true, in Queensland!) so I picked you up. 

Nine Months (Littlest)

Sweetness,

You're now nine months old - and  a little bit - and the sweetest little bundle of giggles and cuddles and hugs.
You have a very determined, stocky, elbows out, no-nonsense crawl and you're standing up and beginning to cruise around the furniture. I have fears that you will soon be walking. Little one, truly, there's no rush. Take your time. Savour.
You are well into I-have-to-be-with-mummy-every-second-of-the-day, and unless the stars align and the moon is on the specified place you howl the house down if you can't see me for more than a millisecond - say if I'd like to go to the toilet/have a shower. While flattering, I would like to someday go to the loo with the door shut.  I know, it sounds decadently indulgent to me, too.
I love watching the way you study everything. You carefully, slowly, pick up the desired object and carefully, slowly move it around to study it from every angle. Soon it goes in the mouth so you can check out how it tastes.
You remain very much an outside girl and want desperately to be out with the trees and the sky all the time. This is a little problematic because you also come up in massive big red bumps with the mossie bites, and mosquitos we have a plenty up here. While you love nothing better than to sit in the shade of the poinsettia tree while I hang out the washing, thoughtfully gnawing on a stick, the mosquitos just eat you alive.
We are settling in well to our new state. It remains hot and muggy but I love the noise of the thunder rolling in, of all the summer storms and the sudden down pours and it is so nice having an abundance of family. I've nearly recovered from my chest infection - I'm just a little coughy and so so so tired. But that could be to do with the fact you feed all. night. long. and your daddy comes in from work about midnight generally and I try to stay up and see him and shortly after that your brother and sister pad through from their room and then you want another feed and by morning I just want a good nights sleep.
Very, very soon I intend to night-wean you. Your daddy's next break 'cos he needs to share the pain. I'm generous like that. I'm not looking forward to the tears and heartbreak but I'm so tired I'm even ditzier than usual Which is saying a lot.
This week I managed to leave my phone on top of the car on the way to the shops - it luckily stayed on the car, lose it at the beach - kindly returned to me, and then leave it again on the car on the way home from the school run. This time it came off the car at the worst possible time and got run over by a ten tonne truck. I went back to view it's shattered remains and seriously it is in so many teeny tiny pieces I couldn't count them.
I might need some more sleep.
Just this week your daddy and granddad journeyed down to Victoria to get our old house ready to sell and bring up our furniture and my (not inconsiderable) boxes of books and treasures, and it really feels like this town is our new home. Your daddy is still moaning that I 'sent him to the mines' on his days off. As soon as he reached our old town he became sick, wheezing and headachey with the coal mine pollution, only to instantly recover as he got off the plane here in Queensland. We're still living with your grandparents while we look at houses. I've fallen in love... but we'll see. Unfortunately I tend to fall in love with gorgeous, high maintenance old houses rather than practical, low maintenance new houses. This is a problem.
Your daddy is settling in to his new job. Tonight is his first night shift on the emergency ward so we'll see how he goes. At present you are both sleeping on the bed beside me as I type in a quiet house, your sister at kindy your brother at school.
You still adore your brother and sister. Nothing brings out that big laugh like seeing either of them. Your sister dotes on you and has begged me to bring you into kindy to show off to the other kids. She carts you around like a sack of potatoes, holding you under your arms and taking you outside or into the hallway and shutting doors and turning off lights to give you a shadow show with a torch. Amazingly you just grin. She climbs into your cot to play with you and I am amazed you learnt to crawl with the amount of time you spend being carted around. I love seeing how much you love each other.
You are very vocal now and tell us all about everything at great length and volume. You say 'mumma' and 'dadda' and 'hello' and 'nana'.
You love your food. Especially your blueberries. I got a punnet out of the fridge yesterday and you started making frantic 'eh! eh! eh' noises and lunging for them. Another little fruit-bat in the family. Your new nick-name is 'Blueberry Girl.' (Which I love as there's a Neil Gaiman book for newborns called Blueberry Girl that my God-mama sent me and which is lovely.)
Sweet heart - you are my joy and my sunshine and my delight. On days that are hard and frantic and full of herding kids here and chugging them there in a sleep-deprived blur, your smiles make everything full of wonder and reminds me just how lucky we are. At present you've just woken up and have crawled over 'Mummumum!" and then you grab for the computer cord and give me the cheekiest grin as I tell you "No!" And then you blow a raspberry which you know is just the cleverest. And now you lunge for the milk with content gurgles.
My dear delight, you've been on the outside now as long as you were on the inside, and each day you grow more precious.

4/52

Poppet - with her favourite book at the moment. Jane Ray's beautifully illustrated and beautifully written The Apple Pip Princess. We've been reading it at least once a day and often two or three times all week.

Sprocket - his Grandpa aims to turn him into a pigeon flyer. He's just released one of the young birds to the sky.

Littlest - my sleeping beauty - with her little doll from Paris. Paris was a bit of a disappointment (possibly because I had a flu that turned very nasty) but we found a very good toy shop and went a little bit wild on a we're-sorry-we dragged-you-half-way-around-the-world-and-it's all-so miserable way. Note: even the toy shop owners in Paris are snooty. This made me giggle between coughing.

Joining with Jodi for a portrait of my little ones once a week, every week in 2015. 

3/52

Littlest - her early morning weetbix is serious business. 
Poppet - dancing down the back of the garden. Only seven am and already unpleasantly hot and so muggy the camera lens fogged up. 
Sprocket - still a little jet lagged from our big trip. We've stopped falling asleep at 2pm and waking at 2am but we're still taking a little while to wake in the morning. 

Joining with Jodi for a portrait of my little ones once a week, every week in 2015.

Littlest: Eight Months

Dear heart,

The time is just racing by and you are getting so large (in a small kind of way!) and so very much yourself. Each day that goes by you seem more entirely you and we are even more besottted. The way you carefully observe before your smile slowly blooms, your great determination, the complete joy and delight you take in your siblings, almost matched by your wariness, the way you're always craning around my shoulder to see more, your great delight in people and play.

Your colouring is very pale and pearly, your large eyes an indeterminate shade of dark blue and grey with flecks of this and that thrown in, your skin pale and opalescent, always gently catching the light, your hair still waiting to make up its mind and blond or darken.

I didn't actually believe it was possible for you to become more beautiful and even more loveable, but each day you seem to grow more endearing. The way you curl your toes, the way you reach up to be held, the way you say 'mummmm' and 'dadddd' and that amazing deep gurgle giggle. The way when I pick you up, you immediately cuddle into my neck, content, leaving behind all crying instantly.

As usual, this post is a little late. You turned eight months the day we left the United Kingdom for the continent, almost two weeks ago now. (A bad move, to be honest, although in my opinion leaving Scotland was a Bad Move, so the further Southerly trend was just bad on bad, although I could be biased due to illness. Although in theory, and my over active imagination, seeing more cities since we were over there, was a Good Idea, when it came to leave Scotland I was in tears - so many people we hadn't managed to see, so many places we hadn't managed to go. Leaving the continent I was also in tears - but of sheer relief to be going home!)

As usual, you travelled brilliantly - the only one of us that did! While you rebel against being put in your car seat (me, kept captive, again? I think not! seems to be your general thought) you adore planes - mainly because of the scope of people to smile at. While you are still very much in your "I-need-my-mummy" phase, you do love smiling at strangers from the safety of my arms. You believe air stewards are put there purely for you to grin at and you could always be settled by showing you all the people on the plane. If you can believe it, some philistines did not smile back. (They could have been a bit weary from the antics of your brother and sister…)

You have seen snow. You have seen snow fall (briefly!) While from here on you're going to be a daughter of the tropics, you have seen snow fall.

You learnt to crawl in Scotland, my darling. As your Grandpa says, that means you're practically entitled to represent Scotland in the Olympics. (Let's hope you get your daddy's sporting ability!)
And… you had your first Christmas. Not a white one - but it was chilly, and it was in Scotland and we did rug you up warm and you did see a castle! It was lovely seeing five little stockings lined up, our little family complete.

You suddenly went from not many toys to a superabundance! (Many with a Scottish theme, Edinburgh Counting Board Book anyone… One Castle etc... (And that's not going into things picked up later in other places… but the travel is boring and you're suddenly at the stage where you like toys!)

We did not get to see as many of our Scottish relatives as I had hoped - the mastitis I traveled over with, on top of all the illness before that, knocked me around a lot, and we were slow getting our phones organised - alright, we never actually got them organised - they routed back through Australia. But you did see your Great Great Aunty, and while she didn't have a clue who any of us were, she did love holding you and playing with you. This was the first time I've been over since your Great Granny and Pappy died, and it was very hard being there without them, although even last visit your Granny's dementia meant she hadn't recognised me, but she'd loved holding your brother, a little one year old then.

I've been carrying you in your new winter carrier, my little-bundle-of-close-held-warmth, and while you don't like getting it on, you do have a tendency to fall asleep as soon as it is on, and it keeps us both snugly warm. And I love having you so close. I love feeling your breathing, resting my cheek against the softness of your hair, holding your hand or little feet (your shoes just refused to stay on, even putting hair bands on them - thank goodness for tights and layers! And they were such gorgeous little shoes!) Dressing you in cold-weather gear has been a constant delight - finally getting to play dress-ups with all the soft-as-soft hats, faux fur vests, velvet dresses, mini-coats and merino bodysuits was so much fun. I'm already looking forward to going back down to Victoria in the winter and hoping as least some still fit!

Your brother came over to me yesterday as I was feeding you and said "I'm glad we have Littlest. Now I have two sisters." Frown. "It's a lot of responsibility." (You have a habit of grabbing his hair, or crawling up to sink your two little teeth into his foot to get his attention, then grinning, so he knows we need to teach you to be a well behaved baby who strokes, not pulls, kisses not bites.)
And it is a lot of responsibility, but we love you so!

2/52

Poppet, laughing with her Aunty on a boat on a canal in Amsterdam. 
Sprocket, in a favourite pub in London, a double decker bus passing. 
Poppet. My Joy. Somewhere in Europe. 

We're home now, having journeyed from Paris to Brisbane in the space of forty-eight hours, in my in-laws place in Queensland, where we'll be until we find or build our own place. Sick. Jetlagged. So completely bone weary it doesn't bear thinking about.

The kids are pulling the house apart. We got home at 11pm last night and by 7am this morning Sprocket hadn't managed to sleep for more than an hour but had found four cane toads (that I know of) and dozens of  skinks. One of which lost it's tail in the living room. There was also talk of a brown snake sighting but when we traipsed out after him to the stand of bananas he claimed to have made the sighting I became a little suspicious.
"How many snakes were there, Sprocket?"
"Forty! Forty king brown snakes and forty taipans."  Wordless return (coughing) to the house.
"It was real. Really really real." A-ha.

Joining with for Jodie for a portrait of my little ones once a week, every week, in 2015.

Cold-Climate-Christmas

I started Christmas day early with a walk up Calton Hill with my sis-in-law. We left later than usual - just at sunrise, and by the time we reached the top of the hill the world was light and we had the most glorious views across Edinburgh, up Prince's Street, across to the Castle and the great bulk of Arthur's seat, and to our back the glassy blue-silver glow of the Firth of Forth with the soft rolling green land of the Kingdom of Fife behind it.
The Poppet threw the most almighty tempest as we sat in St Mary's cathedral and we left ignominiously. I've promised myself that next year I'll do better by the children, because really with all the turmoil, change and sickness this year a few tempests (even at very inopportune moments) are the least to be expected.
Lunch was a feast, a bounty of plenty, thought over (not by me - we were very spoilt) for months, and afterwards Beloved and I slipped out with Littlest for a walk in the crisp chill air and the deserted grey streets.
We made our way to the foot of the castle, our red nosed, red cheeked babe peering around inquisitively, then I went on a 'character' walk to show Beloved the square where my character, Jeannie, lived in 1801.
Christmas trees glowed from so many windows, sharing good cheer and illuminating the already darkening world. (It was going on four in the afternoon.) I imagined a world lit by candle-light and fire light.
Jeannie would not have seen Christmas trees, (a later innovation) but each house (or window?) would have born a candle to welcome the Christ Child in whatever form he might take.
My recent brush with a coal mine fire made me wonder at the fog in the air due to all the chimneys smoking. (Note to self - peat? coal? wood?)
And my Beloved and I held hands and walked together through the Christmas tree and light bedecked streets and felt very, very blessed.