Smile Like Cocaine

The way my Poppet’s smile affects me, so my insides turn to fluid and my mind to mush, so that I would be quite happy to spend all day just staring at her, nuzzling at her neck or playing with her toes to make her smile, has been scientifically proven. 

A baby’s smile affects it’s mum in a similar way to cocaine or nicotine, bringing on a rush of dopamine. 

I have a greater understanding of drugs now.

She is, quite simply, perfect. And I am, quite simply, addicted.

I know that all mothers think this about their baby (and each one is, of course, right) but the way my Poppet looks at me, saving her best smiles for me, her brows raising in question and then her whole face lighting up as if to say – Oh mummy look! Isn’t this wonderful! 

Aren’t you wonderful!

The joy and delight, the awe and mischief, all caught up in her tiny face, is nothing short of miraculous.

Of course, the Poppet’s big brother, the Sprocket’s, smiles affect me in a similar way, but the smile takes on a different context when it’s shot over a shoulder as he empties the coffee jar all over the floor (as he has carefully climbed up onto the kitchen bench having pulled out the oven door to use as a step) 

There is an element of exasperation mixed with the amusement and love. I think the memory of all those smiles is embedded, but it takes awhile to dig to when you’re woken up at 5am by sharp little teeth in your shoulder… just because, or he’s watering the couch with pink milk.

But sometimes, when we’re walking along or reading a story, my Sprocket will look up at me with the self same smile, (O mummy, isn’t it wonderful!) he looked up at me with when he was a baby, the smile that’s just between the two of us… and my insides turn to mush again.

Two years ago...

Heir to Sevenwaters

Julliet Marrilier 

It's two years ago today since I first read this book and I'm feeling all nostalgic. 

I saved this book for two months after I bought it, carefully hoarding it in my hospital bag. Marillier is such an evocative and entrancing writer that I try to savour all of her books and being somewhat naive back then, I saved Heir to Sevenwater to ready during labour with my firstborn, the Sprocket. 

Obviously I had a lot to learn. 

I didn’t end up reading Heir to Sevenwater during labour (being too taken up with, oh, you know, the pain,) but the following night when I couldn’t sleep due to flashbacks of feeling vast gushes of blood pour out of me, of people pounding on me to try to stop the vast gushes of blood, of the sheer agony of someone pushing a needle through places where, let me be clear on this, needles should not go and yanking, repeatedly, of spewing forth fluid from nearly every orifice, of my baby crying and crying and me unable to hold him as they tried to stop the bleeding and stitch me up, I read it.

My beautiful baby was sleeping in his clear plastic crib beside me, his perfect face, round, small-featured and doll-like, framed in his swaddling, but whenever I tried to close my eyes, images of gore assailed me, so I gave up and lost myself in Marrilier’s World instead.

And she didn’t fail me.

Vivid and beautiful, based on myth and folklore but deeply Marrillier’s own, with yet another brave heroine, Heir to Sevenwater was well worth the wait.

Reading in the early hours of the morning, attached to a catheter and a tube for a blood transfusion, feeling floods of warm blood every time I so much as blinked, Heir to Sevenwater saved my sanity.

Along with Clodagh, I fell in love with the hero. I fell in love with the mythical ancient irish setting, and mostly I fell in love with the changeling woodland baby, who in his vulnerability and imperfectness seemed to reflect my own state. Awkward and needy and wild, the changeling babe is impossible not to love.

My love for the little changeling babe became intermingled with my love for my own new babe (although I have to say that apart from their babyness I do not think they bore many similarities, my baby being large and plump and soft and warm, with fingers that constantly moved like little sea aenenomes and an endearing ‘arf-arf’ as he tried to cope with all the milk, and the changeling baby being, well, twiggy)

So yes. Two years ago today, I read this book.

And it will always make me remember that time and smile, even while the tears prick at the back of my eyes, as it reminds me of my son when he was first born, and those special hours and days together, when we were first falling in love.

Nostalgia Gone Wrong?

This morning my husband was looking through music clips on Youtube to play to the Sprocket while we waited for the caffeine to hit so we could stumble into the day.

- Hey - find Dragonstea, I said.

Let me note that this song has considerable meaning to my husband and I. 

In the long ago time when we were first getting to know each other we used to dance to this song in humid night clubs in the Solomon Islands.

We googled the song and the title turned out to mean "Under the Linden" tree in Romanian. 
My beloved's much-loved grandmother is Romanian so we went Ooooh. The rest of the lyrics didn't make a lot of sense, but we figured that was a translation flaw. 

When it came time to chose a wedding 'waltz', this is the song we chose, (although I can't say it much resembles a waltz, or that our dancing in any way resembled waltzing!) and it was one of the songs that I had on my playlist when both our kids were born. It was one of the 'fast' songs that I used to get me up and moving during contractions.

Anyway, being the obedient husband that he is, my beloved found the song and we played it.

The 'eurodance' in the credits should have given us the first hint that perhaps it wasn't what we thought it was.

We were expecting a fairly 'sweet' clip.

Um. No.

Think Camp. Think very, very Camp. Think Euro-Camp. Think white jeans and crotch-thrusting.

Within seconds of the clip starting we were furrowing our brows, seconds later we were giggling uncontrollably, much to the bemusement of the Sprocket, who liked the aeroplane and was already dancing away.

Our wedding (okay our life) was somewhat ramshackle and unorganised.

It makes sense this is the track to our bridal waltz.

Still love the song.

Still brings back all the best memories.

Sigh.

The Winter of Our Disconnect

The Winter of Our Disconnect. How Three Totally Wired Teenagers (and a Mother Who Slept with Her iPhone)Pulled the Plug on Their Technology and Lived to Tell the Tale by Susan Maushart.

Some writers are just brilliant. 

And sometimes they come up with brilliant ideas as well. And sometimes they inflict these brilliant ideas on their family, to the benefit of all mankind. 

Maushart is one of those writers, this book describes one of those ideas, and I have added her family to my list of favourite-non-fiction-literary families (the Maushart’s are presently topping the list along with the Durrells of My Family and Other Animals and Maj and Callan in my all time favourite blog Pretty All True)

The Winter of Our Disconnect is Maushart’s account of herself and her 3 teenagers switching off all their electronic media for 6 months. (And their electricity for the initial 2 weeks so the remaining time felt better by comparison)

Funny, engaging and very, very pertinent this book made me re-think my own (media) addictions and re-examine my ideas about how I want to raise my kids. 
While I know it’s impossible to raise the Poppet and Sprocket on a deserted island with only the classics, Maushart’s discoveries on living in RL (real life) especially about face-to-face contact, family meals, sleep and reading, resonated long and loud.

One of the most interesting points was Maushart’s own media addictions and her ruminations about why she thought they were so strong and how she battled with them.

Can I really expect my kids to go outside and climb a tree if I’m too busy checking my email to come outside and climb it with them?

Or stand strong against the lure of the 'net when I’m guilty of cyber-stalking (come on, it hardly counts, I just wanted to check out if Kirstie Allsop’s husband is worthy of her… and it turns out he’s just her partner and they’re not married ‘cos he has issues. Which would be fine except it sounds like she’d quite like to be married so… now I’m a little sad…)

But I digress.

Basically, it would make me very happy if you would all go out and read the book.

And then talk about it with me.

Because it’s just so funny. And good. And yep. Necessary. Especially if you have kids, but even if you don’t.

Broom-Broom!

I tried the Sprocket on some new books last night. With great excitement I got out some of the ones I’ve had stored away for him for… well, since before he was born.

They were for my work.

Honest.

Sort of.

I thought I’d see if he’d enjoy Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus, (Mo Willems) because, hey, it’s about a bus. And I find it hilarious. But I knew it was a long shot and I wasn’t surprised when he lost interest after a couple of pages. I’ll try again next year.

And then I tried We’re going on a Bear Hunt, but although he loved yanking on the tabs (We have the pop-up-version) the story didn’t grab him.

So we went back to his current favourites.

Where is the Green Sheep. Which has been in his top 5 for over a year. Which is very, very impressive. Full kudos to Mem Fox.

And the under sea one that makes noises. And the puppy one that makes noises. Babies in Art. The Sailor Dog (although I never get to finish this one, which always leaves me somehow unsatisfied.)

And of course… the mini-mover books.

These are tiny (or toddler sized) cardboard books that have a photo of one thing and its name on each size. There is a book of Aircraft, a book of Tractors, a book of Boats, a book of Cars and a book called Zoom. They came in a little box with a handle that my Sprocket likes to carry around.

We can read each book ten times in a row.

Which is odd, because each book only has about ten words and the Sprocket is convinced that each and every thing in these books is a  

TRRRRUCK! anyway.

-Container Ship

-TRRRUCK!

- Look darling, Tugboat

-TRRRUCK!

-Helicopter

-TRRRUCK!

-No, this is called a helicopter.

-TRRRUCK!

-No, hel-i-cop-ter

-TRRRRUCK!

(Repeat x10) 

I sometimes wonder if I’ll be a better children’s librarian now that I’ve had my own kids, and I’ve come to the conclusion, not really (although ask me in a few years and I might have changed my mind.)

I’ve always been around kids and I’ve always loved children’s books – but there is this one exception.

I don’t think I ever fully realized some boys complete devotion to and obsession about trucks and trains and things that go broom.

Oh, I had some idea but I failed to comprehend the mouth falling open, the adoration, the wonder, as the 200^th truck that day roars past. As we look at the pictures again and again and again.

I live in a world full of trucks now. I understand.

Brooom Brooom Brooom!