27/52 Sometimes it's hard being four...

1. My Sprocket. Sometimes it's hard being four. There's so much to think about. The dinosaurs who had the asteroid fall on their tails. Robbers and robots and will heaven be boring and are you sure you still have to go to heaven if you eat ALL your veggies, and why do you need white hair to go to heaven and... are there robots in heaven?  Lots of robots? With buttons...

2. But luckily there's a little girl who loves you very, very much. My Poppet. The world is always a delight to her. No matter what happens she picks herself up and laughs.

Joining with the lovely Jodi over at Che and Fidel for a portrait of my kids once a week in 2013.

Snowfall

The first time I remember seeing snow falling I was seven.
The fireworks had just finished as the first flakes slowly fell. A garden full of children holding toffee-apples was entranced: none more so than my brother and I from the Antipodes. I remember the date because it was Guy Fawks Night (Please to Remember, the Fifth of November,  Gunpowder, Treason and Plot.) We were staying with my grandparents in Aberdeen, Scotland, and the neighbours had just put on an amazing firework display. By the time we woke the following morning the whole world was blanketed in brilliant white.
The second time I remember seeing snow was eleven years later. I was just coming out of the library in Motherwell, Scotland, where I'd taken a detour on the way to visiting my Great Aunt and Uncle. The slow falling flakes once again entranced me.
When my bus slid across the road and got stuck for two hours, in not inconsiderable cold, there might have been a slight hiccup in my affections. Being freezing, amid a bus full of people who thought I was daft, will do that. I possibly shouldn't have phoned my parents back in Australia to rave about the fantastic snow - dad said he'd had enough snow in his first two decades to last him a life time. I believe mum thought she'd got enough in the four years she lived in Scotland with him. It was only three in the morning, Australian time. Slugging up the hill to my aunt and uncle's, knee deep in snow, was also chilly. Warmed, fed and cosseted, the following day I once again was in deep love. Snow angels were the name of the game.
The third time I remember seeing falling snow was another decade on. This time I had my Sprocket toddling around my knees, my Poppet within me and my Beloved at my side. The snow fell as we landed in South Korea for our stopover. And again in Dublin. And Latvia. And England. And again Scotland. There was a lot of snow. My Beloved, driving in it, was not so delighted. For our delayed honeymoon, I thought it was perfection.
So when we had visitors last week and they expressed the slightest desire to visit our nearby snow-mountain, I took them up on it almost before the words were out of their mouth.
Mt Baw Baw is our nearest slope: we hastily googled, prepared and left. For the longest while we were worried about the lack of snow. The lyrebird running across the road was its own magic; the luxurious green or fern and tree, the richness of air so thick you could almost touch it, with scents of eucalypt, decay and wet growing stuffs intoxicating.
And then, just metres from the summit, we saw the first patches of snow beside the road. More, and more and more. And as we got out of the car the snow began to fall.
Softly, softly, blurring visibility, softly, softly, surrounding us in white.
Everyone needs a little bit of magic, an away from the everyday, once in awhile.

(Note: I am the one in uncool colours. My Beloved and our friends were in atmospheric black. Not having proper snow-clothes to hand I grabbed three scarves - one is tied around my backside - and my   Poppet's bonnet. It was very warm. But it was designed for a two year old. I accept that I will never win any fashion prizes. But I was beautifully cosy and very happy!)

There should be a word for this. (Or is there?)

I am convinced there should be a word for this.
The feeling of extreme disinclination to return ones library books.
The very strong feeling that said books desire to live right where they are currently placed. Even if that place is a teetering pile on the dresser. That they are happy, indeed content, living in ones bedroom, sharing in the family life.
My books (all 53 of them, unrenewable) were due back two minutes ago, and I am in mourning.
Not so much for the adult books, (no, not Adult, adult, just not aimed primarily at munchkins) but the munchkin books.
Over the last two, okay, maybe three, months the books have become much loved members of our family. What will we be without Sebastian Lives in a Hat (written about a wombat from 'our' very own local National Park and signed by the author), But Excuse me That is My Book, The Gruffalo, The Egg, Diary of a Wombat?
Bereft. That's what we'll be. Broken-hearted.
Lacking in essential members of our family.
Truly, there should be a word for this. And I don't mean covetous. Or hoard-y. Or fined.
The word should be long and weighty. With a biblio in there somewhere.
Something that gives validation to the sense of longing and angst. Existential angst? Maybe just angst. And maybe a little wave to the niggle of excitement about the possibility of the new books. (Although how could they truly replace the old books in our hearts...) And maybe containing a nod to having to carry 53 books to the library... I think that's two, possibly three loads.

Who's with me, there really should be a word for this, shouldn't there?

Or is there already one, and I'm behind the times (... although I hate to think I'm living in ignorance, surely it is such a commonly felt emotion the word is out there... somewhere... )  do let me know.

Weekly Stills

1. My Sprocket on the beach at Inverloch.
2. Inverloch, looking along the beach.
3 & 4. Nature shots at Inverloch. I regret to say that I don't know what the plants are - but I believe them to be indigenous and I like them.
5. My poor Poppet, recovering from her upper respiratory infection. Many hours this week were spent just holding my little one and waiting for her to feel better.
6. In the garden. After a weary week of sickness with my beloved interstate, the kids and I spent an afternoon in the garden. We planted some sweet scented spring favourites - narcissus and daphne, and the dahlia bulbs my granny gave us, added some more mulch and pottered. It was so good to be home and outside under a clear blue sky.

Joining with the lovely Em over at The Beetleshack for stills from the week. 

Ah, Germany, Hello?

Every so often I take a quick glance (ahem) at my blog statistics. My daily blog views have been slowly but steadily rising, which is nice. However, in the last week page views have suddenly skyrocketed. The stats seem to say that in the last few days 15,000 people, all in Germany, and using a variety of different browsers and operating systems, have been checking out my blog.
Which would be lovely, if a. I believed it or b. I had any idea why.
So if you're in Germany and you're checking out my blog I'd love it if you could give me a quick heads up as to how you found me, or if you're a fellow blogger and know why stats are playing up, if you could tell me why I'd greatly appreciate it!