Amy

I got hit by a bus, Internet

by Veronica on February 2, 2012

Not a literal bus, a metaphorical bus.

It could also have been a metaphorical UFO, or a metaphorical flying cow – I was too busy crawling towards the safety of my bed to look closely at whatever it was that hit me.

Regardless of metaphorical object, I am finding week 9 of pregnancy very exhausting and very very nauseating and something horrible keeps happening with my blood pressure. All of this means that I have spent a lot of this week sleeping, trying not to puke, or laying down with my ankles firmly above my head.

Pregnancy is so attractive, don’t you think?

In lieu of a proper post, I present you with photos of my children.

Because they’re cute.

In other news, it is Frogpondsrock’s birthday today (HAPPY BIRTHDAY MUM!) and she is going to be shaving her head in the Leukaemia Foundation’s World’s Greatest Shave.

She would LOVE if you could donate a few dollars towards the cause, because as we know, Cancer is a Bastard and deserves to be cured. Until then, the Leukaemia Foundation is using the money to fund research and to help out patients.

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Now I’m just teasing you Internet

by Veronica on January 31, 2012

in Amy,Gotta Laugh,Isaac

Don’t tell my husband, but I just stole his last pair of clean trackpants to wear. Not that I should be needing to steal his trackies at this early stage of pregnancy – no, my belly is not large enough to make my pants uncomfortable yet. The problem is that apparently, I keep buying comfy “round the house” clothes for my family and forgetting that maybe, I need some pajama pants of my own.

WOE IS ME.

As I was stripping off my skirt and leggings in the bedroom, Amy was chatting to me and I told her she absolutely was not allowed to tell her father that I was stealing his pants.

Of course, she told him. I think I’m quite proud of her honesty (considering he would have noticed in a couple of minutes anyway).

So, there. My daughter doesn’t lie all of the time (thank god) and I am wearing stolen pants.

This is my glamorous life.

***

I am coveting a wheelbarrow load of chook poo.

I KNOW, INTERNET, POO AGAIN.

My garden is looking a little worse for wear, so today, we braved Bunnings with two children to firstly, buy new septic joiners (MORE POO) so that we can move our toilet inside (EVEN MORE POO) and secondly, buy mushroom compost (MUSHROOM POO!) and potting mix.

Now all I need is Nathan to walk to the other side of the paddock with a shovel and the wheelbarrow and return, bearing gifts of chook poo. (POO)

It’s not even like it’s hard – the chooks rather nicely piled it up for him. Of course that was before the dog tore them all to shreds, leaving only one chook alive, but you get that. (Now I’m adding DEATH and GORE to the mix.)

But it’s raining and sadly, there will be no garden safe manure for me today.

***

We were in the Supermarket after Bunnings, with two bored and hungry children. This could have been a recipe for disaster and whining, but, it was … okay. Not fantastic and not amazing, but okay.

Yes, they whined (pleasepleaseplease can we have blueberries? please mummy, look, there are grapes!), but the content of the whinging was wanting fruit. You know what? I can deal with that.

For the record, they got what they wanted.

At the same time I noticed, just how nice it is to have kids that are reaching the older end of the “little kid” spectrum. Five and three? So much nicer than three and six months old. Really really.

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A discussion about vaginas – seems like I’m back to Real Life

by Veronica on January 23, 2012

in Amy,Blogging

The hardest part about attending MONA FOMA and all that it entails, is coming back to real life afterwards. The transition from blogging photos of rock gigs, back to everyday life conversations about how are calves are born (hang on kid, I’ll youtube a cow birth for you) and why is that bird dead (the cat tried to eat it, but the dog stole it instead) and can I poke it (please don’t, it probably has lice, but if you want to watch it finish dying, go ahead. Maybe we can get the cat back to speed the process up).

That is the hard part.

Of course, any morning that has an entire conversation about cow vaginas and how babies get out of their mummy’s tummy can’t be counted as terribly boring. I suspect that Amy is going to be That Girl in class this year, because I let her know that babies arrive via vagina and she’s not one to practise quiet tact if Boy A is telling everyone that doctors cut your tummy open to get the baby out. (His mother had a caesarean – I expect it’s a slightly easier conversation to have than the vagina talk.)

Real life is where it’s all at however, and while I might be bemoaning the lack of rock concerts in my future, eventually the children will get older and there will be more concerts and less morning sickness and nappy changing.

In the meantime, we go from this:

To this:

I think I’m okay with it.

{ 8 comments }

Raising a girl is hard work

by Veronica on January 16, 2012

in Amy,Soapbox

So, here’s the thing:

Amy,

I don’t care that the other girls in your class have heeled shoes. I am not buying you a pair. You are five years old and there will be no heels until you’re as tall as I am.

I really don’t know why your friends apparently wear lipstick, but I will not be letting you use mine. Here’s a lip balm that has a little glitter in it. You can use that instead. I know that it’s not coloured. That is the point.

No, you may not listen to Lady Gaga on Youtube. Yes I know that Mandy* does, but that is no reason for you to as well. I don’t care that you hate me, because I know you don’t. No, I’m still not letting you watch.

Yes, I probably am ruining your life. I really don’t care though, because you’re five and it’s my job to destroy your dreams of high heels and red lip gloss.

You cannot speak to me like that – I am your mother, not your school friend and you can go to time out until you’re ready to speak properly.

Dresses are pretty, but mini skirts are not. Put some leggings on underneath. Right now. Or you can go to bed instead.

Fat is not a bad thing. Everybody is different and everybody’s body looks different. Eliza* is not fat, she is a lovely, smart, friendly little girl and if you hear the boys calling her fat, you tell the teacher immediately. She doesn’t need to hear that at her age.

No, Matthew* has no idea what he is talking about, don’t listen to him.

Susie* said that pigtails are ugly and won’t let you wear them? Fuck Susie. She doesn’t get to say how you can wear your hair to school. If you like pigtails, you can wear them. Wait, you don’t like them anymore? Shit.

You tell the teacher if the boys are calling you and your friends ugly.

You tell ME if someone makes you feel bad.

Dammit, tell SOMEONE.

There are so many things wrong here and I can only muddle through as best I can.

***

When did these become the conversations we are having with our daughters? When did we stop fielding requests for ponies and start fielding requests for high heels?

When did this become the norm, and how on earth are we meant to raise intelligent, smart, beautiful, happy daughters when society in general insists on telling women that they’re not enough?

It’s ridiculous and it’s making me sad that I even need to have these conversations with Amy – even as I know that in this day and age, these discussions are not something I can escape.

***

* Not real names, obviously.

{ 23 comments }

Big sister

by Veronica on December 29, 2011

in Amy,Isaac

I’m the oldest child in my family. My brother was born when I was five and a half, so I was old enough to help out a good deal when David was a baby. I remember trailing him around the property when he was toddling, making sure that he didn’t wander into the bush, or fall into a nest of jackjumpers. I can’t say I was always successful at avoiding the jackjumpers, but I never lost him when I was meant to be watching him.

I can only imagine that having a big sister is very much like having a little brother. Equal parts lovely and please-just-make-me-an-only-child-again. Not that I think that way anymore – my brother is 17 and old enough to not pull my hair or destroy my makeup. He just eats all of my food instead.

At the end of the school year, Amy’s school threw a large picnic at a park, and parents and siblings were invited. We took Isaac along, despite me being very slightly nervous about how he was going to cope with 150+ kids of varying ages.

But we took him, first to the pool to watch Amy swim and play and then to the picnic.

I wasn’t sure how Amy would cope with her little brother trailing her while she played with her friends, but she was brilliant.

She looked after him, made sure he was safe, that he played with her and everyone and it was just really great to watch.

Amy is, frankly, a fantastic big sister. Yes, they fight (because Isaac is definitely everything a little brother should be), but they play and chatter and giggle and of an evening, when I’m at the end of my tether and really just need them to go to sleep, they will lay in bed and talk. And because my house is made of tissue paper and hope, Nathan and I can hear everything, which makes us smile.

I remember bringing Isaac home for the first time and Nathan and I were wondering out loud how Amy would cope to the new family addition. I remembered what one of my blog commenters had said (and I cannot remember who it was – it was 3.5 years ago now) “Give her two weeks and she won’t even remember what life was like before him.” In the first few days of transition and chaos, I held onto that.

It’s true though. Amy didn’t remember what life was like before him and they fell in love, just as hard as Nathan and I did with them.

It’s nice, to watch the relationship between my children and to know that somewhere down the line, they will rely on each other as much as they rely on Nathan and I.