Monday, August 18, 2014

{Just One Thing} Week Thirty Three

Two Hundred and Thirty Five - 12.08.14


These days, our day starts in the sixes. It's better than some. Many, probably. But for us, it's early. Really early. And if I'm honest, there's not a great deal that I like about starting my day before the sun has started theirs. It's dark and it's cold and it's... just early. 

But I'm learning to embrace it. After all, what's a Mumma to do? There really is no point in fighting the inevitable. And who wants to start their day on a downer? Certainly not I. Especially when there's such magic in the 'morn. Such beauty and such wonder right there, waiting to be appreciated. 

Today, we did just that. 

Together, we watched the moon disappear. We watched the sky turn from black to grey to orangish pink. We watched the sun's first rays and the sky's first hint of blue. On top of the kitchen bench you sat on bent knee. Transfixed. Mesmorised. Silent. And I? I watched you. My joy was in yours. And let me tell you, it was abundant. 

Two Hundred and Thirty Six - 13.08.14

Cuddling to sleep is still a thing we do. The rocking. The swaying. The snuggles. It's a thing we do, and I love it. All of it. Even the ever-growing weight of your body in my arms. Because you still fit. It's a little more snug than it used to be, but it works. We make it work.

And because of this, the transfer into bed thing? I've got it down to a fine art. There's a specific method I use and it rarely fails me. It involves the perfect amount of mattress pressure here, and the right amount of touch on body there, and the occasional need for a dummy swap on final impact. It happens so seamlessly these days that I no longer feel the need to hold my breath. You know, in case you hear it and stir. Sounds absurd, doesn't it? One day, I think you'll know exactly what I mean, as you rock and sway and snuggle a babe of your very own.
Two Hundred and Thirty Seven - 14.08.14

Rarely do I stop and appreciate the gross-ness that is a baby. Maybe it's due to being elbow deep in the thick of it? Or perhaps my continually sleep deprived state? Either way, I think it's safe to say that I've accepted and surrendered to the fact that these early years contain a whole lot of gross.

But not you. No, no. Gross things are no okay. Gross things needs to be called out for their gross-ness. And it's your job to do it.

Your little sister was sitting beside you at the table. You, with a plate of plain pasta, grated cheese and a roasted few sweet potato chips, ever-so-slowly ploughing through. Tiny is not like you. She's a speed eater. Or gobbler. Or all-edible-items-in-mouth shover. Her plate was empty. She had started on her second dinner - yoghurt. The only food that she will happily accept on a spoon from me.

With a spoon fully loaded at the ready... she sneezed. And it was an almighty, full body convulsing sneeze.

Big: "Oh Tiny! Wook at you! You sneeze and dis yoghurt go eberywhere! See! It's on my hand and on da table and on da floor. [sigh] Mumma, babies be so gross."

Two Hundred and Thirty Eight - 15.08.14

You've always been such an affectionate babe, especially to me. I hold you and you wrap your sweet baby arms around my neck and squeeze like letting go is not an option. You twirl the short strands of hair at the nape of my neck, rarely pulling, but even when you do, it's gentle and loving. Your two chubby hands squish my cheeks as you cover my face with open mouth kisses, sometimes with a side of slobber, and others with an adorable 'ahhhh' sound. And as you shower me with love enough to fill my soul, I breath in these moments. With the palm of my hand caressing the small curve of your back, we're a perfect fit. This love - our love - was meant to be.
Two Hundred and Thirty Nine - 16.08.14


I would never be caught saying that mothering you is easy. Motherhood, regardless of circumstances, is never easy. Although I will admit that at this point in time, you're doing your part in making things easier. Right now, you make it you are making it your business to highlight the very best parts of your day... even when that includes dobbing yourself in. I wonder if this will be a lasting trait?

Big: "I beed cheeky at dance class today! I goed [blurt] wif da little girl in da purple weotart and den we do crawling on da floor, not flying. Da teacher says we don't do crawling at dance class, but we have to 'cause our fairy wings are bwoken."
Two Hundred and Forty - 17.08.14


Your movements are becoming faster, and certainly more purposeful. Most often, you're headed for your sister. Her toys. Her games. Her things. Her. All you really want is to be included, much to her displeasure, of course.

Although you are equally as enthused to greet your Daddy upon his evening arrival. In fact, I dare day you wish you could get there faster. Especially as you are always overtaken by a running big sister, who, in your eyes, steals the first of Daddy's affection each and every time. But you don't let that stop you. You wriggle and you worm and you glide, faster and faster, your lips constantly smacking air kisses in his direction. I'm not quite sure what I adore more - your glowing beam once you've reached his arms, or his - with a full heart and arms wide open to receive you.

Two Hundred and Forty One - 18.08.14


Thumbs up. Two, in fact. That's been the skill or the challenge of the week for you. And you've mastered it. Got it covered. Completely.

But it hasn't been without practise. And lots of it. But practise you did, which saw your action go from a finger point, to a two finger salute, to an 'L'... and finally... jackpot. Despite the lengthy routine of finger dancing, once your thumb arrives, so too does your smile. Centre stage. As proud as punch, you are.  Even more so when both hands perform as you desire. Simultaneously. Y-e-s!


Sunday, August 17, 2014


"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, for 2014."
Big: Perfecting Daddy's Father's Day gift - a hand stamped and painted mug. The perfect tradition to continue... even with a Band-Aid on your chin.
Tiny: Another chapter in the "Parenting Things I Wish I Had Thought of Earlier". Caps. Bottle tops. Plastic recyclables. What was set aside of crafting was soon to be a play thing. Best baby entertainment... ever.

Monday, August 11, 2014

{Just One Thing} Week Thirty Two

Two Hundred and Twenty Eight - 05.08.14


It's no secret that we're a book lovin' home. You've always been surrounded by them, and as such, devour each and every story. You have your very own library card, and boy, does it get a work out. Sometimes, a new book appears on your shelf. One of your very own. One to keep and read and love. Today, it is with thanks to your Daddy.

This story was met with mixed emotions. The bear was a familiar bear. He features in another book you own and love... but this time, he was different. He wasn't itchy. He was cranky. Very cranky, actually. And you, being two, and still in the process of reading and learning about emotions, were not so sure about the cranky business. To you, cranky was a little... well, scary.

But not for too long. Daddy explained what cranky means. You spoke about how sometimes we all feel a little cranky, and that that is just fine and normal... and most definitely not scary. You understood. I know you did. Because shortly after, that wicked sense of humour returned.

Big: "Dere's only one cranky bear in dis house... and dat's YOU, Daddy!"

Two Hundred and Twenty Nine - 06.08.14


And so you crawl. Yes. You move. And it's in the forward trajectory. Right now, actually. I can see you there, doing just that. Perhaps you are proving a point, especially since it was just last week that I was telling you that I had been holding off on marking the milestone. To me, crawling is crawling only when the movement is forward. And purposeful, I guess. Today that milestone is met. Your movement is both forward and purposeful. And the action? Well... it's a little odd.

Right hand reaches. Left elbow lifts. Elbow drops. Elbow pulls. Legs drag. Repeat. I suppose you'd call it an army crawl. Of sorts. But who needs labels? Look at you! Kid, you're going places. Literally.

Two Hundred and Thirty - 07.08.14


Being a big sister has been quite a ride. Some days you have so much love for your sweet baby that I think she might just drown in all that affection. I know she thinks so too, with her wide eyes and an expression which quite clearly reads as a desperate plea for help. But not all days are like this. At least not every moment is. And today was one of those moments or days or circumstances.

Your sweet baby... the one that was lovely and fun from afar? That baby grew. And now? That baby moves. And she's headed right for you. And your toys. And your games. And your fun. And that is not sweet, nor is it lovely, nor is it fun. What's more, not only can she crawl to where you are playing, and that she does, but she touches and moves and eats your things. And you just can't deal. You haven't yet learned that relocating them to a new spot, also on the floor, does not mean that they are safe. They will be hunted. They will be found. And they will be covered in baby saliva.

Being a big sister today? Well... it's just not good.

Two Hundred and Thirty One - 08.08.14


Squeezy yoghurt is quite the hit 'round these parts. You big sister inhales them, and then they are kindly donated to you as a play toy. More specifically, a chew toy. That doesn't quite sound right, does it? A baby chew toy? I suppose it is also a waving toy and a remnants-of-yoghurt-room-decorator toy. Essentially, it's fun. Mess and fun.

Today it became more than that. We've been making our own yoghurt for a while now, and finally our reusable squeezy pouches arrived. Finally it was your turn to experience the food, as well as the fun... and the mess. To begin with, you played. You shook it and flung it and squeezed it. And then it happened. Yoghurt. In your mouth. My the way of your toy. Cue giggle. Repeat the feeding process. Cue chuckle. Repeat. Full. belly. laughter. Hysterical.

'Tis a good day when food is fun, and fun is food. There is joy in the smallest of things. You are the very best at reminding me.

Two Hundred and Thirty Two - 09.08.14


In the absence of a face washer or a wet wipe or an anything... I've been known to lick my thumb and wipe your face. Yes. I did it. I do it. I tell myself that it's a child's right of passage... ha! But you? You are not fooled. You are not pleased. In fact, you are far from pleased.

Big: "Mumma, when you put dat wet on my face, it feels horriful 'cause it be disgustick."

Two Hundred and Thirty Three - 10.08.14


A story before bedtime is not a new thing. At least it's not here. Not for your big sister. And I suppose it's not for you too, really. You are often crashing the party in Big's bed while I read to her before her nap. Sometimes you listen and follow along. Others you terrorise her, pulling her hair and whacking her face and stealing her dummies. Thankfully she's a good sport, and just sighs at your destructive nature, before retrieving and reinserting said stolen dummies.

I digress.

I'm almost ashamed to admit that it's been this long before I began reading you a bedtime story of your very own. Dear second child, for this I am sorry. Especially because in doing so, I have learned of the pure joy you experience in the whole process. You touch the pages. You giggle as they turn. Your eyes glisten and your face beams. And it is the most perfect way to ease you into sweet baby dreamin'. I feel another tiny book lover has arrived.

Two Hundred and Thirty Four - 11.08.14


It's been a big few days, with later nights and earlier mornings and crankier Mummas. You really know how to push my buttons. Especially when the end of my tether is nigh. That's almost a toddler speciality, isn't it? To test and try and terrorise. I was tied. I was frustrated. I was touched out. And you? All you wanted was to sit not near me, but on me.

It took a little longer than it should have, but of course, I surrendered.

Mumma: "Where did all of these hugs come from, Big?"

Big: "Dat's easy. Dey come from love."

Oh my heart.


Sunday, August 10, 2014


"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, for 2014."
Big: "Callum's birfday party meeds some sparkles, I fink. Dese's jewels we be perfect to make da party so great."
Tiny: With an eye on the prize, off she goes. She moves. Crawling, of sorts. World, you've been forewarned.

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