Monday, July 28, 2014

{Just One Thing} Week Thirty


Two Hundred and Forteen - 22.07.14
 
{Tiny}

You remember those hands of yours that you were so pleased to have join you for your evening slumber? Well, my dear girl, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but they've been confiscated until further notice. Y'see, you liked the idea of their accessibility, but in practise they were a little troublesome. They whacked and scratched and startled you. Their icy touch was not welcomed by your deliciously warm cheeks. All in all they were nothing other than a distraction to falling, and staying, sound asleep. 

And that, my dear? That means game over. Until you meet again...

Two Hundred and Fifteen - 23.07.14
 
{Big}

To sleep, or not to sleep? That is the question of the day, or week, or whatever. Thankfully, I am referring only to your daytime naps. But I'm saying only, might I add that this is the one and only time that I have an opportunity to sit and toilet and eat solo. And yes, sometimes the three are simultaneous. Especially as the timeframe for potential sleep crossover between babes in forty minutes max.  So in saying that you're only skipping your midday snooze is actually quite a big deal. At least for me it is. 

But you're a good egg. For the most part despite not actually looking at the inside of your eye lids, you do remain in your bedroom. And no, the door is not locked or barricaded or without a handle. You do so of your own accord. You sing and read and play... and sometimes howl to the point where your canine friends outside join in. Seriously. But really, what more can I ask for? I can still sit and toilet and eat... just with an interesting backing track. 

Two Hundred and Sixteen - 24.07.14

{Tiny}

Sound the alarm. I suppose that's not entirely accurate. You do give ample warning with your chin quiver and lip drop and face scrunch. And that's followed by a firery tinge to your sweet little face, before your mouth flips open and your arms raise in search of me... and then? You roar. 

How dare that stranger look in your direction. Why on earth would someone other than Mumma or your big sister want to kiss your delectable cheeks? For goodness sakes, people. Don't they know how personal space works? Clearly not. But you're prepared to right that wrong... from the safety and security of Mumma's arms, of course. How very brave of you, my dear velcro baby.

Two Hundred and Seventeen - 25.07.14
 
{Big}

This morning you came to me, shoulders hunched, looking a little long in the face. 

Big: "I don't want to be sad, Mumma."
 
Mumma: "That's great, Big. I don't want you to be sad either!"
 
Big: "But I must be sad. I must be sad all da time!"
 
Mumma: "Oh dear. Why's that?"
 
Big: "I be sad 'cause I weally weally wike blue. It's my favourite of all da colours but da blue colour means sad. Can I be happy when lellow is not my berry best colour?"
 
Figures of speech. They're lost on toddlers, eh? 

Two Hundred and Eighteen - 26.07.14

{Tiny}

I know I've told you before that you love your food... but you really, really do. The walk over to your highchair is one of squirmy delight. A bib over your head is an unnecessary distraction, and an unwelcome one. In all honestly, the bib should know better than to get between you and your tucker. And your fingers? They just do not work quick enough for your liking. Whole hand and fist shovelling is more your style. 

I'm painting a rather lovely image, aren't I? How delicate and feminine and cultured you are. Believe it or not, you actually are quite a clean eater. At least in the sense that there is not a great deal left to tell the story that once was. Particularly if the taste fulfils your requirements. That being the case, you also delight your edible conquest with song. Oh, how grateful you are to that which pleases you.

Two Hundred and Nineteen - 27.07.14
 
{Big}

You have always been content with independent play. Engaged in an imaginary world with your imaginary friends, crafting a masterpiece or consumed by words on pages, you are at home. At peace. Solo. And that's perfectly okay because it's perfectly you.
 
In your two years and seven months on this earth, I have made a concerted effort to support you. I have been as patient and encouraging and gentle as I know how to be. But lately I've been contemplating my need to push. To test. To challenge

I watched you today as you tried to scoop sand into a measuring cup. You tried with your let hand. You tried with your right. You tried and you failed. The sand was wet, and you lacked the necessary strength in your wrists to succeed. I bid you to try again. To persist. But you wouldn't. It broke you. I could see in your eyes that this failure had shattered your spirit. And so I took your hand, gently, and we did it together. And little by little, we'll work on your resilience together too.

Two Hundred and Twenty - 28.07.14

{Tiny}

Waving your sweet little hands to greet those who come and go is now a party trick of old. You've moved onward and upward on the frivolity scale, keen to spread the cheer, with a cheer. Those two chubby hands of yours join together. Lightly. Softly. Repetitive. The contact is minimal, but is enough to clearly and proudly flaunt your new skill - the art of the clap. And if the action happened to be mistaken for anything gother than it's intended purpose, the accompanying vocals could not be ignored. A very distinctive and celebratory "ya-ya-ya!" as you beamed with glee. And as pleasing me pleases you, you clapped and you giggled and you clapped some more. Oh happy days, my darling. You clever clogs.

**

Sunday, July 27, 2014

30/52


"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, for 2014."
 
Big: Your final hurrah for the day. It always looks like this. Daddy. You. Hoppy and dummies. Snuggled up in bed. Huddled under your blankies. And it's always a Little Golden Book.
 
Tiny: A fitting depiction of the week that was with you, my little darling. There was much for your to share with us, and you were more than obliging. Be it with joy, with frustration or with sadness, that mouth of yours was left ajar... and still toothless.
 
**

Friday, July 25, 2014

Same Same, but Different


Forty minutes. What does forty minutes sans baby look like for you? Me?

Lunch in the microwave.
Switch on the kettle.
Toilet break.
Stir and test lunch.
Too cold.
Make a cuppa.
Load the washing machine.
Sit.
Feet up.
Inhale lunch.
Cuppa in the microwave.
Turn the washing machine on.
Cue baby.

There's much I've learned since trying my hand at this mothering caper. For one, it never fails to amaze me just how productive I can be in forty short minutes. Rather, that should be forty long, blissful, golden minutes. There's nothing short or minimal about the sweet sound of... nothing. No mindless chatter. No clanging toys. No squawking demands. Silence. It's a learned skill, productivity. One that Mummas of cat nappers have no choice but to become accustomed to, I suppose. And now? I'm like a productivity ninja. Because cat nappin'? We go way back. Well, two years and seven months and during the daytime hours back, specifically.

Much to do with my two loves is same same. At least it is when we're talking about sleep. Clenched fists and elbows bent to form right angles serve as sleep cues. Arms are up. Hands are accessible. Swaddled bodies are snug and cosy and secure. All that's left is the boobin', and then? Do you hear that? No? Me either. Silence. But with every good same same, there's always a difference.

Big was a solid, should-we-check-if-she's-still-conscious sleeper. Once out, her slumber has always been heavy, long and undisturbed. For forty minutes. But our littlest love is a wriggler. A don't-dare-take-your-eyes-off-me, bed hogging type. And the positioning of the sun matters not. With this variety, blankets are simply a no-go, and a sleeping bag was an easy fix. What a shame that the same does not exist for the rocking and swaying and snuggling to sleep. Or those blasted cat napping shenanigans. Ha!

But then there is. That's another thing I've learned along the way. With the baby sleeping biz'? You just have to go with it. Rest assured that you're not alone. There's a Mumma who is cuddling and feeding and shushing her babe back to sleep right beside you in the mothering trenches. Sometimes even every forty minutes. Plus, these days and nights don't last. And one day you'll blink... and? Do you hear that? Sleep.

**
 

WANNA WIN?

I've got a Love to Dream INVENTA Sleep Bag {valued at $79.95} to one lucky person. Make sure you head over to Instagram and check out how to enter.
 
**

Disclosure: Love to Dream decked this sweet little babe of mine out in an INVENTA Sleep Bag, or two. The Swaddle Up 50/50 pictured was purchased by me. No payment was offered, or accepted.

Monday, July 21, 2014

{Just One Thing} Week Twenty Nine


Two Hundred and Six - 15.07.14

{Big}

Your bed became a little less roomy today, as you welcomed Percy, Sophie and Michael to join what was already a sea of pillows and blankets. Your new friends take up quite a bit of room, you tell me, and I have to follow your lead... because I can't actually see them. Your three imaginary piggy friends. May their stay be a long and comfortable one. And may I refrain from sitting on their hooves for a while more. 

Two Hundred and Seven - 16.07.14

{Tiny}

You decided not to sleep today. At least not for the morning. You would not be rocked. You would not be cuddled. You would not be carried. But the thing is, you weren't happy to be awake either. We even took to the fresh wintry air for a walk... to no avail. Instead, you alternated between whacking my face, scratching my neck, removing your dummy, and half-hearted wailing. It was a delight to be apart of. Except not

But then you look at me with those eyes and you smile at me with that smile and you sing "Mum-ma-ma" with that sweet little voice. You? A delight? Oh my word.

Two Hundred and Eight - 17.07.14

{Big}

Big: "I'm scared, I'm scared, I'm SCARED! Dere's monsters and dey growl at me. Can you teach me how to be brave, Mumma?"

My darling girl. We've not has this before. Your imagination has always been wonderfully active, but not of the terrible, horrible kind. And although logic tells us that your mind is playing tricks on you, to you, the tricks are not tricks at all. The monsters are real. The feelings are real. Scary real. 

Now we're reading stories and telling tales of not-so scary monsters and ways for things that go bump in the night to be okay. You're learning about being scared as well as being brave, because both are important and valid and normal. But more than that, where monsters live, so does imagination. And I'd love to nuture that gift for as long as I possibly can.

Two Hundred and Nine - 18.07.14

{Tiny}

You're now at an age where sitting back and watching the goings-on is no longer enough. You want in. I've noticed this particularly during your big sisters' craft sessions. And fair enough too. We're having a pretty darn good time, I must say. Alas, the majority of her activities are not suited to the teeniest of hands, like yours. Simply put, the contents are not edible. But we worked towards a compromise. And while stackable crayons in a baking tray were enough for today, soon I'll be modifying the big girl tasks for you to try your hand at a masterpiece of your very own.

Two Hundred and Ten - 19.07.14

{Big}

Dance class. Today. You. You're very first. And wow

Big: "I dreamed about dancing class last night, Mumma. I am so berry excited to have a try."

Leotard and tutu clad we went, hand-in-hand. Although the hand was only needed for a fleeting moment. As the doors flung open, in you raced. And you danced. Mostly to the beat of your own drum and a-hop-skip-twirling to your own choreography. But who'd have known? Certainly not I, who only had eyes on you. That smile. The look in your eye. It is here that your heart lies. At least for the time being.

Two Hundred and Eleven - 20.07.14

{Tiny}

Today, you spied a problem. It was small and round and brown. Spot like. And stuck. Well stuck. Try as you might - and oh, how you did - no mastered pincer grip pinch, or forefinger scratch would be enough to remove it. A furrowed brow and puckered lips screamed concentration, determined as you were to not have it defeat you.

The end result? A red raw chest for me. And the freckle? It remains. Stubborn thing, those freckles.

Two Hundred and Thirteen - 21.07.14

{Big}

For two minutes my eyes left the room. Just two. But it was two too many to avoid the freestyled masterpiece that ensued. I returned to a daughter marked with blue spots and stripes and swirls. Oh, and zigzags too. Fingers. Hands. Arms. Neck. Cheeks.

Big: "Wook at all dese spots, Mumma. I might meed a doctor 'cause I be berry sick wif spots on my face. It might be da flu."

I suppose I should be grateful for washable markers... although the term washable is used rather loosely when applied to skin methinks. Then again, your clothes, the walls and your sister are free from your creative expression, so perhaps I should be thanking my lucky {blue} stars.

**




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