Books, Food, and the Dangers of Combining the Two
I’ve hurt my back (again) so for the last two days I haven’t been able to do much. I wasn’t even sure I was okay to drive, so yesterday my partner Chris worked from home, and today my father-in-law brought the kids home after school.
Today was a whole lot better than yesterday, pain-wise, and I even did a teensy bit of cautious cleaning (on the level of kicking dirty washing from the hallway into the laundry).
As my father-in-law left, I noticed a book Louisette (5) had brought home from school. One of those kids’ cook books. My heart sank.
Louisette brought it out of her bag (dangit, she remembered she had it) with smiles and requests to read it, and “make everything in it”. I had a look through (approving of the simplicity of the recipes) and said I’d think about maybe making something in it. She wandered off, and I had a look through.
It had ten recipes (not, as the cover proclaims, FIFTY*)
We had too many kiwifruit, which was worrying me (I have many fruit-related anxieties**), so I thought, “Let’s make that kiwifruit smoothie” (but, ya know, in the thermomix and with some frozen raspberries in it too). Kiwifruit is soft enough that I had the kids cutting it up—Louisette cut off the skin (along with two-thirds of each fruit…. well, we DID have too many…) and then TJ cut the remainder into smaller pieces.
This was a grand success, and I rode the high and proclaimed we’d make popcorn too. Louisette has a thing for popcorn and I’d secretly bought some microwavable stuff, so THAT was easy.
I’d already said we could maybe make the tart things for dinner (my own plan was frozen nuggets and chips…. bad back, remember?) since I knew we had a single sheet of ancient puff pastry in the freezer, and I’d also discovered some Chris-made pumpkin soup from a month or so ago, so I thought maybe that’d already count as one of the recipes too. So I took a photo: two happy kids in aprons with smoothie (in a jug to save for Chris), bowls of popcorn, and a freezer container of pumpkin soup.
They’re looking sideways due to watching TV. Mum is boring.
One thing led to another and thoughts happened in my head along the lines of, “Hey, we have to cook dinner anyway!” and “I can re-use trays” and “If I start now, I can…”
So naturally I decided to do all eleven recipes… using healthy versions where available, and using only what was already in the house.
- Smoothie (specifically, kiwi and raspberry, sweetened with maple syrup). Kid involvement: chopping kiwifruit together. Taste: Excellent. Healthiness: Pretty good. Kid response: Delighted. Mum cheat: thermomix.
- Popcorn. Kid involvement: Listening to popping (what else is there?) Taste: Excellent. Healthiness: Pretty good. Kid response: Delighted. Mum cheat: Microwave popcorn.
- Vegetable Art. Kid involvement: chopping various things. Taste: Vegetables and cheese. Healthiness: Excellent. Kid response: Delighted. They even ate most of what they made. Mum cheat: Using only a few ingredients (carrot, cucumber, cheese, mini crackers, and 2-minute noodles). I made a hill at sunrise; Louisette made a racing car (it looks like a train to me), and TJ proudly proclaimed that he had made “A Mess!” This also kept them entertained quite well while I prepped various other things (bread dough a la thermomix, roast vegetables for soup, stuff for “Pasta and Sauce”).
4. Pasta and Sauce. Louisette begged me not to cook this at all (not a fan of tomatoes) but it was far too late for moderation now. Kid involvement: I forced Louisette to stir the sauce for ten seconds so I could take a picture. Taste: Very tomato-y but actually rather nice. Healthiness: Excellent. Kid response: Begging for the sweet release of death. Mum cheat: I reverse cheated on this one: I actually added zucchini (pulverised with butter and onion in the thermomix) and fresh tomato. With grated mozzarella on top (we keep grated mozzarella in the freezer).
5. Bread. Thermomix bread is pretty easy (and we have dried yeast on hand) so I used the thermomix ‘basic bread’ recipe, made a small loaf out of most of it and let the kids make fun shapes from the rest (which I knew would also cook quickly, being smaller). Top tip: Don’t let kids knead bread. They’re terrible at it, and it always ends up really heavy. But they love it.
6. Soup.
At some stage I remembered we had a pumpkin in the fridge and lost my mind completely. I did a fast-and-dirty roast of pumpkin, carrot, sweet potato, onion, zucchini, and potato and then basically shoved it all in the thermomix. The next pic is Louisette modelling for me….. Louisette doesn’t like soup.
Kid involvement: Posing for photo, under protest. Taste: Pumpkin-y. Pretty good, especially considering I forgot to add stock (I added thermomix-and-butter-fried garlic before the rest, and had sprinkled herbs on the roasting vegies along with sprayed oil). Healthiness: Excellent. Kid response: NOOOO WHYYYYYY/Yum (TJ finished his). Mum cheat: Thermomix rather than saucepan (and I know from experience that you should always roast the vegies rather than cooking them any other way – and cover the pumpkin with foil so it doesn’t burn).
7. Tarts/Flans: I made savoury cheese flans plus two jam tarts (both just pastry with stuff inside).
Kid involvement: Louisette broke eggs into the bowl (twice, since the first time she did she added water “because I wanted to make it more healthy”), and both kids helped use the circular pastry cutter, then added scrap bits of pastry to the top of the tarts. Taste: Exquisite. Seriously. I think using the same containers brought in some delicious features from other dishes that did something wonderful to what should have been an omelette with pretensions. Healthiness: Pretty good. Kid response: All the nope, which luckily meant Chris and I got to eat more. Mum cheat: Frozen (and badly freezer-burned) puff pastry instead of shortcrust. I also added ham and avocado because they’re yummy and healthy.
[darn it, I’ve run out of free wordpress image space.]
[picture of muffin tin with tarts/flans because kids were no longer interested in this weird obsession.]
So for dinner we had tarts/flans, fresh bread, fresh home-made pumpkin soup, and pasta with home-made sauce.
Meanwhile, fairy cakes and upside-down puddings were cooking (precisely the same batter, even in the book) were cooking.
8. Upside-down pudding.
Basic cake mixture, in a muffin tin with tinned pineapple, sultanas, and desiccated coconut placed into the pan first. Served upside down (so the fruit is on the top). Kid involvement: Placing pineapple slices inside. Taste: Soap. I have no idea why. Possibly I didn’t clean the tin real well after the tarts. Possibly my body was trying to tell me something. Healthiness: Could be worse. Kid response: Meh. Mum cheat: Cooking fairy cakes at the same time. Genius. Also I’d long since run out of proper flour so I used cornflour. Taste was no longer a factor. The end was nigh.
[Picture of TJ eating his upside-down pudding. I think he actually ate it all, presumably because he was thrown into confusion at this stage of the evening—generally our kids respond to cupcakes with enthusiasm, then eat the top and abandon the rest.]
9. Fairy Cakes.
Same as above, but with paper patty pans instead of fruit. Then flavoured & coloured icing, with all the toppings I could find (desiccated coconut, white choc chips, sprinkles). Kid involvement: Decoration! Much cheering! Also, choosing colour and flavour of the icing (with heavy hints along the lines of “We have lemon flavouring and peppermint flavouring”). Taste: Mmm… artificial flavouring. Healthiness: Nope. Kid response: Delighted with the decorating process, yet strangely unenthusiastic about their ninth course. So this is their dessert-stomach threshold. Good to know. Mum cheat: Dad supervised the brightly-coloured horror of decoration while I did other things (far too hyper myself to panic over the small fingers and food colouring, which would normally be a huge deal).
[Picture of strangely re-invogorated children smeared with chocolate and icing.]
10. Moon rocks (basically lumpy choc chip cookies, but mine turned utterly flat). Kid involvement: Pouring in choc chips. Taste: Cardboard. Healthiness: Fail. Kid response: Glazed. Mum cheat: I had reached a zen-like level of existence where any ingredient vaguely the same colour was a fine substitute, and measuring anything was too hard.
[picture of pancake-like “rocks” melded together.]
11. Chocolate cake.
Yep, for reals. Big finish. Luckily this was a biscuit base with a pure chocolate top. Hello again, thermomix!
Kid involvement: Licking the bowl (Louisette)/showing no interest whatsoever (poor over-fed TJ). Taste: Chocolate. What’s not to like? Okay fine; I haven’t actually eaten any yet. I’m just about to, honest. Healthiness: Hah, lol. Kid response: Too tired to care. Literally zero interest. Mum cheat: THERMOMIX SMASH. Also, Chris does the dishes.
[picture of cake]
I published this post, then went back and tried the chocolate cake. It was excellent. Butter, biscuits, chocolate, then chocolate on top. Rather rich, but easy and fabulous. I shall try to hide it from the kids tomorrow.
Chris came home from work to find me wild-eyed and bustling, with the children poring over vegetable art and things bubbling, roasting, and mixing all over the kitchen. After a little while, he came to me and said, “Hmm… might you be having a manic episode?”
Why yes, I am!
*While writing this post I tried to come up with fifty “interpretations” of the ten recipes. Some were fairly legit (four different types of smoothie, sure), some were moderately legit (you can make jam tarts by putting jam in the pastry, or cheesy tarts by using this egg-and-cheese mixture), and some were literally a list of “foods that can be eaten from a pot”. I managed to nearly reach thirty recipes by including a list of “other types of tarts that also use pastry” but fifty? Not a chance.
**This is actually true. Weird textures and slight variations in flavour cause me much pain. Don’t get me started on under-ripe/over-ripe fruit.
Storytelling by Mr 2
TJ is almost 3; older now than Louisette was when he was born.
A couple of days ago he said, “I tell stories to you.”
“Oh good,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“This story called: Little-Big!” he said. “I biiiiiiiiiig dinosaur, and Mummy little dinosaur.”
“Oh!” I said. “I like this story. What happens next?”
“I eat you! I eat you all up!”
“Oh!” I said, as he acted out this grisly tale. “And then what happens?”
“You all gone.”
“I’m all gone,” I agreed. “There’s no Mummy here any more. And then what happens?”
“I spit you out, ptuey!” he said. “Now you back here.”
“And then what happens?” I asked.
“That end.”
It’s not his very first story – I think that one was, “Look! I make bridge! People walk across bridge! The end!”
Recorded here for posterity.
One-Quarter
As I was sitting in a doctor’s waiting room today, I realised something.
My job as a parent is to love my kids and help them grow up to be vaguely functional, content, and decent adults (to the extent that is possible). John Scalzi recently wrote a lovely post on his daughter’s 18th, opening with:
“Here is a true thing: In the grand scheme of things, I’ve only had three things I wanted to do with my life. The first was to be a writer. The second was to be a good husband. The third was to make sure that any kid I had made it through their childhood without want or fear, and knowing that they were loved. When I was younger, I figured if I could manage those three things, then at the end of my days I could leave this planet with a content heart.”
As you know, dear reader, Louisette just turned five. She is a schoolgirl now, not a baby or a toddler or a pre-schooler or even an “under-five”.
If you consider adulthood to fall around the age of twenty, then my vital task of being the mother of this particular child is already one-quarter finished. Obviously I’ll still be Louisette’s mother after that, but we will both be adults – equals – and, I hope, friends.
Five and a bit years ago, Louisette opened her eyes for the first time.
Now she walks and talks and has opinions and best friends and flaws and skills and dreams. She is herself; different to anyone else in the world.
Another five years, and she’ll be ten. Tall and long-haired, and showing the first signs of puberty. Ten year olds can have intelligent conversations with anyone. They’re smarter and better than most adults, to be honest. When I taught K-10 Indonesian, it was the ten-year olds that I liked the most.
Five years after that, she’ll be fifteen, and utterly different. She’ll have a much better idea of who she is and who she wants to be. She’ll be well past puberty; wearing bras and flirting with boys. Maybe even dating (ugh! no!). She’ll have secrets from me—important secrets. She might barely speak to me at all. She might be learning to drive, or deciding where to apply for her first job. Any movie I can watch, she can watch with me.
Five years after that, she’ll be twenty. She’ll be her own creature more than she is mine, even if we still share the same house. She’ll probably already have at least one serious heartbreak behind her. She can think rationally about marriage, and will know whether she wants children or not.
Five years after that, I might be a grandmother.
All that in the blink of an eye.
Time for another collage! Stat!
That final photo was taken by http://thorsonphotography.com.au at the National Arboretum.
And I’ll end with another great quote from another great author (in this case, Pamela Freeman*), who is a facebook friend of mine (I knew her before she was as famous as she is now) and said, “Here’s another weird thought: she might be a quarter of the way towards being adult, but it’s the most important quarter. You’ve laid down positive brain chemistry, taught her how to love and how to think, and whatever you’ve done now is likely it: even puberty won’t shape her brain more than you have already done. I find this both scary and reassuring.”
Writers make the best facebook comments.
Since I seem to be quoting writers today, here’s some Tolstoy: “From the child of five to myself is but a step. But from the newborn baby to the child of five is an appalling distance.”
Which is more or less what Pamela Freeman (and various psychologists) said, but in Tolstoy’s inimitable style.
*She writes a bunch of different genres from historical drama to glorious fantasy to children’s books. I just finished reading the second “Princess Betony” book with Louisette, a chapter a night (and freely altering the scary bits to be less scary).
BFFs torn asunder
I had a minor medical procedure today which I had to fast for (what, including chocolate??? Noooooooo!) and it was also Louisette’s last day of holidays before Kindy, which included a special appointment to meet her teacher and look at her new classroom (all very lovely).
I really like the school, the teacher, etc etc and I’m beyond excited that my little distraction is starting a whole new phase of her life.
The epic collages continue…
(The big photo was taken by http://thorsonphotography.com.au)
But actually right now I’m mama-bear FURIOUS.
You see, the daycare centre next door to the Kindy has been Lizzie’s social hub since she was literally a year old. I actually got to be one of the educators in her room, back when it was just eight kids. There are a small number of kids who’ve gone through the whole daycare centre with Louisette, year by year.
Two, to be exact.
And one of them switched days after that first year, so although the kids still think of each other as best friends, they’ve barely seen each other since then.
Which leaves one. Let’s call her Helen.
Helen is an extremely laid-back individual, who even at the age of one would look at the rest of us dancing with a sweet little smile that said, “I ain’t doing that.” She’s also a freaking genius. When we were gently coaxing our one-year olds to say two-word sentences like “Big Dog”, Helen would say things like, “On the weekend I went swimming with my Daddy.” (Which I remember because I asked her what she did at the pool and she said, “Bubbles.”)
She almost never cried or complained, and I’ve actually never seen her hit another child (I’m sure she has at some point, but rarely). Over the years we became good friends with her whole family, and even coordinated swimming lessons with them.
Helen was having weekly swimming lessons for ages before we joined in (very excited that Louisette could scrape into the same class as Helen). After the lessons, we’d play in the public pool. I’ll never forget the day when Louisette was jumping into the pool from the edge (like usual) and Helen jumped in too. Her parents were over the moon – she’d never jumped in before.
When Louisette is bossy, Helen either wanders elsewhere or goes along with her idea. When Helen is reluctant to do something, Louisette leads the way.
I love both kids so very much.
So of course, being an ex-teacher at the school on top of everything else, I spoke to quite a few people about whether Helen and Louisette (and the other girl) would be placed in the same class. Everyone said that of course close friends would not be separated.
Louisette and Helen have had every adult in their life go ON and ON and ON about Kindergarten for months. They’re both happy and excited about it, but have also shown their nerves in different ways. They’ve both been reassured over and over that they’ll be in the same class.
So we show up today, and HELEN IS IN THE OTHER CLASS.
I’m a (non-practising) teacher, so I do understand that stuff happens, and that every parent is obsessed with their own kid. I’m sure that a lot of thought has gone into the way they divided up the two Kindy classes.
Still.
I cried a bunch, and spoke to the department head (and then also to Louisette’s teacher- not because she decided the classes, but to let her know what was going on). They both assured me that the two Kindy classes will do a bunch of stuff together and blah blah blah. Yes, that’s nice. That will be enough that the girls probably won’t consciously realise that we broke our promise to them. A promise that gave them security for the biggest life change they’ve had so far. But I know that neighbouring classes don’t truly play together; they build different identities around their differing classes. I know that I broke my promise to my daughter, and it isn’t a small matter at all. And I know that these two girls could have complemented each other through the entirety of their school careers, through tricky teenage years (literally the reason we picked this particular school) and beyond. But the colleague of mine who separated them may have put their whole lives on a different track.
So, like I said, I’m furious.
I have told Louisette that she and Helen are “neighbours” (Helen’s mum has told Helen the same thing). Both girls are fine, really.
Helen’s mum is reasonably calm—we both really admire one of the more-recent-but-still-very-familiar girls who is in Helen’s class, so hopefully that girl and Helen will grow closer so Helen can have a same-class BFF who’s worthy of her.
Of course I’ve rambled on too much about this, so I need to start a new entry to actually talk about Louisette.
There’s still a chance that the classes will change and Louisette and Helen will be together. But this is a new phase in these girls’ lives, after all—and the biggest change is that their school will now see more of them than their parents, and make more and more decisions that alter their lives and futures. For better or worse.
Two-fifths of TJ
Sick of excessive scrolling through literally hundreds of pics, I’m gathering some of TJ’s baby pics here. It’s two-fifths of TJ because they’re only from his first year, and he’s now two and a half.
The artist formerly known as Miss Four
Last Sunday, Louisette turned five. She’s about to start Kindy. Today was her party.
Five years. She’s grown all the way from a giddying hypothetical notion to a wrinkly spew machine to a distinct person: smart, focused, creative, affectionate, gentle, passionate, and gorgeous. I took a photo a day for the first year of each of my kids lives, and those daily photos are here (TJ first, since he’s more recent) if you’re in the mood for a lot of scrolling.
Look at that girl!
(This photo and the next were taken on a professional shoot with Thorson Photography.)
Right now I feel like just plastering every wall of my home with photos of my kids.
All the most horrifying statistics about kids are “this many kids under five die of such-and-such”. Now that Louisette has turned five, I’m pretty sure she’s going to live forever. We made it this far, right? RIGHT???
Kindy. (Note to self: Learn how to spell Kindergarten. GAR-ten. You can’t rely on five attempts and a spell checker every single time…)
Kindy is the beginning of a new era. It’s a relatively easy transition for Louisette since it’s located literally next door to her day care centre (which she’s been attending since she was a year old; at the party today there were three kids she’s been friends with since that time – and a total of six pre-existing friends who will be in Kindy with her).
Louisette is deliriously excited about Kindy as well as being quite nervous (probably because every adult in her life is so obsessed with Kindy that it’s making it seem like a much bigger life event than it is). She’ll wear a uniform and have school holidays (she’s five weeks into the longest holidays of her life right now). It changes the routine of our family – we’re finally taking both kids to the same school (sort of; TJ is in the day care of course), but the kids have significantly different routines now.
TJ has long days Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday, and nothing Thursday-Friday.
Louisette is 9:00am-3:00pm every weekday (I’ll pick her up two hours before TJ) and then has school holidays completely free.
I’m hoping that I can use the syncopated routines to spend a lot of one-on-one time with each kid. They’re different creatures when they’re the only one around (which is part of why siblings are so wonderful; they open up a new part of who your kid is). I’ve had pretty bad anxiety ever since TJ was born, mainly because of health stuff. But a part of that anxiety is the need to divide my attention between them and/or make sure they’re not killing each other every ten seconds or so. Hopefully the one-on-one time will help my brain to stop panicking, and will also give me many of those marvellous, surprising moments when my kids and I are truly connected and I’m suddenly overthrown by awe and happiness and pride and love. I hope there’s a correlation between “time parent spends with little kids” and “time adult kids spend with aged parents” because I don’t want to miss any piece of their lives.
(ProTip for mothers who feel ugly in pics after pregnancy: Hide behind children. Or, where possible, behind a tree.)
When Louisette was an infant we were at a playgroup for mums with babies all born within about a month of each other (one of those “babies” is the non-TJ gentleman in this picture, who has never missed Louisette’s birthday and who also happens to possess two top-notch parents for myself and Chris to play with while the kids do their thing).
I noticed that a lot of one-year olds were miserable and/or terrified at their own party. The party wasn’t for them, it was for all the friends and family who loved them. But I decided that although I’d always have a party for my kids, I’d also make sure they did something on their birthday day that was for THEM. In the years since, it’s evolved to “family + activity” on the birthday day; then later a party day (my sister’s kids come to both).
On Louisette’s birthday day we went on a small local waterslide – Chris, TJ, Louisette, myself, my sister, and her two kids. It was great! Then we had lunch with my parents (including my sister and her two kids), and dinner with Chris’s parents, followed by Louisette having a sleepover at their house AND spending the entire next day with them! So THAT worked.
Louisette has been planning her party since her last party and I’ve been actively prepping for months. (Exhibit A: party bag prep)
Party bags are a blight upon the face of the earth: junk food, noise-makers, choking hazards, and cheap horrors that fall apart (inspiring much weeping) before the guest gets to their car for the ride home. Having said that, Louisette and TJ are obsessed with them, and so is everyone their age. Since I can prep the bags ahead of time, and choose things that aren’t too irritating to me personally, I don’t truly mind the phenomenon.
Kids also loooove pass the parcel. To a kid, pass the parcel means “A PRESENT FOR ME OH AWESOMES” but when it’s actually happening it means “I AM BEING TAUNTED BY EVERYONE ELSE GETTING GIFTS AND WHEN IS IT MY TURN AND WHY DIDN’T *I* GET THE FLASHING EDIBLE BUNNY BECAUSE NOW I’VE SEEN IT I WANTS IT MY PRECIOUS WAAAAAHHH!!”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pass the parcel game happen without at least one kid sobbing. (When the kids are older they’ll get better at it and more realistic.) Last year each layer had a bunch of lollies to share with everyone! Yay! It confused and over-sugared the children, but it was a nice idea. This year my sister was moving house literally today so I said she should drop her kids and leave, and could drop them way before the party started. I had the brilliant idea of having a pre-party pass-the-parcel with exactly the right number of layers for just those four kids, and a new pirate paddle pool in the centre (coordinated to make sure one of my kids got it, to avoid confusion). It went great. (Although one of the other kids—who was having a snotty day anyway—was devastated an hour later that the party didn’t appear to include pass the parcel.)
After months of party-oriented discussion Louisette decided to have a pirate and mermaid party (exactly as she did last year—”in case some people are scared of pirates”), and I encouraged her to make it a pool party. Why? Because at this age, popularity is easy, and I can give it to my daughter for a few dollars. Pool = awesome.
We always have lots of water play at Louisette’s party, and it’s always a hit with the kids (plus super easy to clean up, and it means the inside space is quiet and neat). Chalk is also popular and easy (our house is rendered, which makes it fun to draw on), so I put some chalk outside, and a table (with fruit and fairy bread; water and cups; sunscreen and towels). I hired 1.5 babysitters (the .5 had her own kids there too) for water safety and parental freedom, and barely went outside at all. I ran the party as two overlapping parties, making it clear in the invitations that parents of confident swimmers didn’t need to go outside (in the heat and noise) at all. This cunning plan fundamentally worked. I served a fresh Devonshire Tea (chosen for simplicity while sounding fancy and adult) to anyone who wanted it, and actually enjoyed it myself. It was relatively easy to hold a grown-up conversation, which is pretty amazing considering there were twenty children on the premises. I think a few adults were weirded out about my overt enthusiasm for shoving the children outside, but oh well.
Louisette and I made an ice cream cake again, topped with faux water made from desiccated coconut and colouring (I had reports some of the kids were a bit freaked out, wondering what it was), and with lego people swimming in it. I had one friend distract the kids with the Hokey Pokey while another helped me serve up the cake. That lowered the chaos slightly, and was simple, harmless, fun that suited even the two-year olds.
I always need a massive debrief after Louisette’s party. This blog was it. I really like the kids my kid hangs out with, and I like their parents too. We talked a lot about Kindy, and uniforms, and school stationary, and eccentric in-laws. Grown-up talking! Yay!
Look at these gorgeous kids!
Louisette’s birthday is the social centre of my year (TJ is a winter baby + a more introverted kid + not born in the major school holidays, so I invite a few close friends to his party but invite pretty much everyone Louisette knows to her parties).
See that blond cherub? I invited him and his sister to Louisette’s party last year without realising they were siblings. That day was the beginning of a whole-family friendship which is one of the best things that happened last year. That boy is TJ’s best friend, his sister is Louisette’s best friend, and Chris and I both like hanging out with their mum.
And here’s a pic of Louisette from her first birthday.
I loved her with my whole heart that day, but I really do love her more and more as each year passes.
Parental Fears and Failings and Fab bits
I like to think about what I’m doing as a parent, and of course talk about it, because that helps me to understand what matters to me and what I can just let slide. Some things I know I’m doing really well – Louisette’s diet is amazingly healthy a lot of the time (I can literally eat a chocolate bar in front of her and she won’t for a second think she’ll get a taste or treat for herself – when she wants comfort food, she asks for milk. Obviously I need to change my role-modelling, but right now I’m also eating a balanced diet and losing weight, which is impressive enough), and she usually plays very well with others. Her physical skills and vocabulary are excellent too. She is very brave and very friendly (I often see her initiating games with other kids at Questacon), imaginative and gentle and clever (some of which is clearly innate). She’s somehow not managed to pick up on my swearing yet. She can last up to about twenty minutes playing alone in her room on command once a day (rest time) despite being a strong extrovert. TJ is too young to have bad habits, but he’s clearly happy and healthy. On the other hand….
The dummy thing (times two).
Both kids are total dummy addicts. Louisette used to have good boundaries – dummies were for sleep, illness, car rides, or sitting on the toilet – but since TJ was born she’s become obsessive and when we don’t have visitors over she pretty much always has a dummy in her mouth. We fought it for a bit, but that caused her to say she was sad or scared in order to get the dummy, so ultimately we decided it was better to let her have a dummy than to let her self-identify as chronically depressed at the age of two! The brilliant thing about dummies is that, unlike thumbs, they can be taken away. Having a few days or even weeks of misery is vastly outweighed by having something largely harmless than she can use to regulate her emotions. She also has nightmares now, and has been picking at her fingernails, both of which are more concerning. All three activities have improved since TJ began settling in his cot for at least a few hours most days (meaning he’s not the centre of all household activities 24-7), and I hope with a bit more care and time Louisette won’t be anxious any more.
As a baby, TJ’s dummies cause only minor parental judgement. We had strict dummy rules for Louisette from when she was a baby – but TJ can have his whenever. As a result, we’ve had WAY less crying from TJ. So I’m comfy with the judgement there. (Not comfy enough not to write blogs about it, but that’s me. . .)
Babysitting
I’m so weirded out to need babysitting – yet I need it so badly that I now have a regular schedule with at least some babysitting every single day. It feels so pathetic to spend so much money on something that, apart from anything else, is my own actual paid job. Until I got sick with pregnancy, I never once paid for babysitting for Louisette. When she was born, I really was that ecstatic glowy enjoying-every-minute (not literally; no-one enjoys EVERY bit of motherhood) new mum. . . but since TJ was about six weeks old I’ve had an awful time mental-health-wise. Dieting (including swimming, which uses up all the free babysitting from grandparents), physical pain, and concern for Louisette certainly don’t help (my Monday bit of babysitting will usually be just TJ, so I can spend some uninterrupted quality time with Louisette). I’m getting reconciled to the babysitting idea by recognising that it’s totally the kids’ fault: the combination of an extravert developing anxiety (something she inherits from both sides of the family, unfortunately, and something I will save her from if I can) and a baby who doesn’t sleep well means that having only one parent on hand for 10 or 11 hours a day just doesn’t work.
And the drool
Somewhat related to the dummy addiction mentioned above, Louisette drools like CRAZY. Without a dummy it’s not too bad – with a dummy, it’s really bad. I’m hoping that the only dramas in our house for the next year or so will be toilet training for Louisette and starting day care for TJ. . . which should mean that we can handle eliminating all dummies at once shortly after TJ’s first birthday. If only all problems could be ceremoniously thrown in the bin. I’m hoping the drool will clear up soon after that.
Food messiness
Food mess bothers me so much that I don’t dare try and regulate it (except for extreme events, like deliberately pouring out water or throwing food), because then I’d have to lift my expectations – which wouldn’t be met, which would make me angry. Louisette also has an amazing range of food-related activities (painting action scenes in yogurt; building a village from her vegetables; wearing carrot rings on her finger, etc) which are probably educationally amazing. Plus she’s usually exhausted and emotional by dinner time (we don’t eat until Dad gets home at 6:30) and dinner time is often really difficult without adding manners to the mix. This is another area where I hope to lump the kids together so we don’t have to go through a difficult transition twice. Once TJ’s old enough, we’ll start upping our table-manner standards.
And the TV
CJ and his dad both have ADD, and CJ and I watch TV to relax (we relax a lot, when we can) so based on a science study or two we aimed to reduce the kids’ risk of ADD (and partially break our own antisocial habits) by trying not to let the kids watch TV until at least 2 years of age. With Louisette we were amazing – with a few exceptions (holidays/while I was babysitting other kids) she genuinely didn’t watch TV until she was 18 months old. . . at which point she began watching about three hours a day (90% Playschool, because Mummy ain’t watching anything too annoying) because she and I were both very sick. Then I was pregnant, and stayed extremely sick for nine months. Then TJ arrived, and he still doesn’t settle well, so Playschool keeps Louisette away from him when he’s getting settled to sleep, AND distracts her from the lack of parental attention.
As a result, TJ (who as a boy induced at 38 weeks from a gestational diabetes pregnancy is WAY more at risk of ADD than Louisette ever was) gets loads of TV every day.
Sadly, until I’m healthier and/or TJ sleeps better and/or the kids play together better and/or until Louisette is less anxious. . . the TV is happening. It’s already clear that TJ loves TV -it’s a great way to keep him calm when he’s tired but not yet actually ready for sleep.
Sadly I don’t have a hope of giving up on TV anytime soon, and I’m not even making tentative plans for how to limit it in future (although that will definitely happen before the kids leave home). The best I can do is treat each day as a new day – if there’s little or no TV, great! – and be self-aware enough to realise that sometimes initiating a “good” activity with the kids will just push me too far and end up backfiring. Better a whole lot of TV than a screaming Mum.
And the toilet training *sigh*
Although technically we are still well inside average ability for her age, we spent over two months last Summer working SO hard with Louisette – who mastered the basics before we even officially began (she would often correctly announce both poos and wees in a timely manner, and do everything herself). Ultimately I was too sick from the pregnancy – she was already regressing in some minor ways – and she had several bouts of gastro in a row that didn’t help. After the first two weeks she was doing extremely well. . . and then something clicked and it all fell apart.
We could have done things differently – used pull-ups instead of undies so the process was more gentle; used a potty in the living room so she didn’t feel like going to the toilet meant missing out on the action – but I didn’t want to go through two distinct stages. We’ll see how things go this Summer. CJ already has leave prepped (again), and we’ve talked a lot about it with Louisette, who is largely positive. She’s started putting off bedtime by going to do a wee on the toilet, which is frustrating (she’s taking an hour to settle at night currently, which sometimes means CJ and I only get half an hour “off” in the evening before I go to bed) but is brilliant for both practising her toileting skills and rebuilding positive associations with the experience. When we have a good chunk of time at home, I’ll sometimes let Louisette wear undies for an hour or so (generally with a wee first, and then a wee at the end – she and I both wee insanely often).
Packing away toys
I don’t have the physical strength to consistently get down and pack up with her (a necessary thing at least some of the time – if only so it LOOKS like she tidied up), so it’s not happening. I might institute a tiny bit of regular packing up at some point – five toys away before Playschool for example – but not yet. This might be another thing I do with both kids at once – for example, at some point each day (maybe before lunch – bedtime seems like a good idea, but it really isn’t!) have Louisette pick up 5 toys and TJ pick up 1. Again, not until TJ has some more capability.
Obedience
I feel fairly okay about this – though wistful for an easier future. Louisette rarely has major tantrums (and when she does, she doesn’t expect to actually get her way – she’s just not able to regulate her own emotions). She’s cheeky and troublesome in a lot of areas, and is sometimes just ridiculous about everything (“Do you want an icecream?” “No!” *screams of rage*) but she’s usually considerate of others, patient for her age, and reasonably good at sharing. And I think at two years of age you want exactly two things: 1. Not causing too much danger (eg falling) to themselves. 2. Not causing too much danger (eg hitting/snatching) to others. As her primary carer, I’ve been sick or largely unavailable for the last year and a half – half her life – and she deserves a bit of slack, especially at her age. Overall I think she’s doing fine – but I keep a sharp eye on her when she’s interacting with other kids, especially those who are younger, smaller, or who have a personality that’s likely to cause friction.
So that’s all the stuff that I’d improve if I was a slightly different person.
Here’s proof that Louisette can still come up with new facial expressions, even after all this time:
I’m scared of the most physically hazardous part of TJ’s life – from about 6 to 18 months if he’s like his sister. Crawling off things, falling off things, having the mental skills to zero in on anything forbidden with remarkable persistence, eating EVERYTHING (Louisette ate, among other things, gravel. Repeatedly), breaking everything, snatching everything, spilling everything. In the terrible twos you get tantrums and emotional problems. . . but I guess I’m better at emotional than physical stuff (which is a big part of why I’m not truly a baby person, much as I look like it at the moment). And I’m scared of the beginning of food – the messiness and complexity in that transition stage (which hasn’t truly ended with Lousiette – she eats 95% of what we eat, with 90% independence and usually causes a wipe-down mess rather than wipe-down and mop-up mess every darn time).
We’ll start feeding TJ solids (not that they’ll be particularly solid for a good long while) next weekend. Expect some messy photos in this space soon. . .
I’m dreading the constant mopping but looking forward to (hopefully) being able to have him in a high chair rather than a lap at meals. Fingers crossed it goes well.
The Four Scariest Picture Books
This is by no means an exhaustive list, but these are freaking scary.
#4 “My Animals” by Xavier Denaux
Looks nice, doesn’t it? The entire book is pictures of animals, done mainly in black and white (with a feature colour here or there) and clever little holes through the pages where the eye of one animal is also the bellybutton of another. That kind of thing. It’s Louisette’s favourite book.
One tiny problem. . . things get pretty macabre pretty quickly.
That’s right: the eye of the sheep is COMING TO GET YOU.
#3 “Teddy the Policeman”
Great! A simplified way to tell kids about trusting policemen to look after them. How nice. Or not.
This policeman is prepared. But what kind of miscreant needs the automatic application of handcuffs?
That’s right kids (especially YOU, Timmy: I see that tell-tale dirt on your face). The policeman is much, much bigger than you and he’s going to take you away.
#2: God Made Me
Now THIS is obviously going to be a book about how God made you special and unique. . .
. . . and how he can steal your face at any time. Just because.
#1: God Made Colours
Staying on the all-powerful deity theme, another brightly-coloured offering from the Christian Bookshop.
As you can tell, Louisette loves it (either than or she is trying desperately to MAKE IT STOP). The book goes through a number of colours, then ends by bringing it all together in one picture:
Just one teeny tiny question: WHY IS THE SKY BLEEDING???
It’s obviously not because the picture had too much blue – there’s barely any blue at all. It’s because God is on his way to smote all the naughty little girls and boys.
Sleep tight.
Milk and Mental illness: ten days as a mum
I am very, very good at being rational. The odd thing is that it’s a skill I’ve learned because of mental illness. I always work hard to sort my feelings into rational and irrational. For example, I felt afraid I’d never give birth and would be pregnant forever – which honestly had me on the edge of a panic attack at times. But I could tell it was irrational, and that kept it under control. (Usually, rationality isn’t as black and white as that.) I habitually sort my positive feelings into rational and irrational too – for example, I feel that Louisette is the best and prettiest and most charming baby I’ve ever seen and I’m bewildered that anyone could be in the room with her and not spend all that time watching her face. But I can tell rationally that, like all newborns, she looks mostly like a potato – and that the person she most resembles is E.T. I can also rationally say that she is way above average attractiveness for her age. The fact that I know I’m right makes that last statement all the sweeter.
Observe, and judge for yourselves:
I mentioned in that epic labour entry last Wednesday that giving birth wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The real hardest thing I’ve ever done is to endure seven years of mental illness (which, may I say, I’ve done spectacularly well, keeping almost all of my friends and never causing harm to myself or others – plus I somehow managed to snare CJ in there, which is definitely my most impressive life achievement thus far). My anxiety disorder has made me unable to support myself financially (which unfortunately has always been my concept of adulthood, and far less than I planned to do with my life – I was going to devote myself to the poor in Indonesia, and had consciously prepared and trained to do so for twelve years). But I was right: it gave me certain skills.
All of which is to explain the full context (ie my mind and body) of the following journey:
From late Tuesday (day two) breastfeeding was very painful, and something I dreaded. With each suck I felt unpleasant faintness in my whole body, as if someone was hitting my funny bone over and over. By Wednesday it made me feel like I was about to faint and made my whole body shake – an echo of the way it shook with the pain of childbirth.
When the midwife visited on Wednesday (day 3), we discovered that Louisette was dehydrated due to my lack of milk. Apparently it’s extremely rare for a woman to produce so little milk that her newborn is in danger. Not only did this mean we had to give her formula (which I was well aware would make the problem worse), but it felt awful. One of my peculiar foibles is that I tend to think in symbols and archetypes – so much so that I’m unable to give blood, because blood is too powerful as a literary symbol of life itself (ZOMG, the vampires are TAKING MY BLOOD!) So finding out MY BOOBS DON’T WORK AND MY BABY WILL DIE WITHOUT MEDICAL INTERVENTION was devastating. So the faintworthy pain of breastfeeding was accompanied by devastating depression.
I’d heard a great deal about the hormone crash and painful arrival of milk on day 3/4 after birth, and had carefully and repeatedly announced that I’d see absolutely no-one on those days. Thank goodness for that.
I’d been feeding Louisette on demand, and on the midwife’s advice immediately switched to feeding her (or at least trying – she is one extremely sleepy baby) every three hours – twenty minutes of breastfeeding (so my breasts were still getting the signal to produce milk, and would hopefully tune in at some point) followed by a bottle. From that instant, Louisette’s health improved – and I began to live in three-hourly bursts. I’d slept fairly well (between feeds and crying) on the first night, but had been so excited and happy since then that even when I lay down to sleep I tended to have trouble dropping off. I was vaguely aware that this was a bad thing.
On Thursday we went in to hospital for a variety of health checks. I was perfectly upbeat in the morning (still so excited between bouts of sobbing that I couldn’t get myself to sleep properly when I had the chance), and took the trouble to dress Louisette in an especially gorgeous manner (the red dress and booties). The midwives in the birthing centre nearly came to blows over who could claim her as “their” baby.
I saw a lactation consultant who said various useful-type things. Towards the end, I mentioned I’d been trying to stimulate more milk production with a breast pump and with my hand, and neither had produced a drop. I showed her the pump, and she explained it was the wrong type for early breastfeeding. When I showed her my clumsy attempt at hand expressing, I saw a look of, “Oh, how VERY stupid” flash across her face before she caught it – and explained how to do it properly. (The birthing class demo – with an attractively knitted prop breast – apparently didn’t work for me at all.) Within moments, I saw a couple of drops of milk – my milk, real milk – for the first time. This was enormously encouraging, and I went home delighted.
My midwife is aware of how much my bad pregnancy has cost in financial terms, and whenever there is something we need she does her best to get us a free one. She gave us nipple shields to reduce the pain of breastfeeding, and lent us the hospital’s clanky but effective double electric breast pump (double = takes half the time, and electric means it will help stimulate more milk production rather than simply taking what’s already there).
Artist’s impression of the breast pump:
It was a very long hospital visit because there were a variety of people we needed to see. The lactation consultant had told me to use the pump for 10-20 minutes each hour in addition to everything else. She’d emphasised it was vital for me to think loving baby thoughts when I used it, or my milk wouldn’t flow.
As soon as I’d attempted to feed Louisette I attempted the pump for the first time. It was very awkward to hold it in place and all I got for my twenty minutes’ of muscle pain (muscles still aching from giving birth) was a couple of drops of milk. Cue more desperate, helpless crying. So much for loving baby thoughts. The long hospital visit had brought back my labour-exhaustion shakiness, even when I lay down in bed to sleep. Louisette had also suddenly developed a very gross eye infection – yuck.
Thursday was similar. Plenty of sobbing and almost no sleep. Finally around midnight, after another pathetic feed (as Louisette grew noticeably less interested in my breasts – a very bad sign for the future) I lay down to sleep. Addled by sleeplessness, hormones, and depression, I had an episode that reminded me strongly of a schizophrenic woman’s description of a psychotic attack (in an Andrew Denton doco). I fell into a kind of dream of mother and baby, but I wasn’t asleep. In my dreams I’m often a different person (every so often I’m Buffy, for example – or a man) but I always have a sense of self.
I had no idea who I was. I was fairly sure I was a one-week old baby, helpless and confused by the world. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know where or who I was. All I knew was that something was wrong and I couldn’t fix it myself. Rather intelligently, I said, “Help, help” until CJ woke up. Even more intelligently, I explained what had happened as well as I could (and later reported it faithfully to the midwife, despite how stupid it all sounded in daylight). Even more more intelligently, I decided to skip the 4am feed and let CJ just give Louisette a bottle.
That night, my body remembered how to sleep again. I was still very depressed the next day, but the worst was over. I’ve had a couple of times when I woke up and didn’t know where I was for just a second (as if I was on holiday), but I’ve been more careful about my sleep (within the realm of the possible – last night I had four hours in a row, which is very rare; a mix of luck and planning) and all the depression is gone.
From Saturday, I began to see genuine improvement in my milk flow, thanks to that breast pump (it’s nice to have measurable progress, and we’re getting along fine now). Since then, Louisette has been taking a little less of the formula. This means she’s getting more milk.
She also has a blister on her lip from her inability to attach properly, but that should go away soon (her eye infection is long gone). Yesterday she had her tongue tie cut (an operation about as complex as cutting one’s fingernails), and she seems to be much more patient with my breasts (now she’s getting a better flow), although the different shape of her mouth is confusing her a little.
Things are good mentally. I believe I’m being rational when I say that the last week – including labour, and including the lack of sleep and my first ever true break with reality – has singlehandedly made up for the last seven years of seemingly meaningless pain. I also think it’ll help me feel better about my novel writing attempts (there’s an epic tale there, but it’s long, boring, and depressing) for at least the next two years (by which time hopefully I’ll have a major publisher signed for at least one of my books).
I’m also cautiously hopeful about how my mental illness will react to my being a mum. It was noticeably dampened during pregnancy (weird but true: I was less anxious while pregnant than I am usually), and I began to wonder how nine months of intense chemical goings-on would affect what is, after all, a chemical imbalance in my brain. Perhaps pregnancy would hit a kind of “reset” code. Many women become mentally ill because of chemical goings-on and major lifestyle change. I may just head in the opposite direction.
Maybe. We’ll see. Either way, I have plenty of rational reasons to be happy. I have a beautiful, extremely pleasant little girl, and my life has a sense of purpose I lost seven years ago, and have badly missed ever since.
Felicity Banks 