approximately 13 months of age

At approximately 13 months of age, Hugo dared to take his first unaided steps.  I missed it.  I was at the shops, but Will and Ollie looked up to see Hugo take ten or so zombie style steps before they cheered, the commotion no doubt causing him to plop down onto his padded bottom.

Three days later, he did it for me, a personal show, his little arms outstretched, knees locked, hips swivelling as he lifted his little feet only a couple of inches to shuffle across the floor.

Then about a week after that, he decided being a baby is so passe.  His brothers can kick and scream like the best of them, so why should he miss out?  Especially when his mum is stopping him from climbing into the oven.  That's the time for a face down, fist pumping, snot streaming tantrum.

Then there's absolute blind faced cheek that comes with meal times. Don't like what you've been given to eat?  Fling it across the room and look out of the corner of your eye at your parents before chuckling to oneself that you've discovered yet another way to amuse your brothers/feed your dogs and incite a reaction from your parents, all at the same time.  Now that's multitasking.

No longer a baby is this kid.  He's the third instalment of the saga that is the made-for-tv movie of our nutcase lives.  This week's cliffhanger:  Will Ollie recover from his mega cold and perforated eardrum in time for the local school fete this weekend?

this phase

About a week ago, I breastfed my littlest boy for the last time.  I didn't realise it at the time, but I've known it was coming.  I went back to work, expressing lasted a little while, but mainly, the breastfeeds have been restricted to night feeds and the occasional morning feed; so, it was only a matter of time before it'd be hard to sustain the one or two feeds a day he was getting.

I have mixed feelings about it all because I know that if breastfeeding had been that important to me, I would have found a way to continue.  But without listing the reasons it came to an end, one of the feelings I want to remember is how sad I am that it's over.  I'm sad I don't get to give Hugo that connection any more, the cuddliness in the middle of the night, the ability to soothe him almost immediately.  But more than that, I'm sad that this phase of my life is over.  Save for a few months between Max and Hugo, I've been pregnant and/or breastfeeding for the last five years or so.  I'm lucky that I loved it.  I loved being pregnant, carrying my sons, feeling them grow and move and I loved breastfeeding each of my sons for nearly a whole year.  There were times I didn't feel so great about it but more often than not, I felt I was doing the best I could, and that felt amazing.  So, it's a tough thing to admit that phase of our lives is over, we have no intention of adding any more babies to our family (though there is talk of chicks and kittens).  Now, we look onwards, forwards, away from this phase of having these exquisite little babies in our lives, the ones that feel so soft and little, that know so little but learn so much and so quickly, the ones that show their emotions as clearly as can be on those faces that smile, laugh, cry, burp, these babies that you hold almost every moment they're awake, looking forward to the days they'll be more independent but knowing full well those days will make you write soppy words about how sad you are that they're growing up.

Much as I wish I had known Hugo was breastfeeding for the last time, I suppose really, it's a good thing I didn't. It's a good thing it came and went and now it's time to move on.  There are other ways we continue to try our best, and lord knows we fail a LOT, but we keep trying, keep chipping away, trying our damnedest to help shape these little boys into the best that they can be.  But for now, this phase, it's over.  Time to move on.

busy bees

Here are some instagrams, almost all of which are my husband's doing (thanks @wilbirdy) documenting some of what the kids are into at the moment, which includes:

 - Driving to the scrap yard a couple of suburbs away to see if the material handler is in action;
 - Painting (mainly in pink, it would seem);
 - Hosing rain water into the dirt pit where the grass won't grow and getting very very muddy;
 - Baking playdough pies and making playdough emergency vehicles;
 - Cutting paper into tiny little pieces and using it as garbage in their toy garbage trucks;
 - Drawing and drawing and drawing and drawing... I'm still in awe of this fantastic cross section of a mulching truck that Ollie drew a few days ago.  The detail!

And then, last weekend and for reasons unknown to me, Ollie and Max were very insistent that we should make bee suits for them to wear.

We obliged.

overheard

Ollie: (to Max) Now Max.  You get what you get and you don't get upset about it.

Me:  Ollie, don't be so rude!
Ollie:  But mum, you're rude sometimes too.
(it's true)

Me: (very frustrated) Oh Max, good LORD!
Max:  Mummy, no don't say good lord... say BAD lord!

Ollie:  (after he was back from looking at the neighbourhood Christmas lights with his dad) Mum, I had a lovely time light spotting around the neighbourhood
Me:  That's great, I wish I could have gone with you.
Ollie:  When we were walking around, quite a strange feeling came over me.
Me:  Really?  What sort of feeling?
Ollie:  (speaking very slowly and quietly) It happened when I saw a teeny tiny creature crawl out of a hole and land in the middle of the pavement!

Ollie: (after we gave him a peanut m&m) Can I have one of those little round things?  A P&M?

Ollie:  (as I was bringing Hugo out of his room after nap time) Mum!  Look who it is!
Me: It's Hugo!  Isn't he lovely?
Ollie: Yes
Me:  Do you love him more than anything in the world?
Ollie: er.... Yes
Me:  Really?  More than garbage trucks?
Ollie:  (thinking for a moment) I love them both.  I love garbage trucks AND babies.

Ollie:  It's the day before Christmas Day
Me: Yes, what does that mean?
Ollie:  We have to get a lot of things ready, like drinks and milk and carrots for Santa
Me:  What do you think Santa would like to drink?
Ollie:  Something like.... maybe something that only adults drink.

Ollie: (unwrapping his Christmas present and hopping from foot to foot) It's a side loading garbage truck! It's a side loading garbage truck! It's a side loading garbage truck! It's a side loading garbage truck! It's a side loading garbage truck! It's a side loading garbage truck!

must try harder

I'm not sure where to begin with this one.  It's not easy to write about, which means it can't be that easy to deal with.  It is something that I should have known a long time ago, before Ollie was born, before he was even an idea, but in truth, it's only in the last few months that I've realised it, and only in the last few weeks has the realisation been strong enough to leave me feeling very shaken.

So, this big realisation?  It's the realisation that parenting, at least parenting the way I want to parent, doesn't come naturally or easily to me.  A fine thing for a mother of three sons to admit, but here I am while they are sleeping, thinking about nothing else but my influence on their lives and how much better I know it could be.  I resort to snapping and yelling and time-outs way too often, forgetting to listen to the boys, to let them speak, to treat them the way I'd want to be treated.  It sounds so simple but the reality (for me) has been very different.  Getting them to listen is hard.  Then, getting them to do stuff they need to is hard (you know, eating, going to the bathroom, putting on sunscreen, bathing...).  By that stage, you've gone hoarse asking them time after time to put their shoes on because we are already running 30 minutes late for kindy, and then you yell.  And there's no turning back from that one, once you yell, it's hard to be calm again and then the affection you want to show your kids... well, it's there but it's hard to get out.  And after a tough day I'm not sure they want it either.  Never mind the impact of constant barking of orders on the kids, I have ended many an evening feeling very, very inadequate, exhausted and very unhappy, knowing I've not done all I can to bring out the best in them.  I don't want to be that mum.  I want to be the affectionate, happy, nurturing mother that enjoys her kids rather than endures them.  I want to be the mother they want to be with, not the one they want to avoid.  Above all else, I want them to be their happiest selves and to know I am doing everything I can to make that happen.  If I'm not going to try 100%, what's the point?

So, a few weeks ago I did what I have always done when I feel this way, and resorted to books.  Books on pregnancy, babies, toddlers are all part of our odd repertoire of architecture, cookery and history books, but it didn't feel like what I needed was there.  So, to the library, and we came across this book, the title of which pretty much hits the nail on the head when it comes to what I'm trying to achieve.  Correction, what we're trying to achieve. I've had it now for over a month, renewing it last week so that I could absorb as much as possible and so that my husband could do the same.  At first I was skeptical, it seemed a little simplistic and it wasn't telling me what I didn't already know, but really, it's helped enormously to be able to read, and read about something I care so much about, and to know my instinctive response isn't always going to be the right one.  By using case studies that I can completely relate to, I'm learning that there is always a way of dealing with things, of getting my point across, of communicating and getting the best out of my children.

The best part (after the fact that it seems to be working) is that we are doing this together.  Reading the book together has given us some clarity over how to do things, we talk a lot more about how to deal with situations we know are going to be tough, we are enjoying the kids a lot more and dare I say it, the kids seem to be happier too.  The consistency, the shift in gears, the change in attitude and the step back we've taken has had an impact almost immediately.

Anyway, it's not that they are bad kids, far from it, and there are so many marvellous moments we have with them that are completely devoid of frustration and angst, moments that are really quite wonderful and I wouldn't want this post to detract from any of that good stuff.  They are great kids, it's just that I'm not a great parent and probably never will be but just as I learned to read, to write, to cook, I can learn to be a better parent and be the mother that raises three kind, compassionate, open-minded and respectful men.  Books or not, I do know that for that to happen I need to be kind, compassionate and open minded first.

It's a long road this one, but there's no turning back and neither do I want to.  Those days of yearning for my independent self are long behind me, all I want now is to know I'm doing the absolute best I can as a mother and wife.  It's a slow journey but I'm hoping the track we're on is now the right one.

progress

A week ago, we introduced dear little Hugo to a couple of spoonfuls of courgette, steamed and pureed until they were lump free.  I told him he couldn't have any dessert until he'd eaten all his vegetables.  I caved and gave him a teaspoon of pureed pear.

It's with some sadness that I'm seeing this little guy grow up but it's with excitement, too.  Yesterday, we were lying on the floor of his big brothers' bedroom (they were at kindy) and he discovered their box of little matchbox cars.  For a few moments there, he was in heaven, picking them out, one at a time, sucking them, bashing them with his fist, waving them around frantically, before dropping them and picking up another.  It was so cute seeing him being a little boy, rather than a little baby.

He rolls over, roly-polying around, it wakes him at night when he realises he's on his tummy and calls to be rescued, but won't settle for anything except a sleepy, fuzzy breastfeed, before I put him back in his cot and he gives me that smile, eyes half closed, the one that says, 'thanks mum, see you in a couple of hours'.

Earlier this week I took him to kindy, to the nursery there, where he's officially started (only one day a week) for a little play.  I can't bear to leave him just yet so we sat on the floor and drooled a bit.  You see although I don't go back to work until March, I've had to take a spot to ensure we have care for all three boys by the time I'm back to being my groomed self, looking after grown up clients who are at times as frustrating as toddlers.

Anyway, Hugo enjoyed his first tastes.  Avocado, mango and pureed carrots have all been sampled too, with varying degrees of success.  Most of it ends up on his bib/the floor but we have definitely turned a corner.  He's graduating from the bumbo knockoff his brothers used before him and last night I cleaned up the high chair we've had since Ollie started eating real food nearly 4 years ago.  Got out the little bowls and spoons.  Even cracked open my baby food book to start thinking about the meals I think this dear little fellow might enjoy eating.  It's happy and sad to think that this time next year, he'll be a toddler too, making a mess at the table with his brothers, refusing food, giggling at their monkeying rather than concentrating on his meal.  He does that already.

He'll be 6 months old next week.  Every day I wonder what he will be like when he's older, not forgetting that at this moment he's as sweet as they come, with a smile for anyone that smiles back.  I ache with tiredness and from the mental and physical demands of three young children but my heart is fuller than ever before.  Watch this space for more Hugo cuteness, because I can't help myself.

another epic straddie weekend

Sometimes, I don't do stuff because it's too much work.  This means I end up not doing stuff that could be good fun, but the idea of doing it with three kids that mightn't appreciate it means I would much rather just put my feet up and watch some imported English tv show.  I'm probably not being all that fair because actually we do a lot, a LOT of stuff, but mostly it's things like endless chores trips to the park, walks to the bakery, gardening and playing at the local water park.  Nothing too fancy.

But Straddie, it's different.  It's very hard work to pack and organise all five of us for a weekend, a military operation in fact, so much so that I insist Will takes a day off so we can go over for at least three nights otherwise it hardly feels worth it.  The list making, the food organising, the Tetris style packing of the car that takes place (secretly I think Will likes that bit), it's all exhausting before we've even buckled up and hit the road, but for Straddie, it's worth it.  Especially when the weather is as blissful as it was a couple of weeks ago.  I mean it's fine if it rains, quite beautiful in fact (I am English after all), but the days of Will and I whiling away rainy afternoons with dvds and chips and wine aren't really an option with three babies.  

So yes, good weather makes it and thankfully, the weather for our last trip was fantastic, and the weekend was made all the more special because it was Hugo's first.  It was by no means perfect but gelato every day made up for the time-outs at the beach, the occasional tantrums, the packing and sun protection that needs to happen every time we want to go to the beach... and oh yes, we even had our first triple-all-boys-at-once meltdown, in the car too, so it was in proper Dolby surround sound - no escape.  And then there was watching the kids play on the beach, chuckling to ourselves that they were only a few metres away but the sound of the surf made them so quiet; even if they were arguing over their buckets and spades, we didn't hear it.  And did I mention it was all bloody hard work?  Then I must have mentioned too, it was totally worth it.

Ah Straddie, you are a beauty.  I'm going to miss you when I finally convince myself to move back to Europe for the snowy winters.  I might even regret it because of you.

opting out

This is Max, sitting with the gifts of unused and brand new books, clothes and toys that we donated to the kindy wishing tree.  Doesn't he look pleased with himself?  He should be.  Whether he realised it or not, he spent an hour very patiently wrapping them with me, while I tried to explain that they weren't for him, or his brothers, but for children that don't have a lot of toys and books.  I think he got it eventually.

This Christmas, we have decided (like last year) to opt out of the wider gift giving.  We have been quite generous with the children and included Ollie and Max in Will's family's Secret Santa, but Hugo, Will and I have decided that we need or want for little, and that we would rather not spend money that might be better utilised elsewhere and would rather not create stress where it needn't be.  So we've opted out of Secret Santa, and further decided that there'll be no presents for anyone other than the kids and a modest gift for each other.

It's been rather nice to again not have to worry about who we are buying for and what they should receive and I felt very smug when we made the somewhat crazy decision to go to our local shopping centre two Saturdays before Christmas to return library books, to see the somewhat miserable looking shoppers, hauling around bags of stuff you know nobody wants and knowing we didn't have to do any of that.  The two cousins that the boys are playing Santa to will receive (what we think) well thought out presents, our boys will be very happy with their little collection of gifts (there will be wheels and books, enough said) and in lieu of gifts for my own family, we are making a donation that we can afford to Unicef.  

I love the gift giving, the receiving, the wrapping, the piles of gifts under the tree and I want to spoil our children, especially when they are being as sweet as they are today, but this year, and from hereon the only tradition I want for me, my husband and my children is that the festive season should be about being with each other, having chocolate for breakfast and our goodwill to those that need it.

Amen.

poo poo

Poo poo, poo poo head, mr poo poos, poo poo bum bum, poo bums, bumpoos, thank you poo poo, mummy poo poo.
And so on.

a new kind of reading

A week ago arrived the long awaited collection of Roald Dahl stories I've had my eye on for some time now.  In that time we've already ready Charlie and The Chocolate Factory and we're onto Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator.

Since they were very little, my boys (including Hugo it would seem) have loved being read to and flicking through picture books before they even knew what the words meant.  When they were babies and we could see how much they enjoyed story time, I looked forward to the day I would read (or they would read) my favourites, Roald Dahl, Rudyard Kipling, Barbara Kingsolver (alright, maybe not Babs just yet) and I almost never hesitate to buy or borrow books for them, though it is difficult to get to the library as often as we used to.

I was a little concerned that the Roald Dahl books with their lack of pictures and many many words would be too much for the kids, but in truth, they love them and there's no doubt that they (especially Oliver) are ready for this new kind of reading.

In this current stage of their obsession with machines, trucks, guns, robots etc, it's marvellous to see how keen they are to sit and read and I can feel Ollie's itch to get reading all on his own.  If he's anything like his parents, he will love reading and because of that I want to do everything I can to encourage it and not because I'm feeling a little out of my depth with all the testosterone fuelled energy about the place.

I hope, really really hope their enthusiasm for books never ever wanes. Ever.

little stitches

This morning we went as a family to visit Dr Triggs.  Ollie had his 4 year check up and Max... he had to have the stitches taken out of his head that were put in there last week when he was pushed over and donked his head on a concrete paver at kindy.  

It's not exactly something you want to write about but since this is a diary of all things I want to remember, it seemed appropriate to include it here.  For the record, Max didn't flinch when he was having either the stitches put in or taken out.  And Ollie was even braver than I could have hoped for getting his shots this morning.

Oh, and who did the pushing?  Ollie.  But by all accounts, including Max's, Max is the one who started it all.

a robot party

A weekend of celebrating Ollie's 4th birthday.  The party on Saturday was absolute chaos but good fun.  The kids all had a fantastic time in the robot boxes we made, the robot cake* went down an absolute storm and for our first attempt at a cake that was meant to be something, it was not too shabby. The robot party favours (made from mini noodle boxes ($6 for 24) with mini torches (which every parent has told me so far were a hit), balloons, mini horns, sultana boxes with googly eyes and chewy candy feet) got the kids pretty excited and the storm that hit at 5pm meant everyone left pretty quicksmart, which in turn meant the kids were fast asleep (after refusing their lunch time naps) by 7pm.

And then, after an hour of mad tidying, Will and I cracked open a nice bottle of pinot to celebrate that other little milestone... 4 years of broken sleep muddling through parenthood.

Happy birthday kiddo.  You have no idea how much we adore you.

*Note to self re cake:  We made the vanilla cake I've written about before, sans sprinkles and with about 20% less sugar.  1.5 x the quantities of this recipe worked just fine for the 12" x 8" brownie pan but it took about 50 mins to cook and I had to cover it with foil to stop it browning too much.  The frosting quantity was just about right too for a decent crumb coat and frost.  The grey was achieved using a few pin pricks of AmeriColor Super Black and a touch of blue and it was decorated with chocolate wafer squares, coconut, smarties and oreo cookie wheels.  Those are Chupa Chups antennae.  There wasn't a scrap of cake leftover, which is a shame because it was delicious.

middle child

Max is now my 'middle child'.  I don't know much about middle child syndrome, nor am I sure it's real, but it's got something to do with being forgotten because you aren't the overachieving first born and you're not the baby that gets away with everything (we have one and possibly both of those by the way).

More than being our middle child, Max has now taken on the mantel of big brother to his darling kid brother Hugo.  He's not the baby of the family anymore, and he's relishing his role as mentor to Hugo.  I catch him stroking Hugo's hair, giving him a gentle rock in the bouncy chair and he always wishes Hugo a 'bless you Hugo' when he sneezes.  He asks to hold his little brother and tries to calm him when he's crying.  It makes me well up with pride and love and contentment and that feeling I get when I eat cake with my coffee.

Max has an enthusiasm that I never saw in Ollie, whose focus on the detail amazes me.  Ollie's methodical, thoughtful and logical way of building and creating is the opposite of Max's wild, imaginative and adventurous approach to play.  I compare them, yes, I do, but it's natural that I should and I like that it makes me wonder what makes them tick so I can be a better mum.  What works with Ollie doesn't necessarily work with Max.  They are so different and yet they are so great together.  Max adores Ollie, his first question when he wakes is 'where's Ollie?' and his face lights up to see his big brother.  He won't do anything unless Ollie is doing it first.  When I went to collect them from kindy last week, they were sitting together, reading a book while the rest of the kids were having story time.  I stopped and watched them be oblivious to their mum's presence, talking so sweetly to each other before Max jumped up, ran around at top speed, laughing hysterically.  Only he'll know what was so funny.

Lately, I've been losing my temper with them both more frequently than I would like, resorting to yelling sooner than I should.  Max's reaction is often one of tears, and he even says 'no mummy, be happy, be happy!' with such conviction, it's hard not to immediately feel rotten for raising my voice in the first place.  It's such an apt reaction though.  He is such a happy fellow, it's all he wants to see and feel in return.

Sure, he can be tempestuous, stroppy and demanding and the whinging is beyond bearable at times, but Max is very passionate, adventurous and loving too.  He wants to laugh and to make others laugh.  I imagine it's probably way to early to predict anything, but I know this kid is going to follow his big, brave, loyal heart and break some along the way too.  I adore this guy.  He's no middle child.  He's our nutty little sweetheart.

growing

Hugo.  Little Hugo.  Not so little Hugo.  He's growing by the second but he's still my baby boy.  It won't be long before he's huge-o.  Hah!

fathers' day 2012

True love.

one month

He's got big, brown eyes, a mesmerising gaze, a voice that means business, the softest of skin and hair, and he loves to be snug.  He's started offering smiles, though they are still few and far between; I'll do anything to see that little face light up.  It already feels like I'm spoiling him, though of course he's only a little baby, so it's not really possible, but if Ollie's my pride and Max is my joy, surely Hugo, with his hairy little back and fuzzy ears is the apple of my eye.

Last night, Will said something to Hugo that made my heart cry a little.  "You're looking big, Hugo, not like a newborn baby anymore."  He's right, of course and I agreed with him straight away before realising how time is escaping us.  While I've been dwelling on the tiredness, the boys' behaviour and Hugo's insistence on being carried around all day, life goes on, and Hugo is one whole month old.  Today.  At this rate, the Christmas I'm so excited about will be here before we know it.

move over salvador

Lately, I haven't felt like saying or doing much.  The lack of sleep and resultant difficulty finding the energy to connect with the boys (husband included) has meant I feel a little withdrawn and I'm back at that place where I'm doubting my ability to do this parenting thing.  It's that same place fraught with uncertainty over the future, the homesickness and the feeling that I am bearing the weight of the world on my shoulders.  I know I'm not, it just feels that way.

Still.  I managed to sit down and do some silly collaging with Ollie and Max the other day, and it was something we all enjoyed.  Max especially loved getting sticky and messy, and it was so sweet to connect with him in the fug that has been concentrating on bonding with Hugo.  The boys' creations now take pride of place in the frame of this Dali print that let's face it, pales in comparison to what they made.

Our house continues to become their house, with their belongings taking over what was once a grown up space, their noise permeating every inch of this little wooden home we live in and their artwork taking centre stage over the paintings and prints that used to adorn our walls.  Our house.  Really, it's their house and we are but lucky to live in it.

the arrival

At about 4.30am on 14 July 2012, Will turned and asked me if I was alright.  2 hours 45 minutes later, our son Hugo William Downes was born.  Neighbours were called to look after Ollie and Max, bag was already packed and in the car, we drove in the dark to the hospital, cursing over every speed bump that seemed to bring on a contraction.  And it was an intense labour with contractions every 5-7 minutes from the get go, which meant I went from half way there to ready to push in about 30 minutes after arriving at the hospital.  The pain was unbearable and every contraction made me feel like I couldn't do it.  I remember feeling out of control, pleading for someone to help me, trying to push and feeling helpless, the birthing team telling me I had to get the baby out, out, out now... and then when it felt like it couldn't be any more unbearable, he was born.

The euphoria of giving birth is really something spectacular.  I had previously only ever had labour induced and was able to manage the pain of contraction upon contraction with an epidural.  This time, we decided to wait, and while we'd booked to be induced this week (at a week over), we were hoping labour would happen in its own time, and I would be able to experience that feeling of recognising the baby was coming, and the build up of labour, rather than the intense experience of being subject to the artificial hormones and pain relief.  I got my wish.  I can't say I was altogether happy about it at about 7am on Saturday morning, but to have got through the experience the way we did, makes me feel like I have lived an amazing experience.

I came home the next day, and since then, it's been about the little milestones, first bath, first feeds, first poos (mine, not his)... and we are getting to know little Hugo, who is (in my husband's words) very cute and very loud.  He is also as soft as soft can be, so soft he hardly feels like he is there when you stroke his cheeks and that brand new hair on his head.  Sometimes (like the moment he was born) I see Max in his face, and other times, Ollie.

Ollie and Max?  I think it's going to take some time for the little men to come to terms with what's going on.  They have been incredibly sweet, but I think it's hard for them to see me absorbed with this new baby, and they are struggling somewhat with Hugo's intense crying noise, which we hear a lot because he doesn't like to sleep unless it's on me or Will and doesn't like to be left alone.  It is again somewhat overwhelming, this feeling of surging love for all three of our children, even if it is interspersed with complete exasperation at not being able to meet everyone's demands all at once.  Ollie and Max are still so young, at 3y8m and 2y3m asking them to understand the impact of a newborn on our lives is so far beyond reasonable, I just need to remember that every time they act up or don't do exactly what I need them to do.

And so, we are new parents again and every day is a new experience.  Our future has been reset again. I'm trying my best to cope with the early days of breastfeeding, postpartum recovery, lack of sleep and complete lack of the predictability and routine that I normally thrive on.  The relief of being on this side of things relatively unscathed keeps me going.  We have three sons.  We are a new family.  We are happy.  We are blessed.

sad and complicated

This evening, when I was reading to the boys before bed time, Ollie said to me, 'Mum, I feel sad.  And complicated.'  It was easy to see how this was a funny thing for a three year old to say, but we talked about it for a bit.  He was feeling sad, because I had forbidden any tv this evening, and though he couldn't quite tell me why he was feeling complicated, I'm guessing it was because he was so exhausted this evening, he couldn't possibly have been thinking straight.

What struck me though, was that lately, I've been feeling a bit sad and complicated.  I think it's probably post birthday blues, or the pressure of my work life, or feeling tired and achey regardless of how much sleep I get.  I mean, I'm also quite happy and generally as content as I've ever been but I'm a bit sad too.  See?  It's quite complicated.  I don't have much to be sad about, life is ticking along nicely, we have plenty to anticipate and the kids seem... manageable.  Enjoyable, even.  But there's something and I think it's that feeling of belonging (or lack thereof) that's creeping back into my life, making me question where we want to be as a family.

So anyway, I have made this post all about me, but really, it's all about my children.  They are far better at articulating themselves than I often give them credit for.  It's easy to brush off some of the things that kid says, but much as he couldn't quite tell me what he meant, I'm pretty sure that sad and complicated is just how he was feeling at that moment in time and credit to him for knowing just how to tell me about it.  I hope he realises that happy or sad, I will always want to know how he's feeling.  Even when he's all grown up and life really is complicated.

bunk

Part of the two days off we had last week involved a trip to IKEA.  Yes, we do like to punish ourselves sometimes.  But it was surprisingly pleasant walking around IKEA, childless, with an aim and a little extra time to wonder whether we needed more kitchen ware or tea lights.  And what was the aim?  To purchase the the MYDAL bunk bed for the boys.  I've had my eye on it for a while, nothing else has really compared either for style or price, and since this purchase would also mean new mattresses, duvets and sheets, we needed to be sensible about how much we had to spend.

So we bought the boys their first bunk bed.  We got it home in our Corolla wagon (just - it was comical how scrunched up we were in the front of the car with the bed, mattresses etc in the back), and then we painted it.

This is the colour - Gunnard (Taubmans).  I love it.  I love grey, actually, and I'm increasingly finding it's my go-to colour. The reason for the grey on the bunk bed was so that it would match most of what's in the room.  White was the other obvious choice but our house is fairly white as it is and I liked the idea of the grey against the quilts I made for the boys and the rest of the colour in their room.  As a result, it looks great!  I'm so pleased with it.  And as a bonus, it feels and smells a bit less IKEA-y than it would have if we'd left it with that ghastly natural pine look.

But most importantly, the bunk seems to be a success with the boys, though that I think is due in part to the talking up we've done of it over the last couple of months.  We've taken Max out of his cot and he's now in the bottom bed, and the biggest problems for him are (a) he wants the top bunk and (b) when he does accept he's sleeping in the bottom, he cannot stop himself from getting up and goofing around, much to his brother's delight.  These photos do not even get close to depicting how much joy he's getting out of maximising the cheek involved with bed time now.  Last night (night two - the first night Max did actually decide he wanted to sleep in his new bed), we spent about 90 minutes listening to toys being thrown around, fits of giggles, boys jumping on the top bunk, then a slightly smaller boy jumping on his brother... it went on, but they did it and managed their first night in the bunk bed.  And as I'm writing this, Ollie is squirming around in the top while Max is sound asleep.

It's the start of a level of shenanigans we haven't really had before.  Max is always a little cheeky when we put him to bed, but Ollie is generally a good boy.  Now that they are both out of their cots, it's given them (ie Max) a level of freedom that means Trouble.  But, much as it was annoying that they took until 9pm to go to sleep last night, they went to bed happy (and only really got yelled at a couple of times) and it's reinforced that they really do like sharing their space with each other.

Speaking of spaces, it could be nesting, but it might just be normal-everyday-have-to-organise-it-now!-me, we are starting on the baby's room, which has been a spare room for the last few months and is now beginning to look like a nursery.  Will dismantled Max's cot to go in there this morning and I went through all the many clothes we have to pick out the ones that I will eventually wash and fold neatly in anticipation of that day we bring this new life back from the hospital.  Softly, gently, aching with love and that feeling that the world has just started again for us.  God willing, it will be that way.