a message from the chop busters

Happy Fathers' Day, Dad.  We like to bust your chops and drive you nuts and fight over who gets to sit next to you at dinner.  Now that's love. xxx

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?

green curry

Here is a green curry of pumpkin, mushrooms, spinach, fresh corn and lentils, inspired by the amazing curries at Brisbane's Kitchen Sanitarium, which has become a regular weekday lunch venue. (Which reminds me, we must go to Taro's again soon.)

Fry a finely chopped onion in a little oil.  Add 1/2 jar of Volcom green curry paste (or a sachet of the Mae Ploy brand) and fry for a minute or two.  Add about 1/4 of a butternut squash, chopped into 1" cubes, plus a few smaller pieces (to melt into the curry sauce).  Add in 500ml of coconut milk (the Ayam brand is best) and about a cup of water or stock.  Simmer until the pumpkin is just about tender, then add a handful of chopped mushrooms, cook for a little longer before adding fresh corn kernels, 400g of cooked lentils (tinned is fine, brown/Puy/black lentils work best) and about 200g spinach (frozen would work fine) and a handful of shredded coconut.  Season with fish sauce and palm sugar to taste (I added 1-2 tablespoons of each), a healthy dose of lime juice (I squeezed the bejesus out of one quite juicy one), chopped coriander and serve with steamed rice, topped with fried shallots, coriander leaves and more shredded coconut.

Eat in big, deep bowls, in front of a tv.  Or your significant other if that floats your boat.

Really, really, really tasty.

bon anniversaire

On Bastille Day, we celebrated Hugo's first birthday.  It was a lovely little event.  Even the rain and grey skies didn't detract from how joyous it felt to sing 'Happy Birthday' for the very first time to our little dude (and then again to Lola, who was 10 years old only two days prior).

Red, blue, white balloons and streamers were everywhere.  Everyone who came made an effort to look as French as they could, the food was suitably cheesy, the cake was red, white and blue and to make sure everyone had a mouthful of something celebratory and sweet, I also made a pavlova, decorated with red and blue berries and whipped double cream. The food that wasn't obviously French was made so by sticking an Eiffel Tower pennant in it, we drank champagne and listened to French music, including La Marseillaise (of course) and music by Yann Tierson (This music, which makes me so nostalgic for the time Will and I went to the movies for the first time together in Belsize Park to watch Amelie and then walk home in the pouring rain.  It was so impossibly romantic, hearing this quite often makes me cry.)

We had family, friends from Will's uni days, old school friends, neighbours, friends from kindy, friends from the group of mums I've known since I joined their playgroup when Ollie was born and it was probably bigger than it needed to be, but it was just so brilliant to have all these lovely people gathered under our raised house, sheltered from the rain under fairy lights, helping us celebrate, taking photos, taking it in turns to entertain the kids, catching up with each other, making new friends and enjoying the croissants.

One of the sweetest things was opening the many cards we were given, all of which included a note of the charity that had been donated to on Hugo's behalf.  It felt so right to do something like this to mark a year of being so damn blessed to have Hugo in our lives, the sunshine that he is, it felt right not to collect more stuff we just didn't need but instead to ask (respectfully and not without gratitude) that everyone give a few dollars to charity instead.  And everyone did just that.

So there you have it.  A year of Hugo.  (And ten years of Lola.)  It's hard not to feel emotional when I think about the past year (or ten).  It's hard not to feel like crying when I think about the memories we are creating, the things I work so hard to do well, and the things I just know I could do much better.  It's been the most challenging year of my life, yet the most rewarding.  Watching this little monkey of a baby grow into this happy, bouncing, cheeky and independent toddler has been the most wonderful experience so far, it's made me realise the time, it's now.  The stuff I've been looking forward to, the Sunday afternoon movies with my kids, planning birthday parties, the games of make believe, the mornings in the park, getting things ready for show and tell, cooking things I know they'll love to eat, being a parent... all these things I've been looking forward to all my life, they're happening already, right now.  I need to stop and remember that every now and then.

Happy birthday Hugo.  Je t'aime.

l'invitation

Here it is, an invitation to le premier anniversaire d'Hugo!  First things first, while this did involve me bossing my husband around in the traditional manner while he sat in front of his iMac, this is pretty much a rip of something I saw on t'internet.  Do I care?  Not really.  I'm a working mum to three preschoolers (is there such a thing as a non-working mum?) with limited time and I know what I like.  So, I saw something I liked and we bastardised it enough to make it feel like ours.  Is that alright?  Probably not, but what we do have is a rather nice little two pager (and the second page was all our doing) inviting way more people than we'll be able to cope with to the auspicious occasion that will be the first birthday of our littlest hobo, born on that very French of days, Bastille Day.

Points to note:
 - No gifts:  It seems unfair for little Hugo who doesn't have much of his own, but seriously, he doesn't need or want for a thing.  He is surrounded by toys and clothes and love.  Far better that our guests each give a few bucks to charity instead.
 - It's gonna be red, white, blue, guests are expected to adorn one or all of those colours.  Berets optional.
 - There will be champagne.  Normally I don't condone drinking (ahem) at a kid's party.  Well, it's not so much that I don't condone it, but it's more that it's really not necessary (it's a kid's party!)  but no champagne at a Bastille Day party?  Don't be nuts.  And by champagne I probably mean slightly-better-than-average Australian sparkling wine.
 - The invitation features the same bunting I used on the first birthday invitations of Ollie and Max.  This makes me very happy.
 - Hugo is going to be one.  ONE.

year 8

This is me and my husband, starting our eighth year of marriage.  Undoubtedly the last five have been a test of our resilience and ability to juggle more than we thought we could handle, but it's also been a very positive journey so far, and one which I cannot complain about.  With good health (the value of which can't be underestimated), a happy home and enough challenges to provide us with balance, I feel very blessed to be writing these words today.

Happy anniversary, Will, I love you and our children beyond measure.

overheard

Ollie:  I'm lovely, mum, because I keep making you things

Ollie: I'm giving myself a headache, everything in my brain is all jumbled up, my thinking wires have snapped!

Ollie:  Mum, in my head there are LOTS of BIG love hearts, all for you.

Ollie: (after I'd been cross with him) Dad, I'm so sad, all the love hearts in my head for mum are disappearing.

Me:  How many do you need?
Ollie:  Four
Me:  How many do you have?
Ollie: Three
Me:  So, how many more do you need?
Ollie: One... I'm like a calculator!

Max:  Ollie's going to consplode our house! (he meant 'explode')

Max: (finishing off his first ever packet of Pez candies) I've eaten all my pheasants!

Max:  I'm Buzz Limeyear!

Max:  I actually like bumatoes now! (he means tomatoes) (I hope)

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.

june already

It's become my thing to muse over the passing of time.  I think it means I'm officially grown up, because it's all grown ups ever did when I was a kid (that and spend ages standing on front doorsteps saying goodbye to their grown up friends when we were leaving their houses).  I've said it before, but the passing of time is never as apparent as when you have children in your life, and the days fly by, then the weeks, and the weekends even quicker.  So here we are.  June.  I can now say 'next month, Hugo will be ONE'. How's that!

Last month, as well as starting a new knitting project (because there's nothing like having thirty half finished craft projects on the go) we were invited for an interview at a very lovely local school for next year's prep enrolments.  Ollie will start school in January and blah blah about how quickly that's come around (actually I'm not sure it has, it seems like the time is right for him to be starting school... maybe I just can't really remember life before babies but it feels like it was a LONG time ago).  We didn't really have a hope of being offered a place.  It's a Catholic school, we aren't Catholic, we didn't even claim to be Christian on our application forms, and were quite blunt about our beliefs (or lack thereof) during our interview.  But we were honest about why we thought this particular school would be great for Ollie (because religion aside, it is a fantastic little school), and we must have put forth a pretty good case because this week we found out he's been offered a place.  Our son, who isn't baptised, or part of any parish, who's parents don't ring any bells or contribute financially or otherwise to a church or nunnery or whatever else there might be, our son got offered a place.

Hooray!  That's great!  But actually, while it's not a bad problem to have, now we don't know whether he should go there or to our local state school, another perfectly good school (sans nuns), one that we are actually very happy for our boys to attend, one we understand to have one of the best reputations in the state.  We were so sure we'd miss out on the Catholic school, we'd stopped thinking about it and we were just fine with our back up plan.  Pleased even.  But now... what to do?

There are pros and cons to each.  The small, intimate teaching environment of the Catholic school, the other children and parents we know there, the awesome teachers, the feel of the place, then there's the academically brilliant state-run school, a secular education, a much bigger school and wider range of facilities, both are local, both are great, both could be wonderful for our boys but... how to choose?  It seems like such a big decision.  The school we choose will be their place for the next 5-6 years, it feels so crucial that we get it right.  And I don't even want to think about what might happen if we get it wrong.

So, we have two weeks to accept the place we've been offered.  It's good to have a deadline, but two weeks seems like a very short amount of time (refer opening paragraph) to make a decision so important.  Especially when it feels like all our decision making energy is spent for this year.  But like I said, it's not a bad situation to be in.  It's just that you and I and anyone that knows us knows we are not the world's best decision makers.  Not that we make bad decisions, just the process involved is... well, involved, and not always painless and maybe one of these days I'll just go with the flow and everything will be just fine.  HAH!

PS I finished the scarf, a peacock blue merino seed stitch scarf.  Yes, it was easy, but even so it felt great to be knitting again after my grandmother taught me when I was about 7.  It's such a vivid memory of my childhood, although I don't think I've knitted since then.  Almost every knit and purl reminded me of her, and even casting on made me emotional, and I'm pretty pleased to say I had the whole thing wrapped up in less than a week.  Felt great actually, and made me think about how maybe I'll be a grannie one day too, and I'll teach my grandchildren cool things.  That'll be nice.

decisions pt 2

My parents, the grandparents of my children, live 10,276 miles away.  As if that didn't make it awesome enough, in that same place, there are seasons, twinkly yuletides, explosions of spring and seemingly unending grey skies, save for a few broken weeks in the summer when it's glorious, and there are two days in each one, and every fat bloke embraces the blue skies and lies bare chested during his lunch break on whatever patch of grass he can find reading tabloid newspapers and enjoying a mediocre sandwich and always with a bag of crisps.  Not chips, but crisps.  There are uncles, aunties, cousins, friends of old, many I'd consider as close if not closer than family.

Every day since I arrived in Australia, almost 10 years ago, I have thought about how I miss that place.  I miss those people, the long summer days, the unending winters, the feeling of cosy, the closeness of everything, the history of the architecture, the rolling countryside (it's unrivalled) and I could go on.  It has never occurred to me that perhaps I don't miss that place, but I am simply nostalgic, never been one to adapt to change terribly easily, and always harking back to the good times gone, choosing conveniently to forget about the stuff everyone else remembers in order to look at today and the future with such enthusiasm.  Not me, I prefer the times I know, I dealt with them all so much better than I think I'll deal with the stuff I don't know, so it's only the good stuff I remember, and therefore miss with every bit of myself.

We talk often about going back there.  We met there, we loved life there, had it not been for my then boyfriend's growing ambition to do something with his life, we probably would have stayed there.  We talked about it a lot in the early years if life in Oz and it was always going to happen, but lately, since becoming parents and learning we can't just pack up these little people and take them to where we want to be without acknowledging it mightn't be best for them, it's become a lot harder to talk about moving with any certainty.  These days we realise too, that in the 4+ years since we were last there (in the midst of winter no less), life there is probably very different to what it was then, never mind the rose tinted memories of 10 years ago.  There's a big chance we could make the move and realise it was totally the wrong thing to do.  But is that a good enough reason for not trying at all?

But much as I am now thinking more often of staying rather than going, I can't quite bring myself to stop thinking about the possibilities.  The idea that we might have ruled out moving back there is heartbreaking, even if most of our friends (here and there) don't understand it.  I can't see my life being lived out in Queensland, beautiful though it is (and lord knows I don't miss anything when I'm at Straddie) and perfect though it might be for rambunctious little boys and their love of sandy feet.  But then I can't see how we'd move back either, I'm not a risk taker, and it might make me boring, but the idea of the chaos such a move would cause in my brain...

So the point of this post?  Well, as with most, there isn't one.  It's one of those ramblers, a brain dump, a record of this feeling of fence sitting and don't-know-what-to-do-ness that I'm pretty sure will be resolved by a nutcase trip we're planning for the end of this year back to that place.  Yes, in the midst of winter (Christmas!), when the days are short and dark (fairy lights!) and the holiday season will have taken hold (family time!).  It's been brewing for a while now, and we've decided the cost will always be a barrier, the travelling is 99% going to be hellish, but it's something we just have to do, not just so we have fuel for the ongoing debate of where our lives should be but because after almost 5 years since we were last there, and 10 Christmasses away from home, it will be about freaking time we take the kids over there, see my loved ones and squeeze them tight, and decide what the dickens we should do with the rest of our lives.  And even if we don't, I'm pretty damn excited about the possibility of the kids seeing some snow.  SNOW!