About Me

Perth, WA, Australia
Hi friends. To those I have met in person and the many I haven't - welcome to our nest. Thanks so much for stopping by. I am a mama of six baby birds and wife to one papa bird. Our nest is an intricately woven home, crafted over time, through the highs and lows of life, and many in-betweens. We are soon to leave our Australian nest to re-locate to our second home, the UK. This is our story, of our new life in a new country, the trials and tribulations, bidding goodbye to precious friends and embracing new. I know at times, our wings will be flapping so hard to keep us moving forward that we will tire, however, a little perseverence will bring effortless gliding amongst a soft breeze, and even stronger wings for the journey ahead. Welcome to our flight......

Saturday, 31 July 2010

Burping Bot-Bots

Two posts in one day! Wow, I am on a roll! This will keep my lovely followers happy!

You know, when I was younger, the subject of breaking wind, was a delicate one. Not the actual act of doing so because lets face it, nothing is delicate about it, or pleasant or socially acceptable. As a child it was very frowned upon to say the word 'fart', one part common, one part just plain crass. As an adult, I still feel like a naughty little girl when I let the word 'fart' slip. That's the word not the deed!!

My children aren't allowed to use it, not that they haven't tried, but upon doing so, they have been silenced with my disgust at the disgusting word. Even though, these days, it is perfectly acceptable to use.

I will never forget my utter mortification on this subject when I was a teen. I was in hospital, having just undergone an emergency appendectomy (sounds dramatic doesn't it) and a youth worker came to visit me. He was a totally drop-dead gorgeous, tall, dark, and smouldering young man and I was in awe in his presence! And to add to his list of credentials he visited me on my sick bed. Anyway there he was and there was I, all pale, sick and tragic looking. And the nurse breezes in, without so much of a glance at my visitor and poses the question, 'Catherine, have you FARTED today love?' Oh the mortification of it all, the utter red-faced embarrassment! I had indeed FARTED (!!!!) but I WASN'T TELLING HER THAT IN FRONT OF HIM!!!

Anyway, in our household we use the more appropriate sounding words such as 'tooting' (has a nice ring to it), 'breaking wind', the more delicate sounding 'fluff' or 'pop' or 'did your bot-bot burp?' (cute and tactful don't you think?)

That is except for the OBH (other better half). When he releases (which is often and loud and enough to singe your nose hairs, catch in the back of your throat, hold you down on the ground and leave you gasping for air), I find myself always saying with total distaste 'Did you just FART?!' 'That is absolutely disgusting, your insides must be rotten'. In his case, I am sorry Mum and Dad, but FART is the only word to describe it.

The Normal Day

I am often asked what was it that I did during the day, or how was my week just gone?

Here is a snapshot; -

Wake to hungry babies, feed babies milk, then solids, feed other four children, change nappies, dress little ones, clean-up, tidy-up, wash, feed children, clean-up, tidy-up, wash, feed children, tidy, tidy, pick-up, feed children - oh, here's a good one, feed myself! After a bit of nutritional intake I then have the energy to put pooey nappies in the bin outside and manage to catch a few minutes of Vitamin D (good for skin rejuvination and depression - which is OBVIOUSLY WORKING!) and at the same time, multi-task whilst checking the mail, doing a few stretches, take a deep breath and a quick peak at the world outside. Yippee!!

I am surrounded (constantly) by a cacophony of noise, lots of noise and talking and screaming and the dog barking and silliness and laughing and tantrums and slammed doors and running through the house and tears (usually mine!). Also there is a lot of 'Muuuuummmmmy where are you? Can you do this? Get that? Fix this? Change that? Listen to me, me, me, me, me! Tell him that, tell her that. I need, I want, please move, please stay. Will you take me? Can I have this? How much? How long? How soon? How far? When? Why? How do you know? (easy answer to that one - because Mummy knows everything!)

That is just a normal day. The extra special ones go like this:-

Wake to hungry babies. Go back to sleep. Aaahhh it is the weekend and the reinforces are here, aka, OBH (other better half) and guess what, he (bless his heart) is on roster and I get to sleep in! That is if OBH doesn't try to fiddle with said roster and also squeeze in a few extra zzz's, in which case his bride, aka, ME, is not a happy mummy or wife and you know the saying, 'If Mumma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy'. At least in our household anyway:)

Tuesday, 20 July 2010

Hide your Knickers ...

Our Cavoodle puppy dog has a fetish with knickers, namely used ones and in the general vicinity of the crotch (yeuch!!). We have been through countless pairs of smalls but the latest frenzied knickers attack really got to me. You see, I had been out on a 'personal mummy retreat day' (translation - mummy is on-the-edge and needs some retail therapy!). I left home around midday, all on my own (aahh) and drove 35 minutes to one of the biggest shopping malls in town. And for the next four hours, I tootled around, drank coffee, ate cake, talked to nobody (!!!!) and spent money. Namely, a sizeable portion on some pretty, silky, frilly, new knickers (all of them on sale and a HUGE bargain! What could I do?).

I finally staggered home around dinner time, just as my other better half was about to shove his head in the oven and snort cooking fumes up his nose to block out the noise and crying babies. It was after all 6pm and the arsenic hour had been in full swing for a whole 60 minutes (and might I add, like any good wife, I went straight to the fridge to pour him a beer. No words required!).

Later on, I proudly showed hubby my wares, extolling the virtues of a fabulous mid-year sale and how much money I had actually saved him. And over the next few nights, I looked forward to trying on a new pair of knickers from my large stash. That is, until puppy dog got wind of them. During my night-time shower she quietly snuck into my bedroom and, quick as a flash, stole two pairs of my prized silky numbers. In a matter of minutes they had been licked (yeuch again) and shredded in two, starting at the crotch of course.

And then there are the socks. Now, I have trouble matching socks for my brood anyway, but when you throw a dog in the mix it gets even more complicated. She, the dog, will tear holes in smelly (used) socks, quicker than the brain can process what she is actually doing, and by then it is too late.

So not only do we have missing socks, but we have socks with holes in them and fancy, frilly knickers with an eaten crotch. I guess I could wear them as a very short skirt with extra breathing space underneath, but I think that would scare the children necessitating therapy and send the 'man of the house' running!

Nowhere to Hide ...

We have been in our lovely new and bigger house for a few months now. My other better half and I have a nice, big bathroom, with his and hers vanities and a roomy double shower. The children have their own bathroom. True, it only has a single shower recess but it does have a bath! And after all of us sharing one bathroom for many months, having two bathrooms is just bliss. Or so I thought. So why is it that Mum and Dad's bathroom is 'oh so much more appealing' to use then theirs?

Every night at wash time we have the usual pleading and bribery to be able to use our shower. It is usually around the time we are cooking dinner or the babies are crying and Mum and Dad are a tad distracted. Inevitably, we give in and once again the children win and enjoy luxuriating in the shower, using my special fruity-smoothie body washes and my cocoa butter exfoliating scrub or my relaxing lavender sea salt scrub.

Apparently, our shower head has a smoother spread of water over one's body, the temperature is easy to control and there is plenty of room to spread soap bubbles over the walls.

There is also the subject of toilets - theirs versus ours, and ours being, once again, more appealing. And with the toilet there is no asking or pleading, just little sneaky steps to our (my!!!!!) latrine, and the evidence is left behind!! Wouldn't you think they would clear all trace of their unauthorized visits? But no, "hello!", "good morning!" , welcome to 'turd-ville', any time of the day or night! Charming!

I think we should just give in and admit defeat. The children will continue to use our coveted space and I will continue to be greeted by all manner of shapes, sizes and odours as a reminder that nothing is sacred in a house of six children (ok - two are still babies!)... and a dog!!

Sunday, 11 July 2010

The Mothering Gene ...

I have decided that being a mother is an impossible task. Really, if you think about it, we receive no training but instead jump in head-first, all cards on the table, taking on a life-long commitment of total responsibility. When that birth certificate if presented to us, along with that brand new human being, we are signing on the dotted line toward a lifetime of caring, nurturing, loving, worrying, exhaustion, joy, tears and everything in between. In fact, until your off-spring become independent (when is that these days?) you are in charge of KEEPING THEM ALIVE 24/7! (I am often asked what have I done with my day? Answer, "kept 6 children alive!") Wow, major task, and that is only the start.

How can you love another human being so deeply and purely, putting aside oneself constantly and keep on giving and giving, through those sleepless nights, the sore and leaking breastfeeding boobs, the saggy bodies and headaches about those teenage years and their tentative steps into adult-hood? Women, especially, give and give, until there is nothing left and then, you know what, we give some more. And then, we have those insane moments when we look at our gorgeous, imperfect and naughty children (totally exhausted, still in our jammies with baby sick on our shoulders and green teeth from the night before) and think "Aww, wouldn't it be great to have another one!". Seriously, it must be some defective gene that enables people to produce. Otherwise, who would keep signing up for the task?

I know, it is because, pure and simple, having children is the most divine, delicious and superb decision anyone can make, and in doing so, one learns more about themselves from their own off-spring than any book, counsellor, latest research or university degree could ever teach them.

Friday, 9 July 2010

Delicates and Poo ...

These days I seem to spend a lot of time either thinking about washing or actually doing the washing, which I know is pretty sad but I console myself with the fact that this is indeed my 'season of the endless washing cycle'.

So here's the thing .. my washing has changed and evolved, much like our family really. At first it was just my other better half and I, then baby (pop!) and then pop!, pop!, pop! and double-pop!! - more babies and more bodies to keep clothed and clean. Where once my washing was all gentle soaking of delicates, silk, lace and pretty things, lovingly cared and tended for, bathed in fabric softener and dried in the shade, now it is, well, slightly different.

I have become well acquainted with sand!!! Those little grains get everywhere!! Through every wash, pouring out of pockets and crevices in jocks. It sits down the bottom of my machine, never to be properly rinsed out of the cycle. It sticks to all of our clothes and is transferred to the rest of the house (nothing like getting into gritty sheets at night!) only to be re-cycled into the machine once again.

Then there is the subject of poo (again!). I can't seem to get away from it at the moment with little ones. How can two 8 month old babies produce so much of the stuff? Why can't they save it all up, say, for a Monday, and we can have a special 'poo day' and deal with it all at once. But no, of course, it comes in dribs and drabs and sometimes explosions, which in turn produces more washing. And sometimes it (yep, the poo) ends up in the washing, along with the sand and the lego pieces and the lost buttons. I open the machine and sure enough, bits of poo floating to the surface being washed and rinsed along with all the rest of the paraphernalia.

Then there is the rogue tissue - but don't get me started on that!