- Catherine Irwin
- 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......
Monday, 29 November 2010
I took my boys out for a date the other day.
We went out for coffee and breakfast and then to the park to play.
I was happily sitting under the shade sipping my coffee, feeling all warm and loved and high on caffeine and sugar when I was summoned by the boys to join them on the playground to play. At first I admitted I was pretty comfortable in my little spot, but one look at their eager faces and I bailed, slipped off my shoes and joined them.
So there I was on the kids playground, swinging on ropes, hanging from the monkey bars, slipping down slides and scaling climbing walls. Now here's the thing. I did none of it well. In fact, I could barely do any of it. The monkey bars hurt my arms, the slide was hard on my bony bottom, I couldn't even make it to the top of the climbing wall because my feet hurt and the ropes kept moving too fast for me to use them. It was quite a revelation as I came to terms with the fact that I was indeed too old for playground prancing. When did that happen? Probably about 20 years ago, you say. But where does that time go? Wasn't it just yesterday that I was swinging on an old tyre in a sweet floral shirred dress, my little legs pumping like mad, edging higher and higher into the air. I was happy and free, just like my boys were on that sunny morning a few days ago.
My boys, my beautiful boys, didn't mind one bit. In fact, they loved the fact that Mummy was attempting to play on the 'big kid's playground' and was failing miserably. They kept suggesting I try different apparatus to see if I could master them, which of course, I couldn't, and then they took great delight in displaying their expertise in the correct manner.
Our play was the highlight of their day, and mine. We will have to do it more often, except maybe I can find a playground that isn't built for midgets. Are there any around?
Friday, 19 November 2010
It's been quite a week and now I am taking a breather. In fact, the term 'breathe' is described as 'to draw in air and expel out of the lungs'. Something that we take for granted, of course, however, sometimes when I am busy, tired and stressed, I forget to breathe properly. Instead, I take a series of short, sharp puffs of air followed by a big sigh as the lack of CO2 starts to take its toll.
This week was one of those weeks that I forgot the whole breathing thing. Mainly because my family have been either at the hospital, the GP's or sick in bed.
Firstly, child number four, our 'growling princess', came down with a cold. No biggie, except that our little one never does anything by halves and she ended up with pneumonia and we spent hours at the GP and eventually came home armed with meds and steroids to stop her from labouring with her breathing. No small matter considering she turns into a writhing, seething mass of arms and legs when her poor caring parents try to administer the required dose. It is more a case of pin her down on the floor and hold her nose which in turn makes her open her mouth and swallow (the Doctor recommended this - not me).
This was the same day that my ever-suffering OBH went into hospital for a little day-spa therapy in the form of 'contraceptive plumbing down-stairs'. He cut a forlorn figure as I dropped him off at the hospital entrance, and asked me whether I was going to walk him in. 'No my love', I said, as I opened the passenger door for him, 'It's not like you are giving birth, and did I mention, I did that six times?' I did feel a little sorry for him as I drove away, but only momentarily, as my mind was on more pressing matters, - drive-through coffee fix.
So the OBH was being dealt with, the little one was sick and my other little ones (the twins) were secreting a large amount of nasal fluid. After medicating everybody in my path, as well as myself, it was soon time to collect the OBH.
Upon arriving, I noticed the whole ward was full of men having the same plumbing procedure and their faces were pictures of pain and anguish at the very thought of 'their boys' being tampered with, and even worse, cut (which by the way is teeny tiny and they don't have stiches - only glue!). There they all were moaning and groaning and walking like cowboys. I took one look at the nurse and said 'Oh for goodness sake'. She just rolled her eyes and said 'I know, I know'. No more words needed there!
The lovely nurse then enquired of the OBH whether he needed a wheelchair to get to the car to which I snorted 'Are you kidding? I'm not pushing him! I didn't have a wheelchair after pushing out my babies'. So he walked, well hobbled, leaning on my arm, whilst I kindly told him that the car wasn't too far away and would he prefer to take the lift instead of the stairs. See, I can be compassionate and sympathetic when called upon to do so.
So thank goodness this week is nearly at a close. The little ones are recovering, the big one is faring well despite his traumatic procedure, and I think that I am due to have some time off. I might book in for some day surgery myself. Honestly, I could think of nothing more enjoyable than lying back on crisp white sheets, having my brow mopped, being fed intravenous high-as-a-kite meds and have my food brought to me on a tray. It sounds like absolute bliss. I just have to work out what I am going to have done and that's the fun part ...
Sunday, 14 November 2010
Friday, 12 November 2010
The strangest thing occurs in our home - well actually, many strange things happen in our home, but this is the latest ...
After our big weekly shopping expedition, whereby we come home with bag after bag full to the brim with provisions and also after having spent a small fortune yet again on said stuff, the kids can't find anything to eat. Nothing! Why is that?
I mean, we buy all the necessaries and then some. We stock the fridge and the pantry not to mention the freezer but the general body of people in our home are still not satisfied. Granted, we don't buy junk food, meaning crisps, biscuits, lollies, soda etc, but we never have, so that shouldn't be a problem. If the kids have a treat, I will bake something. Did I mention I am an old-fashioned kind of Mummy?
An hour after dinner tonight our firstborn child stated that she was starving following her (meagre apparently) dinner of pork chops, garden salad, fresh baguette and oven-roasted jacket potato, plus an apple for dessert. I seriously couldn't think of one more food group that she hadn't partaken of for the day. So I gave in and did what all tired Mummy's do and said 'Go on then and have the lemon tart with the thick vanilla yoghurt that is hiding in the back of the fridge'.
She skipped off in merry delight because of course, all along, that is what she wanted and the other poor little one's went off to bed with rumbling tummies and without their fix of tart and yoghurt.
Maybe it's time to re-visit the tale of children from history who only had potatoes, rice and weak vegetable stock for dinner night after night. The only problem is that the last time we spoke of that, the kids were so excited they begged us to just serve them plain rice for dinner and honestly, that just doesn't appeal. For months they kept bringing the subject of 'our rice only dinner'.
I only have one teenager in the house at the moment, with five more to follow. Imagine what it will be like when they are all grown-up people! We will need a separate room just for the food plus ten fridges and our very own bakery out in the backyard.
Monday, 8 November 2010
I was chastised this morning at school. By a four year old.
My daughter and I turned up at the correct time (quite a feat some days), we hung up her bag, retrieved the copious amounts of stuff that she 'just had to take to school', smiled politely at the other Mummies and then stumbled upon trouble.
A little urchin, not much bigger than my foot (I have monstrous feet) blocked my path, squared his frame and growled 'your kid is not allowed to wear purple elastics in her hair - wrong colour. Only blue is allowed'.
My reaction, when I picked myself up from the floor was to say, 'Yes, that is because I am a naughty Mummy and only naughty Mummies put purple elastics in their daughter's hair'.
Granted, his mum, who was standing by and watching this scenario gave an embarrassed laugh and commented that he was doing a good job of school principal for the day and then she quickly shoved him inside.
Personally, I would have preferred she gave him a clip around the ear. I think tomorrow I will do number four's hair up in pink elastics, not even matching, maybe a collage of pink, ranging from candy to raspberry to boysenberry, and then we will see what 'the elastic policeman' has to say.
Not that I am bothered about it, of course, it is just the 'principle of the matter'!
Saturday, 6 November 2010
My little baby girls are starting to talk. Ok, not talk, babble.
Guess what their first word was? Mumma? Nope. Beautiful Mumma? Hardly. Precious and oh-so-hard-working-Mumma? Ridiculous!! IT WAS NANNA!!! Yes, Nanna, as in grand-parent, my mum.
Now, here's the deal. If I was the one who carried them for nine months and spent most of that time with my head down the toilet, or in hospital on a drip through dehydration (all true), who was barely able to eat a full meal, or walk without feeling as though those two were going to fall out (sorry - that was an over-share!), whose poor tummy skin was stretched to gigantic proportions and then .... pushed both babies out (with drugs - lots of them) ... would you not think they would say my name first? I mean, surely they were thinking of me when they were saying 'Nanna'. They must have been because I swear they were looking at me when they were 'talking'.
So maybe I am over-exaggerating and the bottom line is it doesn't matter, however, the lovely 'said Nanna', was beside herself with excitement. There was not a hint of 'oh poor Mummy has missed out'. Nope, none, not a bit! It was more a scene of inner satisfaction as a strange sort of peace which came across her face, kind of like the universe had finally done its bit for her - and everything was as it should be - and will be forevermore.
As I said, I am fine with it. I am over it. I have dealt with it. Of course, it always helps to give the girls a teeny-weeny little pinch of their lovely, big, chubby thighs, every time they utter the 'N' word.
That is hypothetically speaking, of course, and any good and perfect mother would never do that.