Remembrance

Fatty and I have just finished watching a movie about the battles fought by Australian troops against the Japanese, along the Kokoda trail, in Papua New Guinea. I am still reeling. I simply did not know the details of this almighty fight.

And oh, what a fight the Aussies fought - outnumbered 10 to 1, in heat and mud, with leeches and biting insects; battling dysentery and tropical ulcers as fearsome as the enemy. I am humbled by the fortitude of these Australian men. Not only did they mount a courageous defence, they forced the Japanese to retreat, and saved our country from almost certain Japanese invasion from the north.

I am reminded of the incredible debt my generation owes to these earlier generations - to the soldiers who were killed or wounded (in body or in mind), to their wives and sweethearts who lost partners, to the soldiers' mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers.

I hope that somehow they know that I am thinking of them tonight; that all they gave was not in vain; that they are remembered and revered.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.

right here, right now

Those children of ours are playing doctor and patient. I would like to point out that it was my mother-in-law who gave our ratbags their medical kit. I myself would prefer they be given chef kits, so they can take over the cooking for me, or perhaps they could be gifted with mops or small vacuum cleaners. After all, I'm aiming to be like Redneck Mommy and have my kids earn their bed for the night!



Fatty is resolutely eating cereal and reading up on the Australian Open tennis. He is a pretty big sports fan and I suspect would read about ping pong if he found such an article.



I'm drinking coffee and reading the fashion section (because Fatty was hogging the news section when I started, and now I have got totally caught up in whether I should be wearing the mini dress or the sack dress this season. I'm thinking either would look fabulous on me. *small cough*)

That's our morning. Hello! from all of us!

news from the house of Jelly

I can't believe I haven't blogged for so long. Because there has been so much going on here. Groundbreaking stories every hour. Where shall I start?

Well, firstly -

1) the dog has been emitting such pungent aromas (all the while snoring innocently on her dog pillow) that I have been forced to issue denials to Fatty as we watch Seinfeld (e.g. "Just in case you were wondering ...that was NOT me!")

2) sweet Laura has lost a front tooth! Alert all media, release balloons, sound trumpets! She looks adorably gappy. The tooth fairy must have thought so, too, because she left behind five dollars. Kids today are so spoilt.

3) Benjamin the Invincible has picked up a new phrase (?from a movie) and has been trying it out-

"Get me some milk on the double!"

It's a damn fine try at parent-manipulation, but unfortunately instead of rushing to do Ben's bidding, I find myself laughing uncontrollably. I mean, as if!

(* skip this next section if squeamish*)

4) At work, I have been inundated with a plague of festy mucky ear canal infections, pus-filled sores, speckly heat rashes and scabbed-up eczema.

Didn't I just tell you my days were fascinating?

So, how fascinating has your day been so far?

being true to my name

There's nothing quite like a good old laugh at yourself. Or maybe it's only me who feels this way. After all, I have found myself, over the years, to be an endless source of pea-brained errors and social gaffes.

At any rate, I amuse myself regularly, but here's one of my better blunders.

Last week, I saw one of my regular patients, who confessed to me she'd become ill after taking some diet pills. She told me the name of the pills, which made me raise my eyebrows a little. "Really? Were they really called F** B******?", I asked 'Katrina'. She nodded, and I furrowed my brow. "Hmmm. Maybe they're aimed more at men?" I mused. I checked my medications database, but found nothing by the same name. I wondered if perhaps it was a new tablet.

Later, I carefully documented the name of the pills in my notes. Katrina was well again, and I thought nothing of it until yesterday.

Our practice nurse 'Meg', sidled into my room, smirking. She'd been looking up some blood test results for Katrina, and had seen my notes.

"I think you may have misheard Katrina Fenton", she sniggered.

"What?", I asked, nose buried in paperwork.

"Those diet pills she took..." (more smirking)

"Yes?"

"I think they were called 'Fat Blaster'."

(small pause)

"As opposed to 'Fat Bastard'."

At this point we both lost our composure and began snort-laughing and clutching our bellies. I had tears. Meg had tears. I had to take several deep breaths before ushering in the next patient, and even then I think I may have smiled inappropriately. I am still grinning like a lunatic and chuckling to myself as I write this now.

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Can't you just see a burly beer-bellied bloke ambling up to the pharmacist?

- 'Ray, I'm going to need another bottle of those Fat Bastards.'

It's 2007!

I've visited all your blogs, and it sounds like you've all had at least some fun over Christmas! Now it's time to welcome in the New Year. I reckon it has great potential! Happy New Year to all!!

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As you may know, I've been away the past week. I don't think I mentioned that the week was a week of travel - to Fatty's parents, to the family of his brother Newsreader (who has the head of a newsreader) where we were joined by Writer and his gorgeous wife Ten (she was nicknamed 10 at school - as in, 10 out of 10 - because she is so outlandishly pretty), then off to the land owned by another brother Goof (um, he's a goof) where we camped overnight. Then we retraced our steps, and arrived home two days ago. It was certainly busy, and there were no naps or reading of novels involved, but damn if I don't feel happy! And my eyelid has stopped twitching. How do you like that?!

I'd love to moan about having to visit Fatty's awful relatives, but in fact they are great people, and I must confess it was a lot of fun. Sure, I'd like to whack Writer over the head with the tea-towel at times (whilst explaining to him that meals don't make themselves, serve themselves and clear themselves away....geez!), but apart from that minor irritation it was a fabulous week.

Here are some photos....

All are photos from Goof's block of land, apart from the go-carting shot (Laura and me, at Newsreader's countryside home)

Happy 2007!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We Wish You a Merry Christmas!

While I'm away this coming week, please take care everyone, and have a wonderful Christmas!

somebody's a homebody

It seems I'm turning into my husband. Or, to clarify, I'm becoming more like him with each passing day.

I'm not growing chest hairs, and I'm not becoming unnaturally interested in the local weather website. I'm not forgetting upcoming social commitments, yet recalling the exact score of my football team's last winning game. I'm certainly not wearing shiny Wallace and Grommit boxer shorts to bed. And yet.... I think I've become a homebody.

Fatty likes to be at home. He likes to potter, to do jobs, to watch sport on TV, to read the paper. I, on the other hand, am somewhat more social (or at least I used to be). I look forward to seeing family and friends. If a weekend goes past without some kind of social event, I feel mildly disappointed.

But perhaps as I'm getting older, I'm changing. Because these endless rounds of Christmas gatherings are messing with my head. All these celebratory occasions should delight me. Instead I'm stressed about where I have to be when, and what salad/cake/gift I have to take to whom. My left upper eyelid keeps twitching. I'm afraid strange men will notice and think I'm winking at them.

I'd like nothing more than just to stay at home each day and night, right through until New Year's Day. If anyone wanted to visit, that would be fine. I have another fruit cake and some good coffee. But if I could just stay in the one place long enough, my mind might stop whirling and small body parts would stop flicking.

I can see now why they call it the Silly Season. I can also see the wisdom of my husband's ways.

Yuletide Yabbering

Writing Christmas cards is a tricky business. I had forgotten this, until just now when I sat down to write a few.

The thing is, there are some friends I only see every few years. The Christmas card from last year may be the last time we communicated. So although we may share a history, and have maintained a bond, I'm not completely relaxed about what I write in my message to them.

It's an odd thing, but somehow I find myself wildly rambling in greeting cards. It's as if, let loose on the blank page, my imagination knows no bounds, and I begin to write random thoughts. I end up sounding kind of frenetic, slightly manic. I'd be disturbed if I received one of my own cards (of course, that would also mean I had resorted to sending myself Christmas cards, which even I must admit doesn't seem healthy)

And then there are my clumsy attempts at humour. I can't understand, really, because as a child I was nothing if not earnest, and as an adult I don't get any requests to do stand-up routines. In fact, I have this amazing ability to take a joke that was stomach-clasping-funny when told to me, and render it inert, lifeless, completely un-funny. It's my special skill. Yet, whenever I write in cards I begin to crack jokes. Generally bad ones. Occasionally they are in poor taste. I joke about locking our respective children in a cupboard so we can drink champagne on the back deck, and then I wonder if the card recipient will think I am half-serious. Will they read my words and frown, their index finger poised to dial Childrens Services? I dribble on and on with the dumb wisecracks, and then after perusing the card, I wince and sigh. Why? Why can't I write a nice, sweet, heartfelt Christmas greeting? Is that so hard?

I can just see my old pals reading with furrowed brow, and passing the card to their spouses with concern. "She wasn't like that at school. I don't know what's wrong with her. Maybe she's not well?"

I'm well, really I am. I'm bouncing with wellness, and I just get a little silly. It's all that Christmas cheer.

Tomorrow night I'll try again with fresh cards. No jokes, no dumb remarks. Just 'hello, Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year to all!'. Safe, sensible. Sedately sending Seasons Greetings.

I hope you have more success writing all your cards. Best of luck!

Christmas, already?

My daughter had her birthday. I made her a cake, or rather - Dorothy from the bakery made the actual cake - I just cut it and decorated it.

We put up the Christmas tree.

I cleverly merely switched the Christmas lights on once again. Yes folks, I never managed to take them down after last Christmas. (It got to July this year, and I figured we were now closer to Christmas than not Christmas - if that makes any sense. Anyhow, it made perfect sense to me at the time) Oh, the joys of being slack are manyfold!

I have been braving the shops to search for those elusive magical gifts.

I have been finishing a scrapbook (my first ever) of our Canada trip for Benjamin, and starting one for Laura. I realise this project is progressing at a staggeringly sloooooow pace. My attitude can be summed up by this conversation I had in the arts & craft shop yesterday:

Cute blond teen salesgirl - "Oh, you're getting some cute colours. I just love scrapbooking!!"

Frazzled, headachey mother-of-two - "I hate it."

(short silence)

cute blond - "Oh! ha ha! Um, well, I haven't had much time for it lately..." (edges steadily away from frazzled mother)

I have been enjoying reading all your blogs, and hearing what everyone has been up to. I hope you're all beginning to feel that festive spirit stir within you ....

'It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!'

respect gained

*Those who didn't read my post about 'Steven', my karate instructor, would be best to stop reading now.... this will bore you silly*

If you're still reading now, I'll try to reward you by being succinct!

Remember how 'Steven' was being rude and aggressive in classes? What I didn't mention in my story was the fact that 'Lisa', Steven's sister, also trains at the same dojo. And after Steven's particularly foul-mouthed outburst early last week, Lisa cornered me in the changing room and asked me what I thought about how he was acting.

Keeping in mind that Lisa was Steven's sister, I merely remarked that I thought Steven was trying to ensure we all respected him as our teacher. I added that I understood it would be hard to instruct a class of such a diverse age range, but agreed Steven was being too aggressive in his manner. I told Lisa that I was considering speaking to Steven on another occasion, when he had calmed down a bit.

For two days, I thought and thought about what I might say, how exactly I might word what I wanted to convey, without causing offence. Then I turned up for training again, and Steven was standing right beside the sign-in book.

"Hi, Steven", I greeted him.

Without any preliminaries, Steven replied, "What you said to Lisa - I completely agree."

My mind spinning (wondering what on earth Lisa actually said!), I managed a "Huh?"

Steven reiterated, "What you said to Lisa - you're right. I agree".

Not one to think on my feet, I mumbled, "Oh....OK!". I smiled, bowed in to class and lined up with everyone.

The class went well. Steven was warmer, friendlier, but still ran a tight ship and made sure we all listened and trained hard.

I went home, still amazed at Steven's response. Because I don't know about you, but when faced with criticism, I don't think I have ever simply stated, "You're right, I agree completely." If I manage to swallow my pride enough to accept what's been said, I will agree and apologise - but always with at least one small justification. Like, " Yeah, I was grumpy, I'm sorry. It's just that.. (blah blah- insert excuse of any kind eg fatigue, worry, illness, headache)".

Steven made no excuses, didn't rationalise, didn't give explanations - he openly acknowledged an error, agreed with a criticism, and changed his approach.

My respect for Steven has grown immeasurably. I've also realised that it's all too easy to criticise (like I did), but much more difficult to accept criticism gracefully.

Ironic, isn't it - I started off all indignant, thinking Steven needed to 'learn a thing or two'. Yet really, I'm the one who has learnt something new.

Life is full of fascinating twists and turns.

about face

Every now and then, my children do or say things to atone for the stress they cause me, the lifeblood they suck out of me, the emotions they wring from me. This is not to say that my dear offspring do not also bring me joy, fascination and the deepest, most indestructible love. I'm just saying - there's also the vomit-bucket-holding, the dispute-negotiating, the endless cooking and cleaning and bathing and dressing and toothbrushing and ..... I think I've made my point. Kid-raising is no light task.

So when I am given one of Ben's ferocious hugs, or one of Laura's soft cheek-dusting kisses, it is always a delight - an oasis of pure happiness in the day.

Sometimes, it is an amusing statement that makes my day. Last week, when I insisted Ben go get dressed, he pouted, "You're wrecking my life!". It was the absolute highlight of my day. For what could be a better benchmark for success as a mother than to check whether or not you are ruining your child's life? Ruining their lives is our job. I take that role seriously.

Other times, my kids reduce me to a pool of melted mother. They say the sweetest things, and I am putty in their grubby little hands.

This morning, I made some remark about my face. I can't remember exactly what I said, (though I can reassure you that it was unlikely to have been, "Gosh but my face is looking terrific this morning!"). Laura, always wanting to make her mother happy, chimed in with, "Mummy your face is pretty".

Ben spoke clearly from the opposite side of the table, "Your face isn't pretty Mummy." I glanced over, and raised an eyebrow (because really, if you can't brainwash your children - who you have incubated, birthed and nurtured - to believe their mother is beautiful, then what hope have you got with the rest of the population?)

Ben grinned devilishly and finished with, "....it's adorable!"

Ah. Good save, my sweet son. Well done! Now excuse me while I find a corner to go melt in.

respect

Where I train in karate, the head instructor's son (aged in his mid-20's) has recently taken over most of the classes. This young man (I'll call him Steven) is knowledgeable and experienced. In the past, when he taught occasionally, I enjoyed his classes. He taught us new things, or taught us things we already knew from a different angle.

Since Steven became the main teacher, though, he has become very defensive. He is critical, with very little praise to offer. He bridles at any question regarding techniques, however innocent. With the older students (and there are quite a few of us in the 30-50 age group), he has been particularly curt.

I understand what is going on here. Steven wants to be sure we are all giving him the respect he deserves, as our teacher. The trouble is, he is aggressive, and somewhat disrespectful in his attitude towards the class members. Tonight, when he became annoyed by a 50-ish black belt student who Steven thought was defying him (when actually, the man had made a geniune error), Steven told the man to 'f*#k off' out of his class! To be completely fair, there has been some conflict brewing between Steven and this other man for some time (through misunderstandings, from what I can tell). However, I thought the swearing was extremely unprofessional. But then I guess I'm not 24, and I'm not trying to teach a class ranging in age from 15 to 55 (70 if our oldest member comes along!)

I'm frustrated by karate classes these days. I can feel Steven's defensiveness and aggression. I want to tell him, 'You can't force people to respect you. You must inspire respect. Be a teacher who is firm but patient, who corrects but also encourages." Of course, this would go down like a lead balloon!

Still, I might try speaking to Steven in private. I might tell him how much I've enjoyed his classes, but how I would enjoy some positive feedback as well as correction. I might let him know that I respect him as a teacher but that I sometimes don't feel respected as a diligent student (which I am). Because really, if there is no change, I won't want to continue training. And to leave without at least trying to discuss the issues seems like a cop-out, and a waste of all my years training at that club.

Hmmm. Might sleep on it!

touchy feely

As blogfriends, we have no real way of knowing what each other would be like in person. Many of us never show our faces on our blogs. We don't hear how other bloggers sound. We can't see our blogpals' gestures, mannerisms. And we have no idea whether, were we ever to meet, a particular blogger buddy might smother us in a breathquashing hug, kiss on the cheek whilst performing a small shoulder pat, extend a stiff hand, or nod shyly.

When it comes to how affectionate a person is, I reckon most people fall into categories 1 to 4:

Category 1: kisses and/or hugs everyone except the garbage man. Takes any social greeting as an opportunity to grab a hug, and lay a smacker on the other person's cheek (people belonging to subcategory 1b will actually plant a kiss on the mouth of any stray relative, no matter how distant. Whiskery Great Aunt Joys are often to be found in subcategory 1b). Touches others readily, and without self-consciousness. Category 1 people are known to rub the pregnant bellies of complete strangers.

Category 2: greets close friends and close family with hugs and/or kisses, but is a little more discerning with casual friends or extended family members. Especially loving and affectionate with children and partners, Category 2 people are very cuddly within their select circle. Will often touch an acquaintance on the shoulder or hand if the acquaintance is upset or ill, but will otherwise keep their hands to themselves.

Category 3: more guarded, Category 3 people will generally regularly embrace close family only. Even then, they may receive complaints that they don't show enough affection.They will make an exception for friends or other family members in distress. They may even learn to accept hugs from friends who belong to category 1 or 2, but category 3-ers will rarely initiate this physical intimacy. Category 3 people are not naturally 'touchy'.

Category 4: these people are extremely self-contained, and rarely touch others. Category 4 members will only offer another person a hug at funerals, and only immediate family. They may stiffen if embraced by others, and leave their arms like planks of wood by their sides. Although some category 4-ers have blood-stained axes under their beds, many more were simply never shown physical affection as children.



Personally, I think I'm a category 2. Some of my husband's friends are category 1, and I enjoy their vivacity and warmth. Fatty is more of a Category 3, but lucky for me, I'm in his 'inner circle'! I hope my children grow up to be affectionate, too. I want to receive hugs from them all my life.

So, are any of you prepared to reveal your category?!

Christmas comes early

I blame it on Alice. I'm sure it was her talk of Christmas baking that had me daydreaming of a dark, damp, drunken fruit cake.

I've never baked a Christmas cake before. I'm not entirely sure why, but I think the reasons may have been work, work and too much bloody work, followed a few years later by two small children and even more work. Christmas cakes are quite labour-intensive. And frankly, when my kids were younger, given a choice of:
1) bake for 3 hours , or
2) read a little then go to bed early....well, the reading/sleeping option was always going to win out.

This weekend, though, I had energy to burn. I was riding high on a post-sick-kid wave of euphoria (no vomit! what a glorious day!). I followed my recipe, which was called 'The Perfect Fruit Cake'. I dutifully chopped, boiled, beat, stirred, sifted, combined. And LO unto my stove top a Christmas cake was born. And it was good.

I hate to blow my own trumpet, but someone has to toot my horn. This cake is seriously delicious. I could polish off the entire cake in a matter of days. Today I've eaten a piece after lunch and a piece at dinnertime. I may have to hide the cake from myself.

Of course, it's not really Christmas cake, it's November cake. Because truthfully, the only trace left by Christmas will be the scatter of crumbs beneath this table.

(hic!)

things that go bump in the night

Ever been awake in the dead of the night? Surely everyone has, at one time or another.

Lately, I've been awake at odd hours, looking after my son (see previous post). Even when he's settled again, and I've returned to my bed, I lie there listening, alert to any sound that could indicate I'm needed. Last night- lying, listening - I realised that there are all kinds of weird noises in the wee hours in our house.

Some of these night noises are comforting and well-known.

Each evening around midnight, there is the mournful screeching of a faraway goods train as it rounds a sharp bend. When we first moved here, I thought it was a solitary, sad cry. Often I heard the train as I was sitting alone, feeding an infant in the half-dark. It seemed the train was calling out in both pain and resignation, as it rounded the corner on its track. With time and familiarity, though, the goods train has become like a reliable old friend. The sound is a happy one - a tireless train forging ahead. I hear it as I head for bed late sometimes and think - Ah, there's the goods train ..... all is right with the world.

Another routine sound is the thumping, crashing, romping of possums across our tin roof. Although initially this can be startling (because it really, truly does sound like three fully-grown men are having rooftop races), I soon relax and smile to myself. Our possums must be the boldest, bounciest possums in Australia.

I'm used to the fruit bats, who squeak now and then through the night. I barely notice the dog's whinnying snoring. I'm reassured by the soft thud as the newspaper hits the front lawn.

But last night there were mysterious sounds, as well. First there came a soft rhythmic hiccuping. I was intrigued, and after a moment I shook back the covers to go check the children. Laura slept, motionless, with one irresistable peachy cheek uppermost. Even my soft kiss didn't wake her. She was not the secret hiccup culprit.

Benjamin was pale but breathing quietly, and still. The hiccuping could not be blamed on the little guy.

Fatty woke when I asked him if he could hear the noise...

me: "You awake hon?"

Fatty: (drowsily) "Hmmm?"

me: "Oh, you're awake! Can you hear that noise?"

pause while Fatty listens obligingly

Fatty: (slurring a little) "Sounds like someone hiccuping."

me: "Yes! It does! Except no-one is hiccuping!!"

Before we could conclusively solve the mystery of the hiccup (Fatty decided ' It must be a bird'. Of course, Birdman would think that), there came another noise. This one was a pathetic whimpering. And no, it wasn't Fatty begging me to let him get back to sleep.

I got up again, this time with a heavy sigh. Which child wanted me? Was Laura sick, too? But again, I found both children slumbering. I stayed awhile in each bedroom, to be sure. Not a sound. I returned to bed, and the noise came again. Fatty began to snore softly.

I lay listening to the whimpering come and go. I knew Fatty, the dog, and my children were safe. I had no energy to spare for investigating further. Eventually, the noise stopped, and I fell asleep, pondering the strangeness of noises of the night.

an apology and a whinge

Dear Blogfriends,

I'm posting briefly to apologise for my temporary absence, and particularly for my lack of commenting on your blogs. I have been a little haphazard with my reading, and a bit reticent with commenting, even when I have been reading. So please don't think I have abandoned you all.

My son has been sick over the past three days (and right now is lying in a feverish sleep nearby), so looking after him has consumed most of my time.

This is the 7th stomach bug our family has encountered over the past 12 months. I am just a tad fed up. And in case you were wondering - no, I do not prepare food un-hygienically, and yes, I do make sure my kids wash their hands before eating! Before this past year, neither of my children had ever been ill with a vomiting illness. I suppose they are simply making up for lost time! I'm not impressed.

Today I am feeling particularly isolated. No-one has phoned to see how Ben is - not my close friend Chooky, who knows Ben is ill, not my Mum (who is probably working, to be fair), not Fatty (who is also at work), not my sister-in-law, who was here the day it all started. What are these people thinking - do they not realise the world revolves around me and my children??? Gee whiz.

Ben whimpered to me today, with waxy face, "I wish I was you, Mummy. Then I wouldn't be vomiting."

Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.

ring a ding ding!

Look what my wee daughter found
by the sandpit, on the ground -
something shiny, something bright
that made me grin with pure delight -

Fatty's long-lost ring is home!
and no more shall I let it roam.
(I have a plan that's sound and true
involving tubes of superglue)

Welcome old ring, back to the fold
Sorry new ring - make way for the old...
I thank my lucky stars above
For old rings, old friends, and longlasting love.

pay it forward

Sometimes I get to feeling a bit maudlin. Often there is no clear reason for this. It may be merely that a friend has been a bit offhand with me. I may be worrying about a patient. Other times I absorb the mood of those around me - feeling unsettled and sad because a friend or colleague is unhappy. Sometimes the feeling I have is most like loneliness. I miss spending time with my friends - time that is just no longer available now that we have children.

When I get in a funk, I wallow for awhile. I soak up cuddles from my kids, and have to resist the urge to cling to them. I go over events in my mind, I think about everything that I dislike about myself. I fantasise about quitting work. I whine to Fatty and my friends. I wallow.

Inevitably, because this is just a crappy mood and not depression - (so no comments suggesting drugs or therapy, please!), I stop navel-gazing. I lift my gaze and see the real problems in the world. I try to think of what I can do for someone else, to make someone else's day easier, happier.

I'd love to say I do things for others because I am such a good person, but the truth is I try to make small gestures (make a cake, send a card, deliver dinner to a sick friend) because it gives me a sense of purpose, and makes me feel good. Of course I want to help out, but I'm also getting high on this sense of purpose - filled with joy at doing something for someone besides myself. I can highly recommend it as a cure for those transitory blues.

So today, instead of considering how I feel, I am going to consider how everyone else around me feels. I'm going to try to make a difference to someone else's day, no matter how small.

Yesterday, a close friend listened to me, empathised, and restrained from telling me I was a silly selfish cow. Now it's time to pay it forward.

gumboots and grass and galahs

We had planned to go camping, but inclement weather and the lure of an orphan calf that Mum is bottle-feeding found us spending a couple of days at Mum's farm.

I expected the calf to be sweet and cuddly, but he alternated between skittish and outright rude - butting unsuspecting adults between the legs with his head, as if we all had suddenly grown udders. The kids enjoyed feeding him, though, and he does look quite appealing.


Fatty photographed a new bird and was positively exuberant.

I walked around, snapping farm photos and soaking up the sights and sounds I love so much.

I hope you've all managed to find some time to soak up some beauty in your weekends, too. Happy Sunday!

my little super-heroes

Do you suppose they were contemplating trying to fly? That could have been really messy.

As it happens, no one flew or fell. Ben informed me that I was Super-Mum, which I chose to take as an affirmation of my super parenting skills (cough). I realise Ben would be unlikely to come up with the concept of Doing-The-Best-I-Can-And-Sometimes-Stuffing-It-Up-Anyway-Mum. But Super-Mum sounds so.... strong and powerful. It has a great ring to it!

Yesterday I was an inattentive mother. I didn't spend much time with my kids - I wanted to read, to talk to my friends, to get certain jobs done. I was being selfish, and I don't like myself much like that. I know it's forgivable to be a dodgy mother for one day, but today I want to do better.

Parenting is hard work.