Toilet stop

Ha ha ha! Given my current obsession with all things ablutin', I think this site is worth a mention: a toilet map! I'm surprised no-one's thought to include it in that naughty If You Don't Know Where the Bloody Hell You Are, You're a Bloody Idiot tourism campaign that has the Brits all in a lather. (OK – I doctored the words just a teensy bit).

Well done Australian Government! Whoever thought of this idea, give them a large non-taxable bonus. Also, who goes to check the toilets? Who is the lucky bastard who gets to write 'roving facility inspector' on the blank space where occupation goes? I want that job! (No, no, I'm completely serious – I do want that job – yeah, there'd be a few shockers and you'd want a gas mask and a good sturdy pair of rubber boots, but think of the benefits: not being chained to a desk, the travel allowance, the rare graffiti gems, finding large bags of non-traceable drug money left in rubbish bins…)

Further poo tales

Sorry to keep banging on about this subject but I am in the middle of a fascinating yet putrid learning curve.

Here's my discovery of the day: when babies eat pureed kiwi fruit, THE BLACK SEEDS COME OUT EXACTLY THE SAME AS WHEN THEY WENT IN. I am sharing this with the world as a bit of public service so that innocent new parents don't freak out – like I did – when they open a nappy and find little bitty black things everywhere.

Ante natal classes should be restructured so that people can be prepared for this sort of thing. I don't know what they do teach in ante natal classes – I went to them once a week for 10 weeks, and I forgot everything the minute the first contraction came along – but we obviously need much more relevant information.

I learnt three things from my ante natal classes:

1. Our warm and cuddly midwife was replaced in week 3 by Ms Thin and Bony who was very abrupt and frightened everybody with statements like "It doesn't matter what pain relief you use, it's going to hurt." I'll bet everyone was hoping, just like me, that they didn't get her. But then when the time comes you realise that one abrupt no-nonsense carer is worth more than an army of soft hearted hippy mother types, because they are wonderfully firm when you are insisting that you can't do it anymore and they prevent you from giving up completely.

2. One midwife awkwardly manoeuvring a little plastic baby through a little plastic cervix IS IN NO WAY representational of what happens in real life with your real big baby and real bruised cervix.

3. When you turn up to ante natal classes with your brother, everyone stares at you and no-one really gets used to it.

Update on my nails

I think this will be the most fascinating post I will ever write.

Just in case anyone cares or is interested, my fingernails have finally recovered from the weird damage inflicted on them during Anna's birth. They are the last bits of my body to do so, after 7½ months, so they've been holding out for a while. I'm perversely proud of them.

I think it's obvious that I am tired and should really be in bed, NOT inflicting myself on the world.

First cold

Oh no! Gorgeous baby has her first runny snotty nose and I have turned into a tissue-wielding mama. I had no idea how tricky it is to wipe the nose of someone who is unable to blow. Or, for that matter, how quickly those oh-so-cute whole-body cuddles of babies turn decidedly un-cute when snot is involved. Actually, and I had no idea I would ever say this, I find that when it comes down to it I would still rather have the snot than not have a cuddle.

Apologies if anyone is trying to eat right now. Welcome to my world.

Single people are people too

Can I just send out a timely little message now to all those 'smug couples' (quoting Bridget Jones, how low is my life going to get?!) out there in happy couple land that just because a single woman comes into your orbit, it does not mean that you are about to lose your husband to the great gaping jaws of infidelity. Grrrr!!!

In fact, as much as it shames me to say this, letting down the great global sisterhood and all, it seems to be other bloked-up women who unsheath their claws at me – blokes don't actually seem to give a shit where I sit in the relationship graph.

So girls, give me and all the other single gals a break. We are not all after your significant others. Most of us hate sharing as much as you do. There really is no need to make snarly comments along the lines of 'watch out! Keep your eye on [insert name of poor gal just trying to get through the day unscathed]' as comments such as these serve only two purposes: to make an uncomfortable moment, and to highlight your own glaring insecurities.

So stop it. It's not big and it's not clever.

Tucker and Brad

Lordy Lordy, this is so funny.

I have no idea who Tucker and Brad are, but boy am I glad I'm not their mother. I bet they're sending the photo C/- her happy little zone in the nut house.

However, I'd love to be their sister. A lifetime of manipulative fun…

Cause and Effect #1

Today's lesson is: when solids go in, solids come out.

Sorry to bring this up in the middle of whatever you are doing, but Anna has just had the most revolting poo I have yet seen her do. It was indescribably vile. It was also right after lunch, which I will never, ever do again. Change a nappy straight after lunch, I mean; I was considering never ever changing a nappy again, but a bit of time spent imagining the consequences of that was a bit frightening.

It was by far the most horrendous thing I have ever seen in my life, and I have not led a cloistered life: I have, for instance, spent 4 days in Munich awash with beer and vomit and overflowing toilets at the annual slop-a-thon known as Oktoberfest.

I am thinking this sort of Badlands Nappy thing will only get worse as time goes by and more solids go in. I have therefore decided to keep Anna on breast milk forever, or at least until she is old enough to wipe her own bum, because otherwise I don't think I will survive.

First Mother's Day

Of course, before Anna, my family and I didn't celebrate Mother's (or Father's) Day because everyone knows that it is a construct of evil capitalism, designed to callously cash in on parental guilt and insecurities, and give the florists something to look forward to after the peak of Valentine's Day.

Now that I've had Anna, suddenly it seems like a sweet and loving thing to celebrate, and it's totally appropriate to respect the powerful and awesome role that mother's play all over the world.

My sister, who at last count has four children, must be feeling a tad confused because for some reason her kids have never engendered the need for a Mother's get together of the sort our family had yesterday. Maybe Anna's arrival has triggered a critical mass of squirming kiddies who justify a celebration. Maybe it was just a vague coincidence of timing and plans and good fortune. Maybe everyone felt the same way as me, and just needed any old excuse to get away from the madness of our four walls and descend on someone else's life for a while.

Whatever. We had a 'do', it was fun, we had nice food and good wine (Dad obviously felt it was a festive occasion as he broke out a couple of bottles, forgoing the Château de Cardboard!) and all kids were charming and well behaved. (This being the critical factor in any get together). I was a teensy bit nervous as my mother and my father and step-mother have been estranged for a good long number of years now and are only just getting back into each other's orbits (again courtesy of Anna), but it was brilliant. Nothing like time to wash away the water under some brand new bridges (I love a good mixed metaphor!)

My Mother's Day present from Anna was a cease fire from the terribly vile mood she has been in for the past three days, and another sharp little tooth. Now 'we' have two teeth, arriving at the textbook time of 7 months, and I am one smug mama....

Robyn Barker is wrong

Robyn Barker wrote the Baby Love books and damn fine things they are too. I found them very helpful and informative without being judgemental, which unfortunately is a rare find amongst baby gurus.

But one teensy area where she and I disagree is in the teething department. Today has been horrendous! My usually happy, cheerful, fun lovin' girl has turned into a whiny snarling beast who is satisfied with nothing. Anna (for it is she of whom I speak) doesn't want to do anything but doesn't want to do nothing; she doesn't want to be entertained, but she sure doesn't want to be on her own. She doesn't want to walk around and look at things, but she doesn't want to stand still for a cuddle. I even thought it might be a thrilling idea to just sit and wallow in self pity for a while, but she's not into that either. It's a shame, because that often works for me.

Robyn thinks that bad moods, diarrhoea, constant dribbling, extra vomiting, etc are mere coincidences and would happen anyway regardless of whether a tooth was coming. Sorry Robyn, I know you are better qualified in kids than me, but I think that's bollocks! I just can't believe there would be such a dramatic change in temperament and behaviour for no other reason than a 'bad day'

I am going to bed with fingers crossed hoping that tooth #2 erupts tonight, which will mean a return to sweet normality tomorrow.

Toys schmoys

I joined our local council run toy library this week – what a fabulous idea! Bet it was a female councillor who thought up that one. I picked up a great action-packed bells and whistles activity thingy with lights and sound and movable bits, and a plastic ball because all the books say babies MUST HAVE BALLS to practice hand eye coordination, and to learn cause and affect (ball rolls away, mother runs around looking for it), and to encourage crawling, and generally to keep the world turning on its axis.

However, Anna finds the ball soooooooo boring (if she's anything like me, she'll find that growing up in sports-obsessed Australia can be a real drag sometimes. At least she won't have a little brother whose weekly soccer matches she will be forced to attend owing to it being illegal to leave her at home with a book where she'd prefer to be). She liked the telephone handset attachment on the bells and whistles jobby because she could smash it with gusto, until she smashed herself in the scone with it; then it suddenly became a tool of the devil, never to be touched.

The moral of this story is: don't spend a fortune buying toys 'cos they won't get your money's worth from them. Its been said a thousand times before how much kids prefer playing with the boxes, but apparently us parents need to hear it a thousand times again because we either keep spending a squillion bucks on plastic things made in sweatshops, or we feel bad that we are somehow depriving our children because we can't afford to spend a squillion bucks on plastic things made in sweatshops.

Here are some of Anna's favourite things to play with, in no particular order:

My purse
The dog's lead
The dog
A black plastic lid from the jar in which I keep cotton balls
My mobile phone
Me
Target and Big W catalogues that thoughtfully arrive in our mailbox every week
My glasses
A cardboard box that once had tea in it
The lemon tree

There is a lesson to be learnt here, I just wish I wasn't too tired to get it.

Mmmm..... baby food....

Stealing food from a baby – how low can you go – but damnit, I did cook it! And I am still eating for two, ha ha.

Made up a batch of fruit compote today (in some households I think they call it 'pureed apple', but not here at Chateau Helen – hey, us housefrau's have gotta get our kicks where we can!) Just before lovingly spooning it into ice cube trays so it will be ready to lovingly feed to Anna, I just had a little taste. You know, just to test that it was up to an absolutely perfect standard for my little angel.

Well. I reckon I might have a few self control issues to work through. Guess what mummy had for dinner tonight? And guess who will be making more fruit compote tomorrow for the baby?

Somerville Ecovillage

Desperate housing situation – ie, renting really does suck (tell me, what is so offensive about a few hooks on the walls? Does it really affect the stability of the world as we know it, or are Perth house owners just a teensy little bit too precious?), plus income on the very small side, plus no real deposit to speak of, equals bleak prospects of ever owning a patch of dirt with some bricks and mortar on it anytime soon.

It's time to think outside the square acreage. So along with a couple of friends of ours, Anna and I trundled up to Chidlow to check out the Somerville Eco Village and see how we might fit in with the communal living concept. It is something I have been thinking of for a while now but have been reluctant to pursue the communal housing operatives I know of due to there being only 15-20 houses – I like a bit more anonymity than that, even if I am going to be throwing myself in the deep end of community. At Somerville, there are plans to have 150 families. With figures like that, it will be fairly easy to avoid someone if they piss me off completely; it should also be equally possible to plan retribution on someone who finds me offensive without them ever finding out who covered their mud brick walls with (free range) eggs or who stole the wicker baskets from their bikes.

But I'm digressing; let's not get too cynical too early. And let me say, these guys and gals at Somerville sure do have their shit together. With all due respect to true hippies everywhere, I have been involved with a couple of other hippy enterprises and sometimes although the ideas are good, the action part of things is often lacking somewhat. Not so up at Somerville! They are a disparate, interesting, dedicated group of people who are all committed to the idea of sustainable communal living, and have got themselves organised in order to achieve the same. Very impressive.

However, unfortunately I could never live with them in their happy harmony heaven, because they have decided (via discussion and majority vote, naturally) to disallow pets. This seems ludicrous to me, especially given that they are going to have chooks, geese, goats, bees, house cows, etc. I know the site is in beautiful natural bushland but, c'mon guys, it's still almost metro area; just how many rare and endangered spotted bilbies do you think there will be living there, with the monstrous new 4-lane Northern Highway almost on your doorstep? Haven't you ever heard of cat runs? How about if someone wants a horse that will alleviate the need to buy a petrol run vehicle? Who decides what is 'pet' and what is 'organic farm machinery'? It's a bit rich to insist a dog can't live there because it might upset any passing native wildlife but then allow chickens (and their associated diseases) because, oh yeah, you can get the eggs… hypocritical is the first word that comes to mind. Here's a thought – how many of you have had chook pens before? Once the first vermin invasion has been overcome I bet you will be looking at a couple of good mousing moggies with entirely new eyes.

The 'no pet' policy also misses one of the most pertinent points about sustainable living: that every creature on the planet has a right to be alive, and they should not be judged and ranked purely on their use to human beings. Denying the children of Somerville the opportunity to grow up with the unconditional love of a dog or a cat or what have you, simply because they don't produce eggs or honey, is not something I'd want to subject Anna to.

Food....grrr

Don't talk to me about baby food. I have all these grand plans of how I am going to avoid fussy eating and toddler/parent battles at the future dinner table, and I can't even get a nearly 7-month old to eat Farex. Or mashed banana, or pumpkin and sweetcorn, or pureed apple. Grandma can get her to eat. Grandad can get her to eat. Grandjan can get her to eat. I expect the council workers pruning the trees up and down our street could probably get her to enjoy a few good mouthfuls, too. Mum can't.

Bloody child.

However, I blame my breasts. I bet if they weren't there, she'd tuck right in.

Bad mother file

This is where I will be brutally honest and record the less than perfect things I do as a mother, because I figure if I am going to tell the good I should tell the bad as well. No point trying to pretend that I am super mum 'cos it sure aint true.

Anna fell off her change table today and hit the ground. It was horrible. She landed like a sky diver, arms and legs akimbo and face first, and my heart just about smashed into a million pieces. I think about it now – hours later – and my heart still skips. I try not to think about it now but the image of her landing on the floor just half a foot away from me has burnt itself on my retina and I can't shake it.

I still don't know how she did it; she toppled off the end – not the side – away from her feet. She must have turned all the way around, and then been sort of half sitting up somehow. I was getting something from underneath the table, and I had neither my hands nor my eyes on her. I have read a zillion times in every book ever written about babies not to take your hands off them for even one tiny second, and I still did it. I can't even begin to explain how I thought it would be ok because right now, in hindsight, all of my reasons sound really, really dumb.

I took her to the medical centre to get checked out and thankfully, a doctor said she'd be fine. I thought her brand new little tooth might have been knocked out. I thought she might have damaged her jaw, or got a concussion. As it turns out, apparently babies' bones are very soft at this age and rarely break. I have to look out for certain signs (loss of limb control, vomiting, fitting, – duh – listlessness, etc) and if necessary, take her to A&E. I think it might be a fitful night sleep for me as I will be wanting to check on her every 5 minutes.

She has a little tiny graze mark on her chin, poor baby, which to me looks like a great big flashing red beacon saying 'Bad mother! Bad mother!'

I sent a text to my sister while waiting to see the Doctor because it was a busy, impersonal place and I wanted someone to tell me that I wasn't as bad as I was feeling. I knew her son had also fallen at about the same age and I was after some solidarity. Big luvvies to her as she sent back a message straight away telling me it wouldn't be Anna's first fall and "they all grow up eventually". Someone give that woman a bouquet.