My journal of trial and error and the occasional surprise discovery

Miss two is to the point

I think my darling two year old feels she needs to dumb things down for her greying scatterbrained mother. She constantly repeats herself upon hearing “no”, as though I was merely too daft to understand the brilliance of her request in the first place. Interestingly, her inability to audibly process the word “no” does not seem to hinder her ability to articulate the word herself. It’s not a problem on her end, as far as she’s concerned, you just have to really spell things out for mummy. Take this afternoon for example.

Miss two demanded my attention in her customary manner. “Mummy, you get me something else.” I responded in a similar way, “you eat what you’ve been given.” “But I can’t,” she replied with the tone of voice that insinuates I was dropped on my head at birth. I thought I would give her the benefit of the doubt. “Did your brother eat your pie?” I asked timidly, prepared for any numbers of responses as to the whereabouts of said pastry.

“no,” she replied slowly, taking the time to ensure I comprehended the severity of her impending starvation, “it’s just poo.” I took the time to ponder my response, taking into account the fact that it was a reheated supermarket pie left over from last night’s dinner, it probably wasn’t the most tasty specimen of a meal. I figured I would let her get away with not eating it. Despite any attempt to refute her refusal to consume said pie, she felt the need to continue, “and I don’t like poo.”

Well, she would know.


“But I still see bumps”

July brought the end of an era for me. I weaned my youngest child. My “this is the last child… again” child. She was two and a half. She’d had a good run. I needed my body back. For the past SEVEN years my body has been restricted because of a teeny tiny human being parasitically sucking the energy out of me in one way or another. First I was pregnant, then I was feeding, then I was pregnant AND I was feeding, then I was pregnant, then I was feeding, then I was pregnant and then I was feeding. Confused? That’s ok, I was a bit confused too.  I had been trying to wean slowly and gradually but consistently for quite a few months so when it did happen it happened rather easily. It was such a nice change from when I weaned baby number 2, which was an absolute nightmare. This time we talked about it for months before I finally did say enough was enough. I would say, “you’re a big girl now so you won’t need booby feeds much longer,” to which she would reply, “I’m a baby, goo goo ga ga.” I would then explain that seeing as she was old enough to have that conversation, she was old enough to not need it, and she would laugh, and I would feed her, and life would continue as before.

Until one day.

On Monday the 11th July I went out with the girls from church and I “forgot” to feed the toddler before I left. I noticed that she fell asleep fairly easily for her father and that she slept through the night. Woohoo. Sleeping through the night was still rather hit and miss for her. The next day she didn’t seem worried that she had missed out the night before, so I knew that the time had come. It helped that her best friend had recently weaned also, so we sat down and had a “big girl” chat about how she didn’t need mummy’s milk anymore. She seemed a little sad until I bribed her with juice and she said “no, chips! AND Juice,” and that was that.  We were only feeding to sleep anyway, so we skipped day sleep and when the time came for her to go to bed for the night, I conveniently had to “go out” again. I sat in the garage in silence for an hour or so as I wondered if I would get away with it again. I could not tell if I was more excited or emotionally overwhelmed when my husband finally came out triumphantly exclaiming, “she’s down.”

Wednesday night was the notorious “third day challenge.” When 10pm came around and she still wasn’t asleep, I gave in and I fed her a little to calm her down as she was getting mighty distressed, but I pulled her off before she fell asleep and made her go to sleep without it. That was the last time we ever fed. A few days later she tried but she couldn’t be bothered working hard enough to get anything out and that was the end of that. It was all over, or so I thought.

Occasionally my sweet girl would look at me and say, “I want boob boobs.” I would smile at her and say, “boob boobs all gone now bubba, remember?” She would say, “oh yes, cup milk please mum mum,” and all would be fine.

One day, out of nowhere, my gorgeous four year old son looked at me earnestly and said,

“mummy, you know how you say you don’t have any boobies anymore? But I can still see bumps there.”

I don’t think I’ve ever smiled so much in my life. As I explained they would never really disappear, just they would not make milk anymore, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. Just quietly, I think I was worried they were going to disappear too.


Do you have any funny weaning stories?



School morning survival for 6 year olds 

I haven’t been able to blog much lately because my children take up pretty much all of my time. Well, that and I found All Saints on presto but let’s just blame the kids. 

Kids cop a fair bit of the blame for all sorts of things don’t they. Most of the time I try to remember that children are, well, children and that they don’t intentionally search for ways to annoy me with every waking moment. There’s the occasional time though that I have to wonder what planet they got dropped off from. 

My kids just seem to think differently to me. My very almost six year old is completely foreign to me in so many ways. Don’t get me wrong, there’s times when we are so in synch it is scary, but at other times, she’s just the embodiment of weird. 

So I’ve done this little instruction guide to make the mornings easier for us. Maybe somebody can translate it to her for me. 

School morning checklist 

  • put your school uniform on before you start chasing the toddler around the house trying to dress her. It might come as a surprise to you but mummy is quite capable of dressing your sister. 
  • Find your school socks before you interrupt my shower to start hassling me about me taking too long 
  • Put your lunch in your bag AND ZIP IT UP, because this is actually easier than screaming at a two year old for stealing your juice 
  • If you’re going to try to wear a purple singlet under your school uniform so you can feel powerful, do up your buttons so I don’t have to know about it. 
  • Don’t have a heart attack about not being able to find a kindergarten uniform for your brother on the days he’s already dressed in plain clothes because it’s not a kindergarten day. Again, kid, I got this. 
  • If you get milk or peanut butter onto your PJs, put them in the dirty clothes basket, not on your bedroom floor
  • You are not ready to go until your hair is brushed, which brings me to the most important point of all, 

IF YOU THINK I’M TOO ROUGH WHEN I BRUSH YOUR HAIR, DO IT YOURSELF!!! (Especially after we’ve already fought over all the other points on this list.) 

If you can do this, then kiddo we are gonna get on just fine. 


On your chair 

I’m trying to crack down on my son walking around the house with food. I wouldn’t mind so much if he didn’t just drop the scraps when he was finished but he does. Being a typical four year old boy he is pushing the boundaries. Being the typical sleep deprived, passionate, beautiful mess that is a mother of three young children, I’m not exactly great with words sometimes. Not that it would make any difference. 

I have tried explaining it to him many times in the past. 

“Mate, you can’t walk around with apples, that’s gross…. Please don’t leave your core in the lounge room…. Do you want ants? That’s how you can’t ants… No, hiding under the coffee table doesn’t make the problem go away… No, don’t put it in the cupboard next to the bin, but it in the bin.” He couldn’t care less. He’s four. What’s in it for him? 

So I’ve resorted to treating him like a chair. 

Everytime I notice he’s helped himself to an apple I approach him, say his name and point to the kitchen table, “on your chair.” 

He doesn’t like this, of course, but I’m finding consistency does work in wearing him down. If it doesn’t wear me down first. 

Today’s shenanigans went to a new level. 

Me: “William, on your chair.” William: “stop saying that.” Me: “then get on your chair.” William pokes his tongue out at me and licks the entire Apple* “I’m not eating I’m only licking it.” Me: THEN LICK IT ON YOUR CHAIR.” 

As a side note, how pathetic is it that I have had to continually argue with autocorrect to let me type Apple with a lower case “a” so many times that by the end of this post it has refused to let me change it at all. It was a fruit long before computers were invented ding dong heads. Grrrr. Even before there were chairs.