Wondrously Other: Olive

Showing posts with label Olive. Show all posts

Anatomy of Another Mountain Trek

There is a saying that time heals all wounds. In the case of this particular wound, it has taken eight years.

During that time, much has changed, but apparently not my groundless over-optimism for hacking up and down a mountain with my children.

We had often spoken about our first trip to the Blue Range Hut, and when we realised the anniversary was coming up, I decided to throw caution (and ITB injuries) to the wind and plan a repeat.

A quick call to Keith to borrow sleeping bags and a rucksack also reminded me not to lose the car key this time. First up, that was totally deserved, and second ... yeah I got nothing, it was totally deserved.

So overpacked, and overeager, Olive and I went and did adventuring. And (spoilers) clearly I got back alive again, so I leave this here for any parent who has wondered whether the second time is ever the charm.

Saturday
08:00 Leave home feeling smug that we didn't camp last night. Belt out some favourite tunes with Olive.

10:00 Arrive at Kiriwhakapapa campsite and instantly feel a wave of nostalgia as we grab our packs and head to the start of the trail.

10:01 Check that I have not lost car key.

10:05 Take deep cleansing breath and smile as Olive scampers ahead of me through the trees

10:10 Check that I have not lost car key

10:18 Reach the first of the orange triangles. Realise Olive has not been briefed on the use of orange triangles. Fix this oversight.

10:20 Check that I have not lost car key

10:21 Reach the start of the trail proper and remember that DOC's description of "scrambling up steep slopes, using tree roots as handholds and footholds" is, in fact, not hyperbole.

10:22 Deeply regret that I have overcompensated for my lack of supplies last time; 15kg of "essentials" begin to compress my spine. Check that I have not lost car key.

10:25 Hear Olive start to narrate our climb in her best Bill-Paxton-as-Hudson voice.

10:30 Stop for a drink. Glare at Olive as she tells me how heavy her pack is. Not even the Bill-Paxton-as-Hudson voice males me find it funny.

10:50 Olive has started to call out every "trongle" she passes. Have a deep conversation with her about orange triangles being a metaphor for life. Nah, just kidding, I don't have enough spare lung capacity to talk, I have the entire conversation in my head while I wheeze under the weight of my backpack.

11:00 Check that I have not lost car key.

12:30 Am already beet red and panting when from up ahead I hear Bill-Paxton-as-Hudson shouting "That's it, man! Game over, man! Game over!". Have to decide between laughing and breathing. Settle for accordion-like wheeze.

13:00 Sit on what feels like the hundredth rock and contemplate life choices. Decide that being prepared is vastly overrated.

13:30 Round corner and see Olive sitting on a rock grinning at me, a very blue hut behind her and immediately forget about the climb.

14:00 Decide to take a few hours to relax.

14:02 Hear the unmistakable noise of other people outside accompanied by at least one extremely noisy dog.

14:03 Offer greeting as the female half of Hunting Couple comes barreling into the hut. Hear the male half of Hunting Couple corralling dogs away from the door and toward the picnic table.

16:15 Decide it's time to start on an early dinner and head out to join Hunting Couple at the picnic table. Strike up a conversation about hunting while Olive heads back to the hut to grab a lighter.

16:16 Olive comes back with a lighter and is promptly bitten by Hunting Dog. I run to grab the first aid kit while Hunting Dog is secured.

16:20 Hunting Couple and Hunting Dogs pack up in record time and beat a hasty retreat, apologies echoing on the breeze.

17:00 Enjoy a hearty dinner with Olive and retire to bunk to cuddles, watch downloaded content and eat cookies.

19:00 Hear footsteps and loud banter as the Three Mean Girls burst through the door and stop dead in obvious consternation that other people should already be in the hut. Especially since there are four bunks total and two of them are already taken.

19:01 Continue relaxing on the bunks as Three Mean Girls proceed to take over every available bit of floor and counter space, slamming the door, huffing and talking loudly to each other, and studiously ignoring us.

21:15 Decide that it's time for bed and go to the toilet one last time.

21:16 Return to find Three Mean Girls have turned off all the lights while we were out. Roll my eyes and retire to bed.

Sunday
07:30 Wake up to the sound of rain pounding the tin roof. Start the day as I finished the last by rolling my eyes.

07:45 See Olive's head peering down from the bunk above and decide, much as last time, that a quick getaway is in order.

07:46 Make absolutely no effort to be considerate as we get up and cook breakfast in the shelter outside.

08:30 Donate leftover wood to future hut visitors and throw everything into bags making sure everything soft goes into Olive's pack.

09:00 Set off down the trail.

09:15 Olive stacks it on the slippery roots having ignored my warnings of the effects of rain.

09:30 Check that I have not lost car key.

09:45 Olive stacks it on the slippery roots and lands flat on her well-padded back. Am grateful for my packing foresight.

10:30 Slide down yet another rockface and smile as Bill-Paxton-as-Hudson makes a return appearance to announce "We're on an express elevator to hell, going down!"

10:50 Check that I have not lost car key. Realise that it has been some time since Olive has fallen over and that we can hear the sound of families splashing in the swimming hole.

11:00 Reach the bottom of the hill and burst from the forest into an insanely humid campsite.

11:55 Take out not-lost key, throw our gear in the car and leave for home.

12:00 Realise Olive will not make it far before falling asleep.

12:20 Stop for fast food treats.

12:45 Drive home in the stunning sunshine shovelling hash bites into my face and when Streetlight Manifesto comes on the stereo, I once again feel at one with the universe.

Sunday, 26 January 2025 Comments: 0

Learning to Sing

I live beside a misunderstood community. What is locally known as The Hippy House, is, in reality, a shared house filled with some of the most supportive and creative people I have ever met.

It's rare to visit the house without seeing someone drawing, writing, whittling or playing an instrument, and it's an addictive force to be around.

The first to be swept up was Olive, who disappeared one afternoon while I was chatting in the kitchen, only to be found lying across an armchair on the back porch with one of the guys playing his guitar. He was daydreaming while he played the same set of chords over and over, while Olive's teeny angelic voice sung the words to the chorus of Wagonwheel (her favourite song) over and over again. How he discovered that about her, let along get her to sing along with him is a mystery I never chose to unpack. Instead, I pulled my head back through the sliding doors and silently tiptoed away grinning to myself.

It never occurred to me that a few months later, the same household would weave the same magic on me, and I would find myself singing in front of people for the first time in my life.

I've spent a lot of my life singing in the shower, with my headphones on, and on rare occasions in front of people when I have consumed enough alcohol to be brave. Most of those occasions have resulted in me being told to "SHUUUUUUT UUUUUUUUUP!!!!!!", and so, for a long time, I did.

I stopped singing in the shower because I was just trying to get through it before The Offspring Wars escalated to literal bloodshed. And as a side note, I would like to point out that my going to the shower is never announced. I sneak into the bathroom with the same ninja skills I used to sneak out of my bedroom as a child, but they know, OH THEY KNOW. Even if all three children have been quietly enjoying activities in different time zones, I can guarantee that I won't have finished shampooing my hair before the first screeches are echoing through the house.

I stopped singing with my headphones on because I live in a house with no Wifi and, frankly, I'm bored of the music I have downloaded on my phone these days.

I stopped singing with other people around because, well actually, I didn't, there's just never anyone else around.

The point is, lockdown happened and I was blessed to be in a bubble with the guys across the road. And I'm a strong person, Lord knows I'm stubborn, but after a month of all that support and comradery, they snuck in behind my defences and a few beers into the evening, I started singing. Like singing along to someone playing the guitar. With nobody else singing with me.

Hands down, the most terrifying thing I can remember doing.

Especially when other people turned up. Other people, as in AN AUDIENCE. My brain took one look at the situation and had a full-scale Hulk Smash tantrum. The only saving grace was that we were singing a song that has three verses in it and that I'd listened to it for three days straight while I was in labour with Esme, which is to say, that song is indelibly lodged in my brain until the day I die.

The thing was after I'd told my brain "Sun’s gettin’ real low" a few times (geeky Marvel reference for you there), I actually started to enjoy myself. Okay so I had to stare at lyrics on my phone to avoid making eye contact, and I had to be given the most obvious of cues to start singing in the first place, aaaaaaand yes I fucked up more times than I got it right, but nobody cared, nobody told me to shut up, not once. They were having so much fun they made ME start to have fun too.

Right up until the point someone suggested an open mic.

Thursday, 9 July 2020 Comments: 0

Attachment Parenting Olive

Why Three Year Olds Are Like Drunks

I have finally dried my tears long enough to write about my thoughts on Olive turning three. My tears are not over the loss of my baby; quite the contrary, I was thinking just the other day how exciting it was to be able to go out for the day without needing to hire a sherpa, or having to calculate the infinite permutations of time vs nappies vs number of spare outfits.

Having older children is actually really liberating in that sense, especially when the youngest is this amazingly chilled out, happy go lucky child, who makes hearts melt with a single smile and all manner of ills vanish, with the squish of her cheek against your own.

Which brings me to the tears.

These are tears of mourning, not (as I said before) over the loss of my baby, but at the arrival of the gorgon she has become. Not all the time, just maybe 30% of the day, when she has hit the wall, and decided that those big emotions she is starting to experience are justification to make us all suffer.

At some point in the last week, Olive made the decision that if she's going down in flames, she's taking us all with her.

My life currently feels a little like being the sober driver at a party, every single night.

First come The Mood Swings.

We all have friends like that, right? The ones that seek you out, throw their arms around your neck, and declare "I love you, man" in a cloud of beery fumes. There's really no point in trying to reply, either with some very English dismissal, or even by joining in, because this is actually the opening line of a soliloquy.

Somewhere in the mix is usually some unwanted affection, some declarations of love, and the slow creeping numbness as the full weight of your new "best friend" compresses your spine into your shoes.

Then at some point, for reasons impossible to understand, you turn into their worst enemy. All that love suddenly becomes "fuck you man, YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME" and you're left trying to work out how the hell that escalated so quickly, and why you still appear to be holding this person up.

This is pretty much my life every evening.

Olive will dive bomb onto me, and gently take my face in her hands to profess that I am her best friend. She will usually squash her cheek against mine, before saying "I love you" through a smooshed up mouth, and falling about laughing. There may be some cute, kitten-esque noises (I dunno, she like to pretend to be a cat or something, go ask her why!) and maybe even a few rounds of raspbellies, on a good day.

The next thing I register, is a sudden realisation that her nails are overdue for a trim, as they slice through the soft flesh of my cheeks. Any attempt to make her understand that she has hurt you, and it's not a good thing, are completely futile. Save your breath. She bathes in the tears of adults.

Now that she has your attention, like any good drunk, she will move on to rousing a practical jokes.

You will understand my pain is you have ever watched an episode of The Science Of Stupid or if you have seen someone who thinks that shimmying up lamppost to set a traffic cone jauntily aloft is hysterically funny, when you just wonder …. Why?

Pick any evening, and imagine me sitting on an armchair, watching Olive running around the house cackling as she hones in on some potential for “fun”.

The other night, for instance, she came to a stop at the crate of Duplo, picked up one handle and started to tip.

Every parent out there knows the sound that makes; that sound of a hollow, plastic landslide, as bricks tumble out into a hot mess. There are few sounds that make me move faster, and I predictably lunged towards the crate, only to grab at thin air as Olive dodged past me, cackling.

Fucking CACKLING, man!

She then ran to the other end of the room (the end from which I had just come), to my wine glass, and slowly picked up a rubber duck. Once she had made sure I had seen her, she balanced the duck on the top of my glass.

I shit you not, this child actually planned a decoy.

It worked too, she passed me running in the opposite direction – still cackling – while I lunged to save my glass, from the inevitable pull of gravity.

I hadn’t even reached my glass before the cackling stopped and the duplo-slide began.

And that is the reason for my tears.

Friday, 10 June 2016 Comments: 8

Attachment Parenting Baby Led Weaning Breastfeeding Olive SNS Working Mama

When Breastfeeding Comes to an End

I've been dodging this post for a few weeks now, but at 2 years and 11 months there is no denying the fact that Miss Olive is well on the way to self weaning.

It wasn't like she was nursing very much: For the last year we had been down to a single bed time feed, but then at some point, she decided that a cuddle was just as good and simply ... stopped asking.

Mind you, Olive hasn't fully committed to life after weaning - she is only too happy to fall back on the comfort of nursing when she has a sore puku or an especially irksome day - but the onus is usually on me to offer.

This was a time I wasn't sure would ever come, and my boobs are officially in mourning.

For the last five years they had found a real purpose in life - beyond looking stellar in a low cut top - and now it's on the verge of being taken away. In one fell swoop, they have gone from Angelina Jolie, directing Unbroken, and going on a humanitarian missions to Africa, to Angelina Jolie hacking on the 90s interwebs with Jonny Lee Miller, despite being acutely aware that the world has moved on from the days of "Zero Cool".

And it's not like I would claim to have been the world's most successful nurser. It would be a fair comment to say that the only measure by which my abilities could be called successful, would be if the measure of success were sheer bloody mindedness.

But for all of that, I can't help but feel more than a twinge of sadness that my time as a nursing mama is coming to an end. And like some hackneyed, soft focus, emotionally sound-tracked, "let's look back at your best moments" TV segment, I'm going to take this moment to recap the three biggest achievements of our nursing journey.

1. Mastered a Supplemental Nursing System

When I first started using an SNS, I felt a like a one man band. Feeding at home required several sets of hands to juggle a soggy newborn, while unclipping tubes, poking bits in mouths, rubbing jaw lines, dealing with unexpected vacuums, clipping tubes back up before the baby got water-boarded, all while ignoring the damp cold cord round my neck, and the chilled milk resting on my chest.

If we were out in public, add onto that list installing the SNS under my clothing and latching on the baby, without giving the old couple at the next table an eyeful.

I say that because the only time I have ever had a negative experience while using an SNS, was in the early days of feeding in public. I was sitting at a cafe, and had very impressively managed to hang the SNS round my neck, and tape on the tube entirely by feel. I was about to take Esme from Keith, to latch her on, when I looked over, to see the old lady at the next table, with a mouth like a bulldog chewing a wasp. To this day I have no idea what her complaint was, but I very much enjoyed flashing her my widest grin as I latched my baby on in expert style.

Those were the days before I figured out how to feed lying down, which meant shivering through night time feeds, from the "comfort" of the bedroom chair, while my babies were toasty warm in their blankets. After that came the winter where I had nailed nursing in bed, but hadn't yet figured out that the way to avoid cold shoulders, was to invest in an old fashioned pyjama top, which came pre-installed with a perfect access system, known as buttons.

I've come a long way from there. Two children, two videos and several articles later, using an SNS feel like second nature to me now.

2. Survived a major nursing strike

If nursing has taught me anything, it's that the mechanics are the simple part; it's the emotion that gets you. I've had my fair share of emotions in feeding all of the children, and with Olive, the darkest times were during her five day nursing strike, at the age of ten months.

Five frickin days, man! I don't think I have ever pumped so hard in my entire life. I had to, it was the only thing that stopped me falling to the floor and wailing like a toddler who got triangle toast instead of squares. Besides the tears I admitted to at the time, there was a lot of self pity, and a metric fuck-ton of wobbly lips going round that week.

I threw a full blown pity party and forget to send out the invites. I was Googling shit like "depression after weaning" and "mourning and grief after breastfeeding". I mention this now, not to mock my former self, but because when someone with a normally unshakable sense of purpose decides it's time to sit in a corner and eat worms, you know that person needs a warm hug and a stiff drink.

Well, former self, here's your Jameson and Ginger. And a hug.

But this is what I mean about breastfeeding being an emotional journey; when you have overcome a tough start, you reach a point where you feel like you can finally be proud of your body. I paid my dues to those tough newborn days, and I'm entitled: I've earned my stripes, I've proven my credentials, where's my damn Easy Street?!?

Of course looking back, it's no surprise that soon after the lows of that week came the excruciating lows of blocked milk ducts. If I had been in a slightly less emotional place, I would maybe have eased up on the pumping a little sooner, and saved myself several awkward conversations with colleagues about why there appeared to be foliage in my bra.

3. Normalised breastfeeding for my children

I'm gonna skip straight past the part where I have to explain that I've only just managed to convince Alfie that he won't be required to step up to this particular parenting challenge. Hey, we have a non traditional set-up over here, I'll forgive him the confusion.

The girls, on the other hand, have got their technique nailed, and are turning into nursing pros. And not just their babies either, oh no, these days they have progressed to dinosaurs, puppies, ninja turtles, or anyone who stubs a toe.

And this is where I start using words like "legacy", because now that I am the official owner of a grey hair, I like to think about the way in which these parenting choices of ours will manifest as the children grow.

I sometimes wonder whether any of them will have children of their own, and whether I will one day sit around our table watching Esme sneak a sip of tea while dodging her nursing toddler's foot, or pass Olive a piece of kitchen paper to wipe pasta sauce from her nursling's head.

If those things come to pass they will be a blessing.

If they don't, I'll be content to know that none of my children will ever be that old bulldog-wasp lady when they see a mother nursing in public. I'll be happy knowing I was that mother who fed her children as best she could; imperfectly, with a ton of help, but passionately, and with love.

Monday, 16 May 2016 Comments: 0

Attachment Parenting Olive Toddler DoOm

Here's to Strong Women ...

When I left for work this morning I did something I often do, namely to kiss and cuddle each of my children goodbye. With Olive, there is often an additional sentiment wherein I look into her inhumanly gorgeous eyes and say something to the effect of "don't ever change".

I say this in part because I'm in love with her sunny personality, but also because I am utterly terrified at the fast approach spectre of her third birthday.

While many parents go through the journey of sharing their homes with a Threenager, we are still reeling from the sucker punch that continues to be Esme's journey through those "troublesome" years.

Please note everything in that last sentence was literal and not hyperbole, as in we are literally getting sucker punched on a daily basis.

Or as Keith so wisely responded to a meme about strong willed children changing the world "Esme will definitely change the world. Like physically. Until it is a cube spinning around the sun."

Which is only slight hyperbole.

Like any finely balanced ecosystem, we coped with the fact that one of our children delivers regular bouts of wanton violence, because it was balanced out by two children who seemed to skip through life on sunbeams and fairy song.

As of tonight, we are down to one child. The other dun fell off the sunbeam.

I came home tonight to see the children in various states of undress, covered in the foodstuffs and adventures of the day, and entertaining themselves with the electronic device of their choice. All of which is entirely normal for our household, and certainly nothing that would warn me of the catastrophic, soul destroying, moment that was about to hit me square in the face.

Once I had shed my biker's skin, I went into the kitchen to help Keith with the dinner, only to be stopped by a pouty version of the sunny little girl I had left behind that morning.

"Want cereal"

"I'm so..."

And that was all it took. I hadn't even finished the word "sorry", let alone tell her whether I was sorry that I couldn't instantly cough up Lucky Charms like a demented mama bird, or whether we had taken a moral decision never to let cereal pass our threshold.

There was no context given, and apparently none needed.

Literally the hint of me doing anything other than sprinting headlong towards the nearest cereal bowl was all that it took for Olive to drop to her knees, throw her head back and howl out the song of her people: The ancient lament of the Threenager.

An on some deep, primeval level, her father and I sung right along with her. Not in reality, because that would have looked stupid, but inside our hearts we wept the bitter tears of a parent who knows how this story goes.

This is the start of those "big feelings" that will grow exponentially depending on the number of people around us, and the quietness demanded by the location. We know the drill, we will be avoiding crowded libraries and the upcoming ANZAC dawn services until further notice.

This is the point at which "no thank you" will be replaced by a well aimed punch to the groin, and "stop it, I don't like it" will become a shrill screech that will set off car alarms all the way to Auckland.

Right now is when we give silent thanks for the nearly-three-years we have spent on Easy Street and hunker down with a bottle of wine to console us.

We know these things because we are, after all, the oil to her troubled water, the chill in her pills; dammit, we're the wind beneath her fucking wings!

Or to put it another way; we are completely, and totally screwed.

Wednesday, 20 April 2016 Comments: 0

Alfie Attachment Parenting Esme Olive Working Mama

I Don't Care If You Judge

Something really curious has happened to me over the last year, and like a lot of incremental changes, I'm not quite sure when it happened, only that it has.

On Sunday we went to an incredible street festival in the centre of town and, as befits the law of averages, one of the three children was on the verge of melting down on a rolling basis throughout the day.

First to go was Alfie who, on discovering that his sister had eaten all the dumplings while he had been off watching a batucada band, flipped both his lid, and the remaining dumplings clean out of my hands.

While soy sauce dripped off my nose and pooled in my bra, I took a deep breath and refocused on what needed to happen.

“Alfie” I said gently, getting down to his level “look around you. This is my favourite top, and those were your sister’s dumplings. I know you feel sad, but now we feel sad too.”

And then we hugged, and he said sorry to me and to his sisters.

And then I said sorry because now he had soy sauce all over him too.

Throughout this little scene, I’m pretty sure – no scratch that, I KNOW – that there were people around us looking on in disgust. I could hear them, I could see them, and I could feel the waves of disapproval at my parenting approach.

You know how much I cared?

About as much as I care who wins the current series of the latest must watch “reality show”, which is to say, not even the slightest bit: It is actually impossible to quantify the lack of fucks I was able to give at that point, numbers do not go down that low. Minus fucks only extend so far, and I was way off the end of that scale.

Later on, Miss Olive reached the end of her day which, because she is only 2, was about 4 hours before the rest of the family reached the end of their days. I don’t think it is an over exaggeration to say that there was a hella ton of woes, with a generous side helping of doom expressed attached to the situation.

We were in a makeshift bar garden, where extremely cheerful adults were in the process of enjoying some extremely alcoholic drinks and some extremely pleasant music. None of them had planned to add an extremely loud toddler tantrum into the mix.

I wanted to share how I reacted to that one too, because for some reason, one of the other adults who was there with us grabbed my camera and took a photo:

This is what it looks like to finally get my parenting priorities right.

I was shocked when I downloaded my photos and found this; shocked enough to want to mark this as something important, both in my life and the children’s.

Right here, is me giving all of myself to my children, and none of myself to the judging of others. Right here is me being 200% present for the people who need me. Right here is me being able to do that without the knot of nausea I used to feel when my children “kicked off” in public.

I have no idea when it happened, I just know that it has.

Wednesday, 23 March 2016 Comments: 1

Attachment Parenting Olive Toddler DoOm Working Mama

The Last Toilet Training Adventure

In this latest episode of where-the-hell-did-my-baby-go, apparently Miss Olive is no longer using nappies.

Like most working parents, this was not so much a conscious discussion as me walking through the door one evening to find her in pants.

Blue Minions pants in case you wondered.

Not that I think you will be overly concerned with the design of my daughters underwear, this is more of a forewarning that the next time you see her, you will be presented with a view of blue Minions knickers.

In reality it was Olive who decided that her time had come – as it should be, it’s her body after all – and like her sister before her, she announced that she wanted to use the potty and the rest, as they say, is history.

On the plus side, it’s summer, which means that puddles and washing dry pretty fast. On the down side, it’s summer, so if you don’t get to the puddles quickly enough then you have to play “hunt the whiff” until you find where she was caught short.

In less than a week, she has learned that “I need the toilet” needs to be announced ahead of time in order to be effective, and that there is a never ending stream of fist bumps and sibling adoration to celebrate her achievements.

While it’s heart-warming to see the older two be so excited and supportive, part of me is also slightly concerned that the first time someone free climbs a cliff, or recites The Lord’s Prayer in Cantonese, or gets accepted into NASA, they are going to lose their collective shit.

Now at this point, I'm sure you have a mental image of smiles, and easy times at our house; but Miss Olive, as with all her enterprises, is very set that there is a time, a place and indeed a way in which to go to the toilet. For the most part, they run something along these lines

Me: Olive, do you need the toilet?

Olive: Yes I need poo

Me: Ooh OK, sit down here and do your poo

Olive: I do poo

Me: Yes Olive, you do poo now.

Olive, grinning: I do POOH FAHT!!

Me: Sure, if you need to do a poo fart that's OK.

Olive, jumping up: POO!!

Me, looking at the tiny nugget of poo in the potty: Well done Oliebollen, why don't you sit down and see if more poo comes?

Olive: Need more poo.

Me: Well sit down then!

Olive: No, poo touching!

Me: So you want me to clean the potty

Olive: Yes, poo touching.

**brief interlude while I go and tip the teenie poo down the nearest toilet **

Me: Sit down then and see if some poo comes

Olive: I do poo

Me: Yes honey, you do poo

Olive: I do FAHT!!!

Me: Yup

Olive, jumping up: MORE POO!!

Me, looking at the mere smear of poo in the bottom and wondering whether it was left over from last time
.
.
.
Olive: Poo touching.

Friday, 5 February 2016 Comments: 0

Olive Toddler DoOm Working Mama

I'm Not Good With Sleep Deprivation

Many years ago, I went on holiday with a group of friends. We were staying at my Grandma's flat in Gibraltar and there were so many of us that I was relegated to the sofa.

Nothing unusual for me at the time, and not something I minded because I was part of the sub group - let's call us the "night owls" - who enjoyed a few ales of an evening. Unfortunately, the other half of the group - let's call them the "morning people" - would wake up and start cleaning the flat only a few short hours after we returned.

I would be woken each morning to the floor around me being swept, and the passive aggressive clinking of washing up floating in from the kitchen.

The whole situation got pretty tired, pretty quick, and degenerated into all-out war where neither group spoke to each other, or spent more than a few minutes a day in each other's company. By the end of the holiday the "morning people" bought me a novelty T shirt with a "funny" quote on it about me not being a morning person.

The "morning people" were never again invited on holiday.

Is there a point to this story? Well I'm hoping it gives you a little context to what I'm about to tell you next:

Miss Olive has a cold.

After she had lovingly shared her germs with me, she degenerated to a point where she couldn't breathe while lying down and I couldn't hear myself think over the beating of my own pulse. But God loves a trier (and Keith threatened divorce if we interfered with his ability to listen to his precious football game) so I scooped up my mucus covered volcano baby and tried to arrange us both in bed.

An hour later, I was still lying awake.

It's annoying when your neighbours keep you awake with the noise of their music vibrating through the walls; it's more annoying when it's your own heart playing a thudding bass beat in your ears. It was punctuated by the regular cough.... cough ....cough of the toddler. Every now and then we even synchronised, which brought us perilously close to producing something you could sell as Nu Jazz.

At about midnight I finally gave up on the bed, scooped up the mucus covered volcano baby, and retraced my steps to the sofa. It took a while for Miss Olive's body to settle from all the coughing, which was why I found myself lying in a foetal position beside her with one knee jammed under her butt to stop her from sliding back down into a lying (and therefore coughing) position.

Oh and she had also somehow managed to take up 90% of the blanket we were "sharing" leaving me with just enough to cover half my body if I tucked in reeeeeeally right.

By this point I was seeing any chance of a full sleep quota recede into the distance, so I set aside the creeping numbness and bone aching cold and resolved to get whatever rest I could.

Enter stage right the resident mice.

You didn't know we had mice? Oh yes, we inherited a small army of them from the previous owners and despite setting traps for the last year, they are not taking the hint. Or maybe they are and they just don't care, I don't know.

Either way, just as my eyes were closing I heard the unmistakable sound of a mouse-trap snapping shut. I cringed, but there was silence. Twenty seconds later, I suspect the mousy support network showed up because there was an eruption of squeaky wailing so great, Harry jumped out of his bed and went racing into the kitchen.

He is not a quiet dog.

According to the lack of crunching, I am fairly sure his thunderous approach gave the remaining mice a chance to escape, which would also explain why he saw fit to aim a grumpy-ass huff at me on his way back to his bed.

I thought that was a little much myself, it wasn't as if I played any part in warning the mice who, by this point, had resumed their positions alongside their former comrade, and were once again making known their grief.

I felt sorry for Harry; despite several return trips to the kitchen, he just wasn't going to get the better of those mice.

Half an hour later, dog, mice and human (no plural there, Miss Olive was fly catching in blissful ignorance of any of this drama) were finally settling down to their respecting rests.

An hour later, Keith woke me up to ask me why I was sleeping on the sofa.

It is a credit to me that I didn't punch him square on the nose. Instead I spoke words - I have no idea which - and was allowed to resume what was left of my sleep.

As is the way with small children, when the grey fingers of the new day crept between the curtains and crow barred my dry, aching eyes apart, I turned to see Miss Olive beaming at me in glorious high spirits.

I wanted to be grumpy, I wanted it so very badly, but how can you be angry when you wake up to this?

Wednesday, 22 April 2015 Comments: 0

Attachment Parenting Olive Toddler DoOm

More Fun With Milestone Emails

So apparently Miss Olive is now 22 months old.

It has to be true, there was a very slick looking email with pictures and information that told me so. I was on the verge of deleting it because it scares me to think that she's nearly two ... TWO!! ... but I put on my big girl pants and opened the email under the misguided idea that it might be fun to see if she's on target to reach all her development milestones.

"By now your child will begin to set goals for himself. He'll have particular ideas about what he wants to do, like pushing his toy car down the path or fitting all the pieces of a puzzle together."

Firstly, Olive is not a “he”. If you have the computing ability to send me this “tailored” content then you also have the ability to get her gender correct. But since you bring up her goals yes, as a matter of fact, she does have some pretty ambitious goals. They mostly involve squawking like a parrot in a blender at every damn thing her siblings are using until they hand it over and seeing how many people she can make cry in a given day.

"Does your child want to hug you one minute and push you away the next? Don't take her vacillating needs for closeness and self-assertion personally."

Oh I don’t. I'm fully aware that when Miss Olive gives me the side eye and then marches over to Keith for cuddles it is because she just wants me to know that she is displeased. Normally this comes hand in glove with a melodramatic sigh and a quick glance back to make sure I am watching the fact that she’s over there not giving me love.

"It's not long now until that birthday ... try working out what toys, equipment, and clothing you'll need for a two year old so you can let your friends and relatives know. If you're planning a party, involve your toddler in choosing who to invite and ask what sort of cake she would like, then she'll know what to expect on the day."

Have my toddler help plan the party? Are you out of your fucking mind? Unless your idea of group fun is stripping down to your pants and drawing over yourself with felt tip before shovelling food into your face with your clenched fists I suggest Miss Olive is the last person on earth who should plan your good times. And also, she’s a third child, the concept of “need” went of the window about a child and a half ago. The only need we have as a family is the rental of a skip.

"Interruptions are a way for your child to ask for your attention. It's annoying – but effective! A toddler most often interrupts when her parents seem to disappear (in spirit if not in body) for long periods, such as during telephone conversations or computer sessions. Try to limit this kind of activity unless she's having a nap or deeply absorbed in play. When you're busy, stay in touch with her by ruffling her hair or looking over and smiling at her from time to time. Don't give in right away. It only teaches your child that interrupting is socially acceptable and effective."

Ruffling her hair? Should I chuck her on the chin as well for good measure? Am I living in 1950s America and nobody told me? That’s not even the first problem I have with this entire crock of shit paragraph. 1. Don’t you dare try and guilt me for being on a phone call or online, besides anything else it makes exactly zero difference to whether children interrupt. 2. This is not a battle of wills for me to “give in” at an appropriate time. Olive is interrupting me because she is learning and practising a whole range of skills like conversation, cause and effect and speech and has not the first clue about the importance of my Facebook status. Because I'm not a total asshat, I'm not going to punish her for not knowing the rules by ignoring her until I think she’s learned the error of her ways, I'm going to talk to her like the intelligent human she is and keep practising with her until she understands.

"Don't expect perfect table manners at this point. Smelling it, handling it and smearing it are some of the ways your child gets acquainted with a new food"

Perfect table manners? Oh you are too precious! There are herds of prairie dogs who attach a felled beast with greater finesse than my offspring use to consume their food. And don’t tell me it gets better because despite that the five year old is the one who sets the table and lovingly places the cutlery alongside the perfectly aligned plate, he is the worst offender when it comes to eating by any means except the one that involves picking up a fork and knife.

"Hand-washing is the number one way to protect your family from illnesses like colds and flu. You can cut down on germs around your home by giving your child his first lessons in this important skill. Put a step in front of the sink so he can reach the taps, and show him how to turn them on and off. Fine motor skills are still developing so he'll need your help and supervision for quite some time."

I have two words for you "hygiene hypothesis" I am also starting to wonder if you have ever actually met a child. Are there 22 month old toddlers who will stand at a sink and wash their hands without requiring a full change of clothes for us both? It’s not help and supervision Miss Olive needs, it’s a scuba suit.

"Pee or wee or tinkle? Poo or number twos? Every family has its own lingo for potty training. As for what you call the body parts involved, some families introduce words such as "penis" and "vagina" from the beginning while others choose to wait."

Tinkle? What would possess anyone to say that? Do I pair that up with “foo-foo” and “bum-bum” or maybe I should just for the gold standard of Victorian sexual repression and use “unmentionables”.

I … I just …. Go home parenting site, you’re drunk!

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Thursday, 16 April 2015 Comments: 0

Not a Cooking Blog Olive Review Stay At Home Dad Working Mama

A Review of Greencane Paper Kitchen Towels

This is the review where I finally reach rock bottom, and go somewhere we all hoped I would never go.

This is the review where I talk about poop.

Keith does an amazing job of managing the house, but like all humans who are faced with the demands of three young children, he has the occasional brain fart. This particular brain fart happened about a week after I had taken delivery of a box of Greencane Paper Kitchen Towels to review.

The review had started promisingly; I had used them for such approved tasks as mopping up the nightly dinner spillages, and cleaning kitchen work surfaces, with great success.

I used a few sheets to make the picture on the TV at least partially visible, and was seriously impressed that it wasn't going to involve me chasing a ton of statically charged fluff around the screen.

What got the biggest nods of approval however was the softness of the Greencane Paper Kitchen Towels. Most eco products seem to be made with 90% recycled barbed wire and 10% virtue, but these were soft enough that I didn't think twice about using them to remove the remains of dinner from the children's various body parts.

Which turned out to be fortuitous.

As with all my reviews, this one happened when Keith went out one Saturday and left me in charge of the homestead. He was off talking about saving marine mammals, and I was at home, sat at the dining table with Miss Olive and Esme, creating some pretty impressive post modern art.

Out of nowhere, Miss Olive turned to me, fixed me with a cheeky grin and filled her nappy in spectacular fashion.

For the sake of form, I thought I ought to ask her whether she had pooped, which was an error on my part because it achieved nothing but to inspire her to scramble down from the table and vanish down the corridor, cackling.

After I had made sure Esme wasn't about to strike out into some wall decorating, I went to arm myself with essential butt changing equipment.

It's a short list:
1. Nappy
2. Wipes.

In this case, however, not short enough, because it turned out that Keith had forgotten to buy baby wipes; something which I had completely failed to notice before I was faced with rapidly drying toddler poop.

It was about this time I muttered a hope that Keith might be eaten by the next whale he tried to refloat.

If you think that is unkind, let me just tell you that Miss Olive's family nickname is Minky Moo. This is not because she has luscious silky hair (although she does), it is because she was born with the bowels of a middle aged man who survives on a diet of real ale and steak.

I briefly considered whether I could pretend ignorance of the poop situation, but my eyeballs were already beginning to water.

There was literally nothing for it but to make do and mend.

I took four sheets of Greencane Paper Kitchen Towels and ran them under the tap to dampen them.

As advertised on the front of the packet, they were indeed "thirsty" and seemed to hold a surprising amount of water, which I figured would only help their poop removing capabilities.

Armed with my makeshift wipes and a fresh nappy I wrangled a still cackling Miss Olive onto the floor, and began the time honoured tradition of The Dance of The Nappy Change.

As I had feared, the poop was already starting the process of bonding with her skin, which did not please me. That said, when I started scrubbing at her butt, the half gallon of water that had previously been trapped in the thirsty kitchen towels started to flow down her butt crack, which didn't please Miss Olive.

All round, neither of us was very happy at that point.

If I have one tiny criticism of these Kitchen Towels, it is that shortly into my cleaning efforts the paper, did start to break down. I can't be too harsh about that, I'm pretty sure that when the good folk of Greencane Paper were designing their product, this was not one of the things they predicted it would need to achieve.

Well you can hold your heads up, Greencane Paper, because despite the disconcerting feeling of having her backside scrubbed with bobbly sheets of you kitchen towel, while rivulets of water ran into places no toddler should have to suffer them, Miss Olive would like you to know she thinks your kitchen towels rock.

So do I as it happens, and I love that once again I get to say that about an innovative Kiwi business who have spent the last six years developing a product that they feel passionate about. I find it inspiring to have the chance to speak about a brand who are challenging the received wisdom of their industry and finding a way to make modern convenience sustainable.

Probably best not to break into the baby wipe sector just yet though.

I was sent Greencane Paper Kitchen Towels free to review by Kiwi Mummy Blogs. The opinions expressed are my own, in all their glory. I shouldn't have to tell you that, clearly nobody would actually pay me to express views like these.

Tuesday, 14 April 2015 Comments: 0

Esme Olive Toddler DoOm

Boops

I saw this comic the other day and it made me chuckle.

Hands up I am 100% guilty of this at the moment.

Boops is the word Olive uses when she wants to nurse and yes, she can say that shit forever!

Other current household gems include Esme's pronunciation of disgusting (be-scus-ten), the garage blipper (flipper) and breakfast (brep-pass) neither of which I have any intention of correcting either.

Bizarrely for someone who gets stabby at the regular abuse of the apostrophe, I find the utter mangling of words by my offspring enchanting. I think it's down to genetic offsetting; it's nature's way of making sure that I smile at least as often as I close my eyes and count to ten.

Wednesday, 8 April 2015 Comments: 0

Alfie Attachment Parenting Learning Olive Stay At Home Dad Toddler DoOm Working Mama

Helpful Tips for Lego Organisation

If you came here thinking I was going to tell you how to organise Lego, then I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place; I'm the one who’s after the help.

The children have a pretty vast collection of Lego, most of which has been inherited from Keith’s childhood, and then added to over the course of the last few years.

Once upon a time the collection was contained in tool boxes, but the Arctic Base Camp was the final nail in the coffin of that arrangement. The orange department -which had been teetering on the edge of dangerously large - started to flow into the red department, and I think we can all agree that kind of contamination requires immediate action.

We looked at some second hand library catalogue drawers, and some industrial tool boxes, but the call of the sale time deal was too strong for a certain member of the family, and so the Lego is now housed in a vast collection of stackable crates which fit together in a mysterious Tetris-like configuration in the drawer under Alfie’s bed.

Are those good intentions paving my path to Hell? Why yes they are!

The problem isn't the organising of Lego into containers, it’s the fact that children want to use it all, leaving a weekly tidal flow of Lego looking a little something like this:

Saturday: Lego is colour coded in the correct tubs, with lids on, and stacked according to the secret logic of Tetr’Is in the drawer under Alfie’s bed.

Sunday: The first creation of the week: Usually something small; a plane, or a car perhaps. The Lego table has been restocked with discarded pieces, and is now just a glorified holding area for planned future works.

Monday: The creations multiply. The Lego table is still full of potential future projects, while the completed projects are now dotted around the flat spaces of the house. There is one on the dining table that starts World War 3 every time the toddler hulk-smashes it, and several booby trapped window sills which deposit their payload - pointy end down - on my toes as I draw the curtains.

Tuesday: The creations have decided to throw a party, and have invited half the neighbourhood. The crates are mostly open, and spread haphazardly over the bedroom floor. The lids are off, of course, and any space in between them is littered with scattered bricks. It looks a little like the Lego fairy has flown in through the window, and left lots of colourful, pointy turds all over the floor, in much the same way that a house rabbit would.

Wednesday: There are many creations leading to many threats of vacuum vs Lego doom. My children respond well to this development by wailing inconsolably, and throwing themselves onto the floor at the outrage of wasting valuable creating time with such trifles.

Thursday: Lego has now achieved full floor coverage. I have now resorted to using the dustpan to shovel Lego off the floor, and back onto the Lego table. I'm grateful that Keith through to make the Lego table so deep and consider installing a life preserver in case any of the children fall in.

Friday: Completely lose my shit at the fact that the tubs are empty, but every other square inch of house is covered in a random scattering of bricks. Give children well-worn speech about caring for their possessions, and how sad they’ll be if they can’t finish their sets because the dog has chewed Uni Kitty, or I have accidentally stepped on the limited edition piece and heard it dissolve under my heel in a sickening crunch (true story). Realise the only person who is sad about this whole debacle is me.

And so it goes, week after week; and I am fully aware that this is a problem of my own making, but please, just for one minute, allow me to sing you the song of my people.

I am trapped in a private hell somewhere between the house I think I ought to be keeping and the way in which I want to parent my children.

For five days a week, I miss out on the benefit they see from being given free creative rein, and walk through the door in time to witness the aftermath. I’ll be honest; it makes my eyeballs burn and my brain resonate with the noise of an old copper kettle at full chat.

It makes me want to weep.

And I own the fact that this makes me slightly less generous than I would otherwise hope to be. I accept the fact that a sweeping look around the steaming wreck of my house puts my mother on one shoulder whispering “I didn't raise you to have a house like this” and my husband on the other saying “it’s the process, not the product”.

I stand between them desperately trying to embrace the creativity of the food truck underneath my dining table, while at the same time resenting that the only part I get to play in their games is the crappy part at the end that makes them act like I am pulling out their fingernails.

For me, this more is the hardest part of being a working mama.

This is my witching hour.

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Wednesday, 1 April 2015 Comments: 0

Baby Led Weaning Learning Olive Toddler DoOm

The Story Of The Watermelon Seeds

We eat a lot of watermelon, mostly because it is one of the few fruit that Miss Olive will allow to pass her lips. That wasn't always the case, at first her opinion of watermelon was the same as any other fruit and could probably be best described as deep mistrust.

Then I took a gamble and shoved a small piece into he mouth mid complaint and lo, she doth adore the melon made of water.

Eating watermelon can be a great lesson in how plants grow

But that's not the real story here, the story is the story that I have to tell the children every single time we eat watermelon (which as I have already mentioned is A LOT) so I thought it might be nice to write it down ready for the moment we have to write wedding speeches:

The scene is set; Keith has brought the melon to the table on a board and is busy cutting it into cubes when one of the children, usually Esme, will turn a furrowed brow to me:

Child: Tell us the story of the pits

Me: Again?! OK, so once there was a watermelon plant who wondered how it could get its seeds far away so they could grow in their own soil.

Child: And a dog has legs ...

Me: Umm, yes a dog has legs, but the plant doesn't so how can it spread its seed?

Child: ... and poo!

Me: Again yes, but we're still talking about the watermelon plant. So the watermelon plant puts all its seeds into the biggest, sweetest, juiciest fruit it can grow

Child: And I eat it

Me: Yes! Yes you eat it. An then the pig comes along and nom, nom, nom it eats a bit ...

Child: And does a poo

Me: After a while, it does a poo, a bit like you. When you eat something it goes through your body and once you have taken all the ...

Child: And the seeds are in the poo.

Me: They are, but when you do a poo where are you?

Child: In the toilet

Me: OK I walked into that one. What I mean is that you are a long way away from the plant aren't you?

Baby: AH POO!

Me: You've done a poo?

Baby: Uh-oh! POO!!!

Me: A poo or a wee?

Baby: POO!

Keith: She's done a wee

Baby: A POO!!!!!

Child: And the pig does a poo too

Me: And the poo has seeds in it that will land in new soil and ...

Child: GROW INTO MORE WATERMELONS!!!

By this point I need a damn rest and I have missed out on most of the watermelon that the children have been shovelling into their faces between poo references. As a final insult, Miss Olive has spent the whole story throwing her gnawed watermelon rind at the side of my head to really emphasise the point that she is eating melon, and I am not.

Like I said, just wanted to write that down for future reference.

Wednesday, 18 February 2015 Comments: 0

Alfie Attachment Parenting Esme Olive Stay At Home Dad Toddler DoOm

Ho! Ho! No?

Christmas is nearly here, so last night I pulled out the measuring tapes from the children’s memory boxes and managed to convince them to stand still for long enough to measure them and get an answer to that important question: What do you want to be when you grow up.

There was a theme to this year, Alfie wanted to be a dinosaur hunter, and Esme wanted to be a Tyrannosaur.

So that’s not going to work out well for one of them.

Miss Olive squawked and pointed emphatically at the book I was using for support, so I’m pretty sure her answer was either a house, a midwife, or a birthing woman.

Our previous attempt at a Christmas tradition was a little less successful in so much as we still don’t have a photo of all three children in the same room as the big fat man with the long white beard.

I think Keith’s expression says everything you need to know about how well this went.

Hey, if I walked round a corner and was confronted by the clown from IT, I think I’d be hiding behind the nearest person I could find as well.

Santa is a character in our house, he doesn't bring gifts, he doesn't judge their behaviour and he doesn't send some creepy little side kick to spy from the safety of a shelf either. Characters aren’t supposed to make the leap into real life.

Except Elsa, if you ask my daughters she is allowed to come round any time. In fact, if she’d like to move in with them, that would be just dandy.

So we make the effort to visit a grotto, with much the same attitude as we would an amusement park, and this year, we spent a nice few minutes discussing with Santa what we wanted this year (apparently a nice calm day out with the family is too much even for Santa) before heading off to lunch.

Wednesday, 24 December 2014 Comments: 0

Attachment Parenting Breastfeeding Olive

Are you STILL Breastfeeding?

I’m part of a freaky club full of women who breastfeed their adult children.

Only kidding, she’s 18 months and she can’t even talk yet, but as far as a large segment of the population is concerned, same difference.

Considering my previous records of one feed and three months, I never in my wildest dreams though I would be saying this but EIGHTEEN MONTHS AND GOING STRONG!!!!

Do I feel like I could conquer the world?

Why yes I do.

Miss Olive only nurses in the evening and when she’s cross, which is both understandable and extremely uncomfortable because her razor sharp baby teeth are not wielded with care when her mind is on other things.

The flip side is that now she’s on three squares a day, I can safely say that nursing is something she chooses to do, rather than something she needs to do, and that makes it even more special.

Why did nobody tell me about the special?!

Each evening I pat my chest and ask her if she wants milk. She nods back violently, repeating “YAH! YAH!” until I get up and she can escort me to collect the feeder.

After leading me by the finger on a tour of the lounge to wave goodnight to her minions we head to bed, and she scurries across the mattress before flopping theatrically onto the pillows and pulling the duvet up to her chin.

Then the grin, and more “YAH”s until I climb in beside her to nurse and she begins the slow descent into sleep with her arms tightly wrapped around me.

After our five day nursing strike I take each feed as a blessing, and more so these days where every feed could be our last.

It won’t be the nursing that I miss, it will be all the emotions that come with it and the wordless statements that I make to her: you’re safe, you’re nourished, you’re loved.

And the sound of a baby hedgehog snuffling by my side.

Friday, 19 December 2014 Comments: 0

Olive Working Mama

Christmas Down Under

Christmas does not feel like Christmas.

THERE, I've said it, and Miss Olive agrees!

I can't get my head around the sunny weather. My body is telling me it's summer, and we should be gearing up for two weeks on a beach, and the shops are filled with the trappings of a winter festival.

It. Makes. No. Sense.

I don't want to shop for gifts, I don't want to plan for dinner, it all feels like a giant pile of wrong.

We tried to keep a sense of continuity last year by having a roast duck and decorating the house, but it felt absurd.

This year we have embraced the idea of a BBQ for lunch and have taking the Kitschmas Tree to whole new levels of awesome.

It's fun, and I'm looking forward to spending time with the family ... but Christmas it ain't.

Wednesday, 17 December 2014 Comments: 0

Esme Olive Toddler DoOm

The Open Mouthed Toddler Kiss

It has taken me four years and three children to capture this fleeting moment in child development.

For weeks Miss Olive has been presenting me with her cheek whenever I ask for a kiss. Until last Friday, when instead of a gentile head turn, she responded by turning into a pocket sized basking shark, and very gently trying to eat my face.

Call me a sucker, but I have a real fondness for the open mouthed toddler lunge, despite the inevitable string of slobber it leaves.

Like this mama, I blame the dog for setting an example no human should be asked to follow; but regardless of who came up with the idea, this first active demonstration of slobbery affection is worth its weight in re-applied foundation.

Tuesday, 28 October 2014 Comments: 0

Olive Stay At Home Dad

Be Still My Beating Heart

So, it's probably the painkillers talking, but I was going over the photos I took at the weekend and I thought I would share this photo.

On Sunday we went to Te Papa to see the Tyrannosaurs exhibition. We lost Alfie at one point and eventually tracked him down making notes on dinosaur behaviour courtesy of a CGI wall that superimposed various beasties interacting with the Wellington scenery.

After lunch we blew off some steam wandering around the museum's incredible outdoor space, which is where I snapped this moment of utter gorgeousness.

My heart pretty much exploded seeing these two walking ahead. I lucked out big time when that lanky oaf agreed to start a family with me.

To see the rest of our adventure, I'm trying out something new.

Thursday, 23 October 2014 Comments: 0

Attachment Parenting Babywearing Olive Working Mama

Happy International Babywearing Week

It's International Babywearing Week this week and like any event that celebrates facets of our parenting choices, it feels a bit strange to see people making such a big deal about something that is such a natural part of our daily lives.

Having said that, Sunday is the Wellington Sling Walk and I'm so excited that I will be taking Miss Olive for a jaunt through the centre of town with our friends.

It's crazy to think this is already our second sling walk; we hadn't long stepped off the plane and I remember feeling deeply and profoundly at home amongst a gaggle of parents all holding their babies so close.

I'm grateful to be a part of such a wonderful community, even if only in some small way, and this Sunday I will be celebrating how this simple pleasure has brought me closer, not just to my babies, but to some amazing friends.

Thursday, 9 October 2014 Comments: 0

Social icons

1. Mastered a Supplemental Nursing System

2. Survived a major nursing strike

3. Normalised breastfeeding for my children