Find Your Inner Cat

This is why you should find your inner cat.

A few nights ago we were sitting around the dinner table, doing more talking than eating.
Isaiah, my seven year old, with eyes so blue it would appear that the summer skies have been squeezed into them, looked at me and said, "Mommy, what will I be when I grow up?"

"You can be whatever you want, baby. A lawyer, a doctor, a truck driver, a nurse, a teacher..."

Daddy joined in, cause that's what we do in our family. "Or you could be a designer or a dentist, a banker or bricklayer."

"Or a writer. You're a great writer. I love your stories," I said.

Isaiah looking thoughtful said, " Thanks Mom, but I think I'm more of an artist. I like my drawings."

I ruffled his hair and touched my finger to the tip of his nose. Cause who can resist that cute nose? "Well you be an artist then baby. I'll buy all your paintings."

Isaiah giggled.

Then Cyrus, our family's resident three-year-old, said, "Or a cat. You could be a pussy cat."

We laughed, but Cyrus started to cry.

"Oh, Honey. Sorry. Isaiah can be a pussy cat if he wants to," I said.

"Or a crocodile," Daddy added.

Cyrus laughed with us this time.

"Or a donkey," Isaiah said.

"Just don't be a chihuahua," Daddy said. "Our family has one of those already, and one is enough."


So I ask you, have you found your inner cat? Maybe you should. The world is funnier when you do :)

PHOTO: Me and my boys (oh, and the chihuahua)

One day. But not today.

I don't set alarm clocks. I don't need to.
The day climbs onto my bed and bounces up and down. Laughing. Saying things like, "Can you get up now? Are you awake, Mommy?" As if anyone could be asleep.

Some days are full of fight and yelling. The day pounds its feet up my hallway and cries, "Mom! He won't give me my (insert name of must-have-toy-or-world-will-end)! He ate my toast! He sat on my head!" Of course the day does not take all the facts into account. Ones brother is probably reacting to having his head sat on first.

Sometimes the days wake me with giggles and sloppy kisses on my cheek. Little hands sneak under the covers to grip my own. " I love you, Mommy," the day's voice whispers. Those days have blue eyes. The kind that house 'Cheeky' and 'Cute' in equal proportions.

Some days don't bother to come into my room at all.  Those days sound like stomping feet in the kitchen and banshee calls of, "Mom, there's no milk left!" On those days even the covers over my head don't hide me.

Sometimes the day is whiny. Fretful. Or just plain needs to go back to bed. The day gets started on the wrong foot and I find myself hugging it to my chest while it sobs incoherent things with its thumb in its mouth. The day can be so little then. So needy. But I wake to it anyway. I rise with only half myself up and the other half of me laying unaware still kissing the moonlight. Sometimes I rise with not much of me at all. Only a teaspoonful of me is available to change wet bedsheets, kiss the bleary eyes and welcome the breakfast dishes and piles of laundry.

Other days I, well, I'd like to say some days wake me with a superwoman outfit. But that day hasn't come yet. I keep waiting for it. Do you suppose it's just late?

Some days are 24 hours long. TWENTY. FOUR. HOURS. And I wonder if it might let me take a nap or go to the toilet in peace. I don't wonder for long. The day is banging at my door, kicking my walls and refusing to co operate.

But this I know.
One day, oh shiny day, those mornings will be a memory. A tiny piece of the way we were. The day will come when I won't be as needed.  I will wake in my own time to greet the sun in my own way.
One day, oh sad day, no little hands will need help to pour milk on their cereal or butter their toast.
One day, oh happy day, I will wake to a house of quiet.

But for today, and for lots of tomorrows, I don't set alarm clocks. I don't need to.

What about you? What kind of day wakes you today?

Rest?

This is not Cyrus having a rest. Oh no.
Rest Time is for the weak.
The unimaginative.
The restrained.

Rest Time is for those other three-year-olds, who do not live in my house, who gladly give their mothers an hour or so of peace. Rest Time is for those children with no imagination. For those who cannot see how marvelously fun it would be to take ones room apart toy by toy, and then venture into their brother's bedroom to dismantle his Lego creations.

Rest Time is for those who don't seek new discoveries, like how much toilet paper a toilet bowl can hold and still flush. Or perhaps what might happen if one sneaks out of one's bedroom and smooshes the toothpaste together with the liquid hand soap. Rest Time is for those who don't seek new horizons, like the top of their mother's wardrobe or the deepest reaches of treasures under his brother's bed.

Rest Time is for those who cannot see that the dirty clothes basket is indeed a boat waiting to be sailed across the hallway. Or that all the clothes in ones drawers could form a Picasso type picture when strewn across the floor. Rest Time is for seeing how long it will take Mommy to figure out that nothing like 'resting' is occurring. Or for seeing how long it will take her to abandon her Writing Hour, the word count, any looming deadlines and finally admit that she will get exactly no writing done at all today.

Rest Time is for turning beds into trampolines and Mommy's nerves into a plate of spaghetti...

No, this photo was not taken at Rest Time. This picture is Bed Time. A time when Mommy sits, has a cup of tea ( or glass of wine) and then creeps bleary eyed with her rose coloured glasses firmly in place into her son's room and imagines she would like another one.  Bed Time is for looking at that little face with those apple-pie cheeks and falling in love all over again. Bed Time is when all is forgiven, because look at him people. And tell me, could you stay mad?

What about you? If you write or pursue anything in life with kids in tow... how do you do it?

Give the Boys some Plates

Amusing three-year-olds is an art from. And being that Cyrus is the second three-year-old to come through the ranks in our house I am after my Masters Degree in this art form. Well, aim high, right?

We recently attempted a shopping trip in IKEA. Which coincidentally is the word Cyrus learnt to say, right after 'Mumma', 'Dadda' and 'No'. Okay, fine. It was the first word the kid said. So, we go there a bit. So what? There are worse sins people.

Anyhoo, Cyrus and I were making our way through the delicious windy paths, much like the yellow brick road taking us to All-The-Stuff-I-Didn't-Know-I-Needed. I was employing all my Mommy tricks for keeping him happy while I played with all the Big Girl Toys. (There's a lot to push, pull and generally muck with in those stores- delightful!)

I gave Cyrus the little pencil complete with IKEA order form to draw on. I gave him a quick turn on the twirly chair. I let him open all the drawers in the display kitchen (okay, that was me). But after an hour of looking, and me still not being done, Cyrus was making a game out of chase me down the breakables isle. Clearly I needed diversion. Or a straight jacket. Are they illegal for kids? Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the diversion.

Stuffing some plastic plates into my sunshine yellow IKEA bag of happiness I went to catch my child before the stack of glass cups caught him first. (relax, this ends better than you think it will)  Cyrus saw me and started to run. But then he stopped. The plastic plates pile behind me caught his eye. Miracle of miracles the boy came back of his own accord. He looked at the plates and peered into my shopping bag pulling them out.
"Oh wow, Mommy. I like these, do I!"
Well, who who have thought. Plastic plates. Of course. The perfect diversion. So I let him hold the plates. Situation conquered. Right?
Sure.

He held those plates through the rest of the store. He held them through the check-out. He held them on the way to the car. He held them on the 30 min drive  home. And when we got home I naively thought the game was up and we could now put the plates away. After all I did actually buy these plates for my kids to eat off at some stage. But I realized the error in my judgement when I tried to take the plates off him.

Bursting into fat sobbing tears Cyrus looked up at me and said, "But I love my plates Mommy. I wanna  take them to bed."
They were pretty plates. Like over sized flat candy. Six in total. All the colors of a crayon drawn rainbow.

"You really like those plates, Bubba?" I asked
"Uh huh, and I want to cuddle them in bed. There my plates. You bought them for me. I like them, do I." He was stroking them by this stage. No, I am not joking.
Taking my hands off his plates I said, "Yes, yes you do. And they are all yours."
Hey, for two dollars I can get some more.

Who said happiness had to be extravagant and hard to find? I got my master's degree today people. Just sayin. And I have a smile. Right now, in the middle of really tough re-writes, I'll take any reason to be happy. Writing is not for the faint of heart. Maybe I should go back and buy myself some of those rainbow plates to cuddle?

IKEA, oh land of plastic happiness, I love you, do I.

What about you? Got yourself some rainbow plates to keep you company while writing? If you take them to bed, I don't want to know. :)

Seven

[Isaiah, Six]

Six was about late afternoons cuddled up on the couch, hot chocolate, one for me one for you.
"No, you can't drink it laying on my bed."

Six was about laughing at dog shaped clouds.
"Mommy they look like my Dogga! Can you kiss me and Dogga? We love you."

Six was about books under your blankets with a torch, you think I don't know baby?
"Didn't I say lights out?"
"One more chapter, Mommy?"
Then snuggling down with you to read it.

Six was about two front teeth missing, that sweet boy smile.
"Can you name my freckles Mommy?
"This one is Mary."
"Mary?"
"Okay, Jack."
"That's better, Mommy. I only have boy freckles."

Six was about dump trucks in the sand, shoes in the sand, sand in the hair and making up names for imaginary dragons.
"Wanna fight the aliens with me, Mommy?"
"Sure, but I only have a cardboard sword."
"Oh, they're the best to kill the aliens. Look out Mommy, here they come!"

Six was about teddies dressed in tin foil astronaut outfits and sliding down backyard hills in the pouring rain.
"You can't catch me, Mommy!"
"Oh yeah, how come I've got you already?"

Six was a wild and crazy ride.
Seven should be a riot.
Bring it on. I can hardly wait.

Happy Birthday my Lego building, alien fighting, handball bouncing kid.
If love could be more fun, I do not know how.
Mommy
X

A Big Thing to Think

(conversation between myself and my then four year old son Isaiah. I had to share this one)

Isaiah: Mommy, I've been thinking something big.
Me: Yeah? What's that?
Isaiah: I'm thinkin about who to marry.
Me: Oh. (smiling)Well, that is a big thing to think about.
Isaiah: The problem is Mommy, that I don't know that many girls.
Me: I see. Hmmmm...
Isaiah: And the other problem is that the girl I know that I like got married already.
Me: (trying to suppress a laugh and wondering what he thinks the word 'married' means since I assume he is talking about a girl in his class) Oh, that is sad. Is she a girl in your class?
Isaiah: No. Don't be silly. The girl I like is a big girl.
Me: A big girl? (now totally confused and a tad worried)
Isaiah: Yeah. You know her.
Me: I do?
Isaiah: uh-huh.
Me: And you really like her?
Isaiah: I love her.
Me: Okay, I give up. Who is it?
Isaiah: Mommy! It's you! But you already married Daddy! (folds his arms and pouts)
Me: (trying not to giggle or rush over and hug him just yet since he is being so serious.)
Oh, well yes. I love you too. But I did marry Daddy.
Isaiah: I know (sighs) I'll have to find someone just as nice as you.

I did hug him at that point. What a sweetie. Just like his father :)

What about you? What big things are you thinking? :)

Quilt

Come shelter with me under the under the quilt of our memories.

See how vividly we have stitched the past

how imperfectly we hold time

the faded photos in our minds

Come shelter with me under the quilt of our memories 

See how soft the passing of life is here

how our knees touch at the edges

and we smile about the vinegar sunset that was

Come shelter with me under the quilt of our memories

See how our children will find us

our sallow skin and faces lost behind folded lines

will show proudly the life we have woven together

Come shelter with me under the quilt of our memories

See how there need be no reason to do so

how we chose to tuck beside each other today

and I pray all the days here after.

~

What about you? Who tucks beside you? Who do you tuck beside? 
A follower of this blog, Fireblossom, left a comment on my last post which read, 'I don't believe we are meant to walk through this world alone.' 
I couldn't agree more. Thank you :)


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If a Kiss Means This

There was a time when I kissed for him. Something he needed. Something he wanted. Something I knew nothing about. I had two lips and nothing more to offer. But I loved him. How I loved him. In the way that Sixteen loves, I loved. And in the way that Seventeen loves, he loved me too. But when it came to the kiss, I was missing. Motions. That is all I knew. Mouth here. Tongue there. Breath. If you can. Remember to breath. Avoid his hands. Avoid his wanting. Avoid him. Until we pulled apart. He, having taken the crust of me that I offered. Me, having more time till he would want to kiss again.

There was a time when I kissed for me. Something I handed out. Like a backstage pass to possibly more, because after all, he'd waited. Something I still knew nothing about. I had two lips and friendship and nothing more too offer. But I loved him. How I loved him. In the way that Twenty-One and Newly Minted Wife loves, I loved. In the way that Twenty-Two and Newly Minted Husband loves, he loved. But when it came to the kiss, we were missing. Motions. Oh, we had a script to follow. Kiss him. He in turn kissed the vacant woman before him. And together we tried to make that work. How was he to know that another man had already taken whatever there should have been to offer?

There was a day when we stopped kissing. No more. Enough. This was not for me. And it was hardly for him anymore. He knew I wasn't there. Even though I knew where he was, I could not find myself. And finally that stopped being okay. I had a shell without life, bones without flesh. But I loved him. How I loved him. In the way that Ten Years of Marriage and Hand-Holding loves, I loved. In the way that Ten Years of Marriage and Trying To Find Me loves, he loved. But my past was splitting through my locked doors and I needed him to fight. For me. For him. For us.

Today we kiss for us. Something gentle when it rains. Something sweet when everything else is bleach. Something we offer from where we are, to who we are, and who we want us to be. Something we know something about. And I love him. How I love him. In the way that scaling cliffs and swimming oceans to find myself loves, I love. In the way that warriors and imperfect men love, he loves. Our eyes are opened. To each other and to the future. There is nothing hidden, except the things we are yet to uncover. There is nothing removed except the pieces of my shame  and his unknowing that kept us apart. And everyday is a journey to remove more of what divides and hide only what we wish to keep between the two of us. I know where I am. I know where he his. I see and am seen. He sees and is known. That is our kiss. Our kiss means this.

HAPPY BELATED VALENTINES DAY ALL!

[winner of my last giveaway is  Wendy Prior!!! Congrats! Please email your address to tab[at]zaeya[dot]com ]

The Land of Two Year Old

I would like to introduce you to The Two Year Old.
Of course that is the common name for this species of human (yes, they are their own species) 
The scientific name is 'messandloudnomachineites' pronounced 'mess-and-loud-no-machine-eites'


ADAPTATIONS: 
These creatures are well adapted to live in their surrounds.  In fact they believe they are the 'centre' of their surrounds and become 'distressed' if given evidence to the contrary... like, for example, if called upon to share. This is an unknown concept in the mind of a Two Year Old and will produce banshee like screeches of "Mine! Mine! Miiiiiiiine!" 


Calls of  "bath time" or "dinner time" when The Two Year Old is clearly not ready to be washed or fed will result in displays of thrashing and wailing accompanied by the wild call of "Nooooooo!" 
A word they all speak very well.
"Please" and "Thank you" on the other hand... 


However this is not entirely their own fault. This species has only developed a radar for 'Me' 'Mine' and 'All-About-Me'. It is up to The Parent Body to expand these horizons... and the expansion is not often welcomed.


Other unique adaptations to their environment include the ability to eat anything... paint, glue, dirt, the dog... Unless of course The Parent Body spent any sort of time preparing a meal. The more time spent, the less likely eating will occur. Yet somehow The Two Year Old manages to sustain enough sustenance to wake the living dead if a toy is taken from them, a sibling looks at them the wrong way, or someone is on the phone and not paying attention... to them. They have an untapped capacity for screaming and crying, which may or may not be off set by The Cute Factor and their irresistible giggles.  Big eyes and dimples also help this species from being wiped out :)


HABITAT REQUIREMENTS:
They are easy to get along with... as long as your lipstick, the toilet roll, your computer, the TV remote and Big Brother's pens are not out of bounds. If these things are not made available on demand (or when The Parent's back is turned) then refer to thrashing and wailing mentioned above.


The Two Year Old doesn't ask for much. Just your time (preferably when you are busy) and attention (especially if you thought you get a nap in). And in return they provide... um... oh yes, that's right... sweet moments of cuddles and kisses and innocent "I love you" comments that can get you through an entire week of soiled pants and drawn on carpets. Well... maybe a couple of days then?


RESULTING DISCOVERIES: 
Scientist have yet to discover what makes this cute, alluring species so darn contrary, and have not yet provided The Parent Body with hard and fast rules for successful Two Year Old cohabitation.
The Parent Body long since stopped looking for answers to the puzzling behavior... due to the fact that they are now in search of their sanity... or the toilet roll... which ever... probably both.


Many households that have produced The Two Year Old are wondering one of three things; Why is the dog cowering under the chair? What happened to my free time? and How do I mold this Two Year Old into something resembling an 'Adult-I-can-Stand-to-Be-Around? 


Scientist merely scratch their head and leave the answering of such profound questions up to the Child Experts... you know the ones? The people with no children.


PARENT BODY
Parents of The Two Year old are easy to spot. They are the grey haired, slightly balding, saggy eyed people sitting in the corner shaking, rocking back and forth and repeating the phrase, "What do I do?" "What do I do?"


Siblings of the Two Year Old are also easy to identify. They have nailed their possessions to the wall and resorted to cowering under the chair with the dog for some peace and quiet.


Of course the most attractive feature of The Two Year old is that they cannot possibly stay two forever... sorry, no... it is their ability to love freely, with open pudgy arms and a smoochy sticky kiss.


WARNING:
Beware: Once in your heart, forever in your heart.
Love wisely and fully.
Love freely. (Add your pudgy arms and sticky kiss at own discretion)
And lastly remember, The Two Year Old is always sweet... when asleep. :)


The sun will rise tomorrow... on another day of trial and error in the Land of Two Year Old.


In the words of Star Wars... may the force be with you.

~

[Can you tell I am wondering where my own sanity went? ... and I haven't seen our dog in a while.]

Are you Cute Today?

[above photo is of Cyrus, my 2  year old] 

Me: Cy, are you cute today?

Cy: No, not today Mommy.

Me: Not today? Are you sure?

Cy: Yeah.

Me: Well, when will you be cute?

Cy: Ummm... (head on side and really thinking) I be cute tomorrow, okay?

Me:  Tomorrow? Not today then?

Cy: No. Mommy, I said I be cute tomorrow!

Me: Okay. You can be cute tomorrow.

Cy: No. I wanna be cute on... (thinking again)... Friday.

Me: Friday? So, not tomorrow? You'll be cute on Friday.

Cy: Yeah. Okay, Mummy? I be cute on Friday.

~ 

Yeah. Okay. Except that is a pretty damn cute conversation to be having with me today, don't you think? 

 ~

What about you? Got kids? What cuteness are they brightening your day with? 

Please, do share :) 

Do you tuck those conversations/moments away somewhere to slip into your writing one day?

Let the Crazy Start

I saw my baby off to school this morning for the last day of the academic year. He was a flurry of Christmas cards and candy canes with an arm load of party food and a present for his long suffering teacher.

Mrs X and I smiled at each other as we passed in the door way.

"You made it."

She laughed. We both made it really.

My son is one of those children. I will admit. He is the spunk at the back of the room who should be paying attention, but is instead taking every one's pencils for a 'Pencil Sale.'

I kid you not.

He tried to resell the class their pencils... more than once.

Other things that didn't work so well for him this year included practising his front flips in the library and the mid-day classroom walk out in protest over a matter he felt was being poorly handled by Mrs X.

If he wasn't my child I might find some of what he gets up to humorous. After all, who doesn't know the pleasure of taking off their shoes so they can sock slide into the wall? I just wish he didn't chose to pull that stunt in Math class. I also wish he'd restrained from spinning on the teacher's swivel chair and pinning the tail on pictures of his class mates on the notice board. He also took a real liking to rearranging the trinkets on Mrs. X's desk. More than once he produced a pencil, thumb tack, paper and sticky tape art piece for her viewing pleasure.

Can I take a moment to defend my off spring? A little, tiny brag even? Pleeeeease? It has been a long year...

He started Year One (First Grade if you live in the US) asking his father and I when he was going to get a chapter book to read and then proving his boredom by using reading group sessions as the optimal time to practice sculpture. An eraser and a pair of scissors were his medium of choice. Mrs. X and I finally found chapter books that kept him on task... mostly.

He refused to bring his spelling book home to me because, in his words, "What's the point Mum? I know how to spell."

We agreed that he would show me the spelling test results and, as long as his marks proved he was right, he didn't have to bring the book home. I never saw that spelling book.

Maturity wise he is every bit Year One. But that little brain is ticking away with a set of much older thoughts.

Mrs. X has the patience of... I don't know...someone more patient than me. Together we worked to support the academic growth BUT curb the sock sliding. Mostly we were successful.

(Okay, little brag over. Thanks for indulging me.)Year Two here we come.

What we have not figured out is where the two school hats, three pairs of socks, one pair of swimming goggles, a swimming towel, and one very new pair of leather school shoes managed to disappear to...

Oh well, there is always next year.

I love that kid, sock sliding and all. But for seven wonderful weeks it is Summer School Holidays. I can't wait. Let the crazy start!

PS- He gets the sock sliding from his father :)

Remembrance Day

Hey all,

I was going to sit this post out. Just go missing in action. Or say something trite about my words being lost or all choked up and then mumble my apologies. But then I gave this post a title.

Remembrance Day.

November 11th.

A day when Australia stops and remembers our fallen heroes in wars past and those who fight for our freedoms today.

And I decided that the least I can do is share my Remembering.

For me Remembrance Day is little more personal. But still about fallen heroes.

One year ago today I held my grandfather's hand and watched as he took his last breath.

I don't think the sadness has settled in me yet. The Autumn leaves are still falling on that grief I guess. My memories of him still feel like a Spring's walk. Fresh. Warm. Like the yellow path in the photo above.

That's all.

I just wanted to say I remember.

And my thoughts of him are long and peaceful. It still feels like I could go visiting tomorrow and there he'd be. Sitting and waiting. Ready to take another walk.

There are no other words tonight.

I want to have a shower and crawl into bed.

So forgive the absence on your blogs. I usually stay up so I can catch those of you who post early in the morning there in the US. But I just don't have it in me tonight.

Catch you tomorrow? (which will be your Wednesday evening)

Blessings to all.

I am off to be gentle with me.

Tab:)

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Sand Moments

My boy's giggling floats among the afternoon shadows in our backyard sandpit. The sand lives there too. Unless it's flying by the handful onto the surrounding brick work.

Rust flecked tip trucks drive haphazardly under the direction of little hands. Happiness echoes in the beeps, brumms, buzzes and bangs. Water bubbles over buckets carried to and fro, pouring over plastic farm animals that swim in the puddles that form.

I watch as the last of the sun touches their cheeks. Toes wiggle in the gritty wetness and t-shirts cling to the muck as I breathe in the deliciousness of childhood.

I sit down beside the ordinary moment and store the image, a still frame for the days when the sandpit sits alone. Knowing that afternoons melt quickly into twilight, I grab a bucket and join in the building.

The back yard sandpit seems a wonderful reason to need a bath.

What about you? What 'ordinary moments' have you taken the time to sit down beside recently?

For Him

Funny how we make plans for life and hope, only to be reminded of how finite our lives and hopes are anyway.

I stare at my Popo's numerous tattoos, now lost in the folds of his sallow skin, but they give nothing away. Tonight, the doctors say it could be tonight. I huddle his shrunken hands in mine and try to marry these images with the ox of a man I once knew. A truck driver and ex-British, ex-Australian solider.

But so much more.

A man with a humble family history in England and merge beginnings in Australia that are my rights to pride and a sense of value and belonging. A man who showed me how the imperfect love between him and my grandmother was perfect enough to last almost 50 years. That his daughter, my mother, Skinny Ninny as he called her, was a diamond in his twilight, as precious to him as the daughters she birthed.

Leaning close to the wispy hair coming out of my Popo's ear I whisper, "You were the first man to tell me I was beautiful." I seems important to say. In the absence of my father's adoration my grandparents have always held me in their palm like the petals of a rose. Visiting their house was like coming home to logs fires and hot chocolate. How do you say thank you for refuge from the howling winds of your childhood?

I watch my uncle stroke his skinny scalp.

"It's time Dad, it's okay to let go."

Somewhere in the quite of that moment a little girl within me came and sat at my feet. She was shaking with a longing for the Dad she never had, even if it meant she would one day loose him. She doesn't know why she's crying of course. She is just a little girl. But I know. I see her.

Remembrance Day.

Australia.

November 2008.

1: 08am

He slipped up to heaven on the patient wings of a waiting angel.

The truck lights shining on the distant hill.

You would be proud of your son. He held you hand to the end.

You would be proud of your wife. She loves you still.

This weekend we will honor the memories you left us with.

Lights on the Hill Memorial.

For truck drivers.

For you.

My fallen hero.

A man who knew what is was to love.

I will forever be grateful.

Rest in peace.

Peace in your rest.

Until we hold you again.

Clover

Clovers are my silent friends, spread across the back yard like a rash, and still I love them. I haven't always had affections for weeds. I was once a Rose or Lilly girl. Pick me up in your clean car wearing your pressed shirt and take me somewhere nice. Beer, if the wine list mocks our modest budget. Then pave the way to kisses with daisies. But clover? No.

Then we went and made mini versions of ourselves and let them run around our backyard. We killed the clover, but we let the barefoot noise makers stay. We like them. Mostly. The first spring Husband was not quick enough to head off the clover onslaught our first born waded through the patches before I could stop him.

Bees, oh God. The bees.

My husband bloats at the mere whiff of them. I didn't want to conduct a home science experiment to see if my son would react the same way. I ran out after him, picked him up and tried to pull the fistfuls of clover out of his hands. "No! Mummy pretty flowers for you. I wuv you."

Suddenly roses paled in comparison.

We still spray the clover, but every spring my little boys beat us to at least one patch and ignore my objections to their shoeless wandering as they pad barefoot through the clover mound.

And every spring there will be at least one small vase stuffed with wilting clover beside my bed.

Isaiah calls them Mummy's favorite flowers.

I don't correct him...

I may one day have to explain why his girlfriend curled her lip and growled,

but not yet.

They are my clovers. For just a little bit longer.

Baa Baa Ho Dee Ha?

Our boys are a little bit left of centre. The multi colored crayons in the box of life. I don't know where they get it from...

Tonight at the dinner table our toddler shared his version of Baa Baa Black Sheep. In Cyrus' version there are no sheep mentioned whatsoever. Whether these sheep produce black wool or not, we can't say for sure. Cyrus leaves that part out. It's extra detail. Apparently. We are also unsure if the sheep visit the master the dame or the little boy down the lane. These details are also omitted. What we can confirm is that these sheep sing. Yep. They sing. At the top of his little off key voice Cyrus belted out, "Baa baa, Baa baa. Ho ho ho dee daa. Da da dee da, three bags ool. One da da da dee da two da da deeeeee.... " And then the song repeated.

The Baa Baa's sing a little ditty! Brilliant. Much better than producing wool for nameless masters, dames and little boys. Nasty business that wool producing. Far better to be a singin' Baa Baa.

You might wonder where I am going with this post. But I am going somewhere....

See Cyrus' song got me thinking about what I do when I'm writing and I just can't find the word I want to use. Cyrus has never been one to let words get in the way of telling a story or asking for something he wants. He invents his own language all the time. And he is quite comfortable singing Baa Baa Black Sheep minus the black and the sheep if he doesn't remember those words either.

I do the same when I write. I sing on. I keep going. I write the word, 'something' in the middle of the sentence and then highlight it so I can come back to it later. I don't want to stop the flow of several perfectly good sentences that are backing up and banging into each other behind that one stuck word. Later when I come back to these highlighted 'somethings' the word I want is sitting there twiddling its thumbs saying, 'What took you so long? I've been here for ages."

What about you? Any tricks you pull when words get stuck?

OR

Any singing Baa Baas at your house?

PS- Matt (husband) is responsible for the creative dinner (pictured above). Yeah, I wonder where our boys get their singing Baa Baas from?

PSS- I will announce the winner of KM Weiland's book tomorrow :)

Crawling Back

So, I'm back in blogging world early...

Holidays are great. They rage on...

Mud is fun.

Sand is better. Just ask the tiles in the lounge room, they are covered in it. The sand pit(box) used to live outside... I think.

The weather is warm, ice-cream dripping down your chin kind of warm. Squirt-your-little- brother-with-your-drink-bottle warm. Trees and parks are a must. So is skidding down the boat ramp on your butt. Poor little Cyrus. No one told him we were there just to swim...

We went to the zoo. Cyrus renamed all the animals. Pandas are now cats and the emus are now ducks... who knew?

My dining room chairs have been reclaimed. So have my throw rugs. The cubby house needed walls and a roof. Oh, and the paper under the table has to stay. "What else will the cars drive on Mommy?"

In amongst all that I have re-written my first book. It was time. I wrote it last year and it has been collecting dust and a fresh pair of eyes underneath my desk. Don't ask me why that's where I put it. It just ended up there. The re-write started out as an edit, but then one of the characters decided he needed his own POV. Hard to explain how that one worked, but I am hopeful it did...

One week left of holidays... damn. I am one of those mother's who likes her children at home. It's the child in me. She likes climbing into their imaginations from time to time... you know, fighting the aliens and flying through the air on their swing set... just every once and a while. And then there's the cuddles and the reading... did I mention the sand?

But I miss all you guys in blogging world, so I am back early. Yeah me! Well.. I am happy about it:)

So, I am wondering, what do you work around to write? School Holidays? Children? Work commitments? ...Sand???

Dragonfly Wings

Among the milling

dancing stomp of humanity

she sits 

watching

her childhood flooded

his just beginning

boyhood pockets waiting to be filled

 a mind desperate 

to be the silvery flights

of the birds he watches soar from the shadows

she takes his hands

little hands

to walk him across the islands 

she washed up on

to read him possibilities

to offer the moonlight

and to protect

the sweet sound

of those precious wings

uncurling

transparent as a dragonflies

papery thin

but poised

ready

for innocent days

she knows

are like the kiss of spring

the bubbles 

that will float

through all of later life

~

And on that note I am leaving for two weeks holidays with my babies. We aren't going anywhere. But school is out for September holidays here in Australia and my boys and I have some memories waiting to be made. So I am going to take a break from blogging world from now until the 5th of October. I'm going to go get some sand in my hair and stick my fingers in some cookie dough.

I look forward to reading your blogs :)

PS- Did that poem suck? Do I need to stick it in the cellar with the wine and let it age? Or take up knitting?

Here comes the sun

He's six now, this sun bathed baby. My first born. My breath of air right from the blue sky above. I look at this photo and remember that his brother wasn't born yet. I was five months pregnant and yes, in a bikini at the beach. That's my butterfly tattooed ankle there in the background. I can taste those fish and chips, no they were not fries... chips people, chips. And feel the baby squirming beneath the already taunt skin across my belly. There in that moment I felt like the mother I always imagined, my hopes immense like the sea beneath the warmth of that sun. Happy and settled. The new year just begun and summer in full swirl of sand and beach picnics...

September in Queensland (which is a state in Australia if you aren't too sure) is the beginning of the season of seagulls and sun, water babies and bare feet. How I love bare feet. We live but 35 minutes from the Gold Coast and 5 minutes from local beaches.

Today my youngest, the one I am pregnant with in this photo who is now two, was watching kids programs when a song came on that made me think of finding this picture. The song talks about the sun coming out after a long winter and the edges of ice melting...

That's how I feel today. Like the sun is coming... in many ways, the sun is coming. I feel like I have waited a life time. Maybe I have. And in many ways those rays are already touching my life. "Here comes the sun, little darling..." You know the song? I can't think of the name..

Just wanted to share the happy thought. I love summer in Australia. Wood burning BBQs and seafood and the promise of lots of drippy ice-blocks. Happiness. I am glad seasons turn. Especially those of the heart.

What about you? Does your season have sunshine, even if you are heading into winter?

Home

Where is home for you? 

Is it nestled in his favourite armchair, or beneath the throw rug that the two of you bought when you were newlywed? Does it sound loudly in the silly sayings that only the two of you understand? Do you hear it in the rain on your roof when you lay awake together just to listen? Do you feel it when he reaches for your hand or in the way he says your name? Are lead down the path to home every time you walk along that beach, through his park or beside your river? 

Is it a place beside a window where sunlight can hold you while you snuggle with your children? Is it seen in the scuff marks down the hallway from new leather shoes bought for the first day of school? Do you find it in the pages of your favourite book from childhood, or in the picture books your babies are now too old to read? Do you hold home in the softness of your newborn's fingers wrapped around your thumb? 

Do you hear it in the song you first danced to? In the music that made you sing when you were a teenager or in the lullabyes you hummed during those first wakeful nights?  

Is it in the yellowing photographs that take the hands of time back to when your grandmother was just a girl or your father just a boy? Is it in the scent of her perfume, in the way she brushed her hair, in the little movements her hands used to make when she talked? 

Do you find home in the garden that you planted to grow tomatoes just like you used to do when you were a little and your grandfather showed you how? Do you find home when your fingers trace the script of your great aunt's recipe for leek and potato soup? Is it there in the birthday cards from friends of all the years gone by? 

Do you taste home in your family's favourite meals or see it in the games you play on clover filled days under blue skies in the backyard? Is it in the squealing and pounding of small feet, far too early on a Saturday morning?

Is it beside him late on a Sunday night?

Where is home? 

How many people does it hold?

How many places has it known and how often do you live there?

Mine is all around me when I look when I choose to see. It is on the face of everyone I keep close. I have many little homes tucked away in all the thousands of memories that connect me to both my past and my future, but most importantly to my present.

What about you?

Where is your home?