reflection

Parenting in a Pandemic

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It has been a little niggle. Like a worry that you worry but don’t really have to do anything about but you know it is there, worrying. Sometimes it flares up, when it all gets closer to home. The same state, the same city, the same suburbs, the same shops. 

But with an attitude of ‘we can fix this, let’s all be sensible’, we have been part of a cohort of people who adhere to our short, sharp lockdowns. Stay home. Physically distance. Wear a mask. Sanitise hands. Numbers reduce, restrictions ease, the worry calms.

Like many global things that Australians watch but don’t experience, we have seen the news from across the world. Italy. Iran. Spain. The USA. India. We have been horrified, amazed at the spread of this disease that could so often be prevented. Prevention that can be easy to achieve in first world countries but is so much harder in poorer areas. Prevention that can so easily occur if people work together, thinking of others and listening to experts.

I have thought time and time again, thank goodness we don’t live there. Usually, thank goodness we don’t live in the USA, where I see accounts on Twitter of masks not being mandatory, children having to go back to school in person despite soaring case numbers, people not isolating and not vaccinating and not being able to take time off work and not being able to work from home.

Yet with all that we could have learned over the last two years, we are here. The worrying niggle is much more present, less of a niggle and more of a prominent worry. A worry that has me wondering if we’re doing the right thing, sending two girls too young to be vaccinated off to daycare. Worrying that a supermarket trip will come home with disease. Worrying that a supermarket trip won’t provide enough food due to the food shortages due to truck drivers being off work due to illness. Worrying that we might have a small accident that might require a trip to a hospital that can’t take us because they are suddenly full. Worrying that any sneeze or cough is not just a sneeze or cough but a sign of COVID. Worrying that if I accept offers of help from older people we might unwittingly give them COVID and the repercussions for them would be far greater than for others. Worrying that we’d have a notification from daycare about a case there.

Monday that last worry was realised. A case. A child in C’s class, there on one of the same days she is. Then email after email notifying us of further cases. The worry about each case. Will it be mild? Will they be ok? When will we see them again? What about their household? The worry about the new government policies. Childcare centres are no longer considered close contact but does anyone understand what babies and toddlers and preschoolers are like? Physical distancing is impossible. And if they’re told they can still attend, most parents will still send their kids because they don’t have a choice.

Thankfully, the staff were instructed to test and isolate regardless of government regulations.  Thankfully, we have the capacity to keep the girls home this week. Thankfully, we are free from symptoms so don’t need to test. Or worry quite so much.

But there is still that worry. That worry that has me in sudden tears as I try to settle E for sleep. That worry that has me asking for extra cuddles from C. That worry that is supremely relieved that Glenn no longer works in retail. That worry that has me checking my phone frequently to see if my parents’ recent tests were negative. And if they’re positive, what then? Will they make it? Will I have to say goodbye? Explain to the girls what is happening? Have them say goodbye? All the accounts of what happens at the end for COVID patients, how could I bear it happening to someone I love?

I wonder, then, how parents have coped in areas that have been hit harder than us. How do you continue with relentless worry? For days, weeks, months, years? Knowing that you are doing all that you can to stop this but not everyone is and still, still it can creep in and then your baby or your elderly parents or your immunocompromised partner is at such high risk? How do you continue keeping everyone safe, knowing that it might not be enough? 

Worry is exhausting.

The Stuff of Our 2021

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This year has had it all. Some was expected, some not. And some aspects (yes, I’m talking about the pandemic here) that we hoped would be over just kept coming back in different forms.

Here is our 2021 in numbers, result compared to expectation.

Most exciting: new baby (1/1). The best. 

Most horrible: accident with new baby. Never expected. One horrible accident, and one that turned out to be not so bad but was still nerve-wracking when it happened. (2/0). 

Concerts: (3/? Thanks to COVID we never knew what to expect). 3, that is, that I was brave enough to attend with the girls (Glenn has performed more than that). Each has been a learning experience and I feel tonight’s NYE Pops concert I did the best. Naps, food, sleep, all worked out fairly well. Anxiety level for me was very very high but I’m so glad we went. And both girls behaved beautifully.

New appliances: ooh there were so many. It was really the year of the new. We knew we would be buying a new mattress – the old one had deep troughs on either side from years of use (and, let’s face it, pregnancy). We were not expecting to replace the toaster, kettle, microwave, vacuum cleaner battery, printer, laptop, or fridge. (So, numbers… how many is that, 8? 8/1.) It has been an expensive year. I would like it to stop now. 

Sickness: there has been some, of course – hello daycare. There was the Gastro Experience of September. There has been the No It’s Not Covid Cough of December. There have been other sniffles that have gone away after a week of resting at home, just like doctors and mothers say they will. Amazing.

And then there are the things of life that cannot be numbered. The joy in seeing each girl grow to be more themselves every day. The frustration of adult-young child communication. The immense delight seeing the love between our girls, and between all of us. The worry – oh the worry. Worries. When C is ‘just a bit nervous’ going to daycare. When E doesn’t reach a milestone as early as C did. When there’s a lockdown due to a cluster of Covid cases in our area. When I can’t give either girl the attention she needs. When C doesn’t pick up small objects or sharp objects and doesn’t understand the danger they pose to E. 

This year has certainly held surprises. Some delightful, some not. Some scary, some not. I feel we’ve handled it the best we could and have definitely grown through all these experiences. Like everyone, I am hoping for more of the good stuff next year, and less of the not-so-nice surprises. Please and thank you.

Christmas 2021: Hope vs Kids

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Now that it is the fifth day of Christmas… I finally have a moment to write about the Christmas that was Christmas 2021. 

There is always such hope surrounding Christmas. Hope for good things in the world, for blessings for those we love, for peace and joy and love to prevail. Hope for the things that we care about, that make our Christmases what we want them to be, to be able to happen. The food, the decorations, the excitement, the surprises.

This Christmas I was hoping to do so much for Glenn and the girls, and for my parents and Glenn’s dad and his family in Ireland. I had hopes for Christmas crafts, decorations throughout our home, a clean and tidy and organised place, Christmas baking. I planned to crochet a rug for E. Sew her a stuffed toy. Sew a stuffed toy for C. Make ornaments from clay and paper. Make thoughtful presents for C’s daycare teachers.

Buuuuut kids. 2022 Me needs to remember a few things. Learn from the experience of 2021 Me.

Just because you have a 3-year-old who LOVES craft and LOVES Christmas, doesn’t mean she will ‘be in the zone for that’ when you have opportunity to do things. Your visions of Pinterest-worthy garlands and wreaths and teacher gifts and decorations may well remain visions. The paddle-pop stick with cotton wool balls and pipe cleaners and googly eyes that you made into a snowman might, however, become a treasured toy. Go figure.

Just because you suddenly have both girls in daycare for a couple of days a week in the lead-up to Christmas – well, remember the whole daycare immunity thing? Surely it’s a law of physics or biology or something that kids in daycare will be sick, too sick to go anywhere at all, at some point in December. At the most inconvenient time. And, probably, share it around so you end up feeling atrocious yourself. Too exhausted for anything, just barely making it through the days and hoping you have a skerrick of energy somewhere to do the things that absolutely must be done before Christmas to make Christmas still Christmas for two little girls.

Just because you have grand ideas to sew beautiful, coordinating clothes for your children, or sew hair bands, or stuffed toys, or the shirt you’ve been promising your husband for 6 months, or even the dress you’ve been hoping to sew for yourself, doesn’t mean you will have a moment to yourself in the evenings to contemplate the sewing machine. 2022 Me could maybe just try to make those things as we go and not put so much pressure on Christmas.

Speaking of which, 2022 Me needs to remember the ‘be kind to yourself’ mantra that was Christmas 2021. Yes, it’s nice to have a clean and tidy and organised home but if you’re barely able to stay awake, go for the more important things. Like wrapping the Christmas presents. (Ahem – wrap the presents earlier. Like you used to. Remember? Attach notes securely. This year was just too stressful and late.) You may want to insist on baking Christmas goodies even if the weather is typically Brisbane summer steaminess but apparently Santa was quite happy with the ice cream you offered this year so maybe don’t stress too much about baking. And yes, 2021 Me feels quite smug about all the presents bought during the year and how much it reduced stress in December and 2022 Me could do well to remember this and yes, realise that you’ve turned into one of THOSE people. 

2022 Me will hopefully also remember the absolute joy of children finding stockings that now have magical presents in them (underpants! A hat! A toothbrush! A FIDGET POPPER IT’S A RAINBOW UNICORN AND E HAS A MATCHING ONE HERS IS A BUTTERFLY THEY HAVE THESE AT DAYCARE I LOVE THEM!) And wondering at the magic of Santa and how he manages to get through our balcony door and just how does he know that C likes Frozen and unicorns and how does he know E likes bath toys? And dancing to Christmas music and eating yummy food and watching the Christmas lights blink and watching snow globes swirl and watching a Christmas movie up late as a huge treat. And finding gifts for special people that they delight in receiving as much as you delight in giving, and receiving beautiful and thoughtful gifts from others.

2022 Me will hopefully also make it to church. 2021 Me hasn’t made it, is still very anxious about taking children who are too young to be vaccinated anywhere, but is also really missing church and the community it brings and the spiritual food found therein. 2021 Me is quite aware how much the rhythm of life is influenced and guided by the rhythm of church life, and Christmas and Easter are far hollower, and harder to find joy in, without the religious basis for them.

2021 Me is also secretly hoping that the girls will be old enough to play by themselves (or together, without disaster) when Christmas 2022 is here. This was exhausting and I could have easily napped from about 10am. Yes, I am very impressed with myself for holding out until crashing into bed at 9:30pm but a nap would be nice next time, ok? Ok.

It’s Time to Talk About Bluey

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[Season 3 is mentioned but no spoilers!]

I’ve mentioned before how much our family loves Bluey. Honestly, this could be a Bluey Appreciation blog. We love it. There are oodles of Bluey items in our home already and more will be added at Christmas. 

We wouldn’t have so much though if we didn’t love the show, in so many ways. And this is the only show that everyone loves. There are some shows that C adores… and we can’t stand. Some that C adores and I enjoy but Glenn can’t stand. Bluey, though – well, Glenn watches it when no-one else is around. 

I could (and probably will, in bits, eventually), list at length all the ways we love the show. But Season 3 is hitting all the right notes. Every single episode has me laughing or crying or cheering or all three.

Today I want to write about Mum. I am both a lot like her, and aspire to be like and take inspiration from her. I love my own Mum, and have learnt so much from her (admittedly, some of it in hindsight); however, sometimes it’s easier to learn something when it’s presented differently. Like, in cartoon dog form.

I’ve learnt from Mum (Chilli) that tone of voice matters. ‘What are you doing?’ can sound very different when asked with different tones. And, accordingly, engender different responses and different deeper reactions from little ones. My natural manner is a very suspicious, let’s cut this off before it escalates, I don’t think this is going to end well, tone. If I was asked in this tone, I would probably feel guilty whether I was playing quietly with building blocks or climbing where I shouldn’t climb and looking where I know I shouldn’t. But if I channel Mum in the Bingo episode, everything changes. I have asked in that curious tone and received all sorts of responses. From ‘ooh mummy can I show you something, I’m just building a house for us, it has a bed here…(etc)’ to a furtive bump as she slides off something she should not have been on, looking at something she should not have been looking at, before telling me ‘I was just looking at…’ or ‘mummy watch this!!!’ What is said is important, but the way it is said is just as important. Especially for young ones.

I’ve learnt from her that I’m not the only mum who gets frustrated. ‘Sticky Gecko’, anyone? It was a long time before I actually saw that episode start to finish. It never seemed to be a top choice, but once I’d seen it – well. (And it has so much in it for C too – mostly, that it’s ok to be a bit nervous about seeing a friend.) I think many mums feel validated by this episode. If we arrive at the park a bit late for a play date, I know I can say ‘sorry, we were having a sticky gecko morning’ and the other mum will nod with understanding. The extra element in this episode for me though, is that Chilli doesn’t stay in the frustrated mum character zone (as many shows would have her); nor is she a calm and patient angelic character who never bats an eyelid. Instead, she feels her feelings and then also finds out what her girls are feeling. A huge lesson for me.

And I’ve learnt from her that it’s ok to be fun. Mums are so often the boring parent, who make sure teeth are cleaned and laundry is done and floors are cleaned and tables wiped and dishes done and homework done and hair is brushed and bedtime is observed. It can be exhausting. So when we watched ‘Rain’ the other day, I had a similar reaction to when I watched ’Sleepytime’ for the first time. Starting off with laughter but, before too long, tears in my eyes. Although C is often very much like Bingo, the interactions between Mum and Bluey in this episode are so, so much like my interactions with C. It sounds weird – but also perfectly normal – to say that watching ‘Rain’ was like watching my life in cartoon dog form. I just hope I can remember to get my feet wet more often.

In Praise of the Starlight Room

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Tuesday was huge: E was due for a checkup at the hospital. I love the Queensland Children’s Hospital. I mean, I’d rather not have to go there ever again, but as we have had to go and will continue to need to go, I love it.

Not just for its proximity, or the quality of staff, or the abundance of volunteers ready to help you out at the first furrowed brow of confusion or eyes glazed in shock.

My favourite thing about the QCH is the Starlight Room. Without it, our trips to the hospital would be diabolical. 

This is a room that recognises that children still need to play. That they need to have the normality of toys, of a big window to see the world, a room with lady birds and bumble bees to ride on, and shopping trolleys to push and pretend to play shops with, and cars and dolls and hula hoops, and tables with craft and colouring in and drawing.

This is a room that recognises that children need a break from hospital beds and hospital staff and the gravity of a situation that lands a child in hospital. A room that recognises that not all children at the hospital are patients, and siblings need just as much care and attention. 

This is a room that recognises that parents need a break, or time to focus on the child who is the patient and not worry about where any other child is and if it’s bad that they’re plugged into a tablet or trying to play with all the cords they can see.

This is a room that recognises that there’s a lot of waiting at hospitals. And although you may *know* that there’s the possibility of a 2-3 hour wait for the appointment, no one ever thinks it will really take that long so only prepares a trip for a 9-month-old and a 3-and-a-half-year-old involving maybe a half hour wait. Helloooooo, Starlight Room.

I admit, several times throughout this year I have used the Starlight Room as an incentive. C needs to be well in order to be allowed in, so a good sleep is in order. Even if I’m pushing for that sleep to happen a few months in advance. You can’t convince us you need to stay home from daycare then be expected to have a visit to the Starlight Room.

Tuesday was a bit different. Instead of me saying we’re off to the hospital and C responding with ‘yay that means I go to Starlight Room!’ this time she wasn’t so sure. A bit nervous. We reassured her that she didn’t have to go, she could stay with us in the waiting area. And she did, for a bit. She sat on my lap and we read stories while Glenn walked E around. But after about 30 minutes of this she said maybe she’d changed her mind. Ugh.

So I checked with the receptionist who was really sorry about the wait until I told her this was perfect. With the promise of a phone call when E’s time was approaching, off we went to the Starlight Room. Instead of leaving her be as we have in the past, this time we stayed with C a bit. A relaxing sit as E looked at all these other children and had some lunch. An interesting experience watching C playing in this kind of environment, needing to share with other children who maybe don’t have the social skills she has, but also in an environment in which all children are a little or a lot not their usual self. I let E have a little wander and she enjoyed the bumble bee (well, eating the little knob that is a handle) then crawling on a new surface, and finally some sensory play. 

By the time we decided we needed to go back downstairs to see how much longer we may need to wait (it was now past her nap time and E gets *cranky*), C was definitely settled in. I tried to tell her we were going and I think she heard me but she was wearing a tiara with a veil and trying to get a remote control car to work so there was little response. And I’m pretty sure the only reason she came with us when we collected her later was the promise of pizza. Win.

I’m thinking we need to make a donation to the Starlight Foundation. The amount of craft that we have around our place from her various visits – a ‘cake’, a collage, a feathery jellyfish creation – is one thing (and so much appreciated by our craft-loving girl), but the very existence of this oasis in the hospital is so very wonderful. It has made our hospital trips and our life so, so much easier.

Linguistic Oddities of 3 and a Half

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The other night, I had the sad realisation that we had seen the end of nummy. The first time it happened, C had been saying ‘dee… LISH… usss’ which I finally put together as ‘delicious’. So, forever recording things, we tried to video it. Some milk with frozen raspberries in it (a favourite of hers), and ‘how is it?’ Speaking like a Michelin Star judge, instead of deeLISHuss, she pronounced her drink to be ‘nummy’. The way she said it – well, it still makes me laugh.

Sadly, when C was asked last week if her dinner was nummy, she said it was delicious. Can you tell daddy it’s nummy? It’s yummy, daddy! And only when she tried, really tried, could she tell him it was nummy. 

I find language development fascinating. I did a couple of linguistics subjects at university (as electives as part of my music degree) and have enjoyed watching babbling turn into detailed accounts of things that have happened in C’s life. 

There are the words that are guesses at words. She used to say ‘armbow’ for elbow and I miss it. Like many children, she will check for our ‘heart beep’ when playing doctor. And there are the mispronunciations like ‘hopsital’ or ‘hostipal’ or ‘aminal’ or ‘bonato’ or (my new favourite that happened on Tuesday) ‘Lemmie-un Falcon’ and ‘3CPO’.

There are the words that are right but wrong. For a while now we have been hearing ‘her’ instead of she. We have started correcting her a little bit – there’s only so long that something like this can be endearing before it becomes just wrong. But what really impressed me at the start of last week was when she ‘read’ Old Mother Hubbard and alllll of the ‘she’s were replaced with ‘her’. ‘Her went to the cobblers/ To buy him some shoes/ But when her got back/ He was reading the news’. Every. Single. One.

I’m not sure how common this is but she often swaps around double-barrelled words and phrases. For a long time she would ask to watch ‘cracker nut ballet’, or ‘Two Frozen’. Just this morning she told daddy to have ‘corn sweet’ on his toast.

But there are also the words and phrases that come about that turn into the vernacular of a family.

A word that C has taken and reinvented is jungle (verb). Over summer I was pregnant and huge and trying not to do any extra lifting. C would barrel into me or try to climb all over me or jump onto me after climbing onto the sofa. ‘Stop it! I’m not a jungle gym!’ was said multiple times. But daddy loves it… So C would climb all over Glenn when he was on the sofa, an activity that she still does. She hangs off his legs, pretends he is a horse, hides under his knees and pops up like a jack-in-the-box, pushes his back (he loves the back massage) and climbs onto his shoulders. Recently I asked what she was doing? ‘I’m jungle-ing on daddy!’ Perfect.

The Magic of Twinkle

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One of my great joys this year has been seeing my two girls interacting. The way E’s face lights up when C finally makes it to the breakfast table. The way C will sit down with E and ‘read’ (recite) stories. The way E builds up then lets loose a squeak laugh when C does something, anything, that she finds funny. 

And the way C will sing to E to calm her down. This has been one of the most beautiful (and unexpected) parts of my year. It began a few months ago, when E was crying because I was doing something outrageous like washing my hands and therefore not holding her. C sang, very gently and beautifully, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. E calmed down right away while my heart melted just a little bit.

We have seen many subsequent renditions of this. Usually Twinkle, sometimes Baa Baa Black Sheep. Sometimes gently, sometimes very loudly to override the screaming. Sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, and sometimes slowly until the last line or two and then a quick dash to the finish line. Sometimes with a caring voice and sometimes with a funny ‘granny’ voice.

And every time, E will stop the crying when she hears the singing. I suspect much of it is the surprise factor, just like babies will stop and stare when grandparents and nurses start up with the duck noises or when someone claps nearby. But there is also that knowledge in her that C cares for her and looks after her and loves her and is trying to help.

I only occasionally have success singing Twinkle to her. The song that I can sing to calm her down is Hickory Dickory Dock – although if I sing it near C she tells me I’m doing it wrong even though I sing the version we did in music classes when she was a baby. Glenn has success with Baa Baa Black Sheep but, more often, Incy Wincy Spider. He does a long pause at the start of the last line aaaaannnnnnd no matter what E is doing, she’ll lift her head and wait for it and break out into a wholeofherface smile and then maybe also a squeak laugh and then big laughs when the song continues. 

Music is magic.

Let Me Remember

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We are deep in the trenches.  The days that are flying by in a fog of getting to the next nap or mealtime or bedtime, days that are filled with how. How am I going to fill that time between morning tea and lunch, or afternoon tea and dinner. How am I going to stay awake after yet another night of horribly broken sleep. How am I going to keep my cool when I am massively sleep-deprived and lacking in any time to be creative for myself and I am merely coping, just getting by and hoping I am doing enough and hoping I can remember.

Hoping I can remember, because I know this all passes, passes so so quickly, and before I know it the girls will be taller than me and borrowing my clothes and shoes and makeup and spending more time out of the home than here.

So many things to remember.

Let me remember the softness. The softness of the hair, so soft that I could rest my cheek on it all day. The softness of the skin, the soft skin of tiny hands as they hold and explore and reach and gripple, the soft skin of bigger hands as they slip into mine when we cross a road or descend the stairs, the soft skin of plump cheeks as a head rests on my shoulder.

Let me remember the heaviness. The heaviness of a baby. The solid weight of a little baby. The hefty weight of an older baby. The lanky weight of a leggy preschooler who still wants a cuddle-walk to the bathroom to clean her teeth but is all legs and knees and elbows and ribs.

Let me remember the curves. The curve of round cheeks. The slight curve of eyelashes when the eyes are closed in sleep. The gentle curve of fingers relaxed in sleep.

Let me remember the spontaneity and fun of children. The squeak laugh that starts in the belly and spurts out with delight. The sudden raspberry conversation across the breakfast table. The imminent 3-year-old tantrum waylaid when the baby thinks it is a game of peek-a-boo.

Let me remember them when I too am older and worrying about girls being independent and asserting themselves and setting foot in the big wide world. Let me remember how little and precious and fragile and fiercely independent they are, now.

Let me remember their babyhood and preschool years, the memories that cannot be caught in a photo, the memories that they will not have themselves.

Let me remember.

October.

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[Trigger Warning: pregnancy loss]

October. That month of jacarandas in bloom and the city coloured purple. That month when storm season really kicks off and the warmth and humidity also brings the promise of cracking thunder and lightning and rain and hail. That month of shops full of orange and black and red and green as Halloween and Christmas are jumbled together and pushed upon us. That month when newsfeeds are full of end-of-year events and pumpkins and stories of loss. The school year is coming to an end. The northern hemisphere is sliding into cooler weather. And October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.

I’ve seen so many stories of loss. Loss of hope, a tiny beginning that was nixed, the promise of a new life that would not make it to babyhood or toddlerhood or big school. 

While we have experienced our own losses, and come horribly close to another, I have never shared our story for the world to see. It is ours. Ours, but not uncommon, and not unexpected considering we started this whole parenting quest rather late in life.

I have my own reminders. Star Wars: Episode 7. Stranger Things. Blueberries. Sorry folks, there’s no heartbeat. 

Hospital corridor. Photo taken right after that ultrasound.

For us, these have turned into the layers of our life. They are there. They happened. They have been followed by successful pregnancies and beautiful babies and milestones and mischievous laughs and tantrums and sleep deprivation and cuddles and all of the things I hoped would come into our life, and so much more. The almosts, the near misses, the actual hospitalisation, have all reminded us of the precariousness of life as well as the enormity of the precious and amazing gift that is our children. 

The Most Special Person

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Something that our 3yo (C) has been saying lately is that she wants to get married. Yes, I snorted with surprise the first time she said it. I think it’s coming from seeing my wedding dress in the wardrobe and having one of her day-care friends going to a wedding recently. But this is something I am not keen to have happen too soon. Obviously.

“You have to be a grown up to get married.”

– “But I AM a grown up girl.”

“You have to be 18 at least.”

– “I’m nearly 18!”

“Well, who do you think you’re going to marry, anyway?”

– “YOU!”

“But I’m already married to daddy. You and baby E are special, but daddy is the most special person in the whole world for me. You can only get married if you find the most special person in the whole world for YOU.”

I’ve been hearing me through her for a little while now, in her playtime and more recently how she talks to E. But because we’ve had this marriage conversation a few times, I wasn’t sure it had sunk in just yet.

Until a week ago. We had my brother over for a little visit, and something was mentioned about him getting engaged (VERY exciting). And in the middle of all the grown ups talking about weddings and how he proposed, C pipes up with “because she’s the most special person in the whole world for you?”

I teared up a little, knowing that yes, she has really heard this, and yes, my brother has found his most special person, and yes, I found my most special person. In the whole entire world. 

Glenn and I celebrate our 2nd wedding anniversary today. 2 years doesn’t sound like much. But 2 years also feels like an age, for all the right reasons. Mostly because I can’t imagine my life without him.

And we are building our most special life together.