reflection

It’s Time to Talk About Bluey

/ annamurray / Leave a comment

[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.

Settling In (C vs. E)

/ annamurray / Leave a comment

A huge milestone in our family this week: E started settling in to daycare. And this experience has, so far, been wildly different from when C began. 

C had been looked after by Glenn or my parents once I went back to work. When she was 10 months, we realised that was no longer feasible and we needed childcare, as soon as possible. Her settling in was a little play there the afternoon before she had to be in for a full day.

E has been looked after primarily by me which is easier because, thanks to all sorts of things, I do what I can to work from home. But if Glenn is looking after her while I’m trying to work in her sight, she screeches for me. I was beginning to realise that we needed childcare, soonish but not urgently but maybe we should start the process. 

C loves people, has always made people smile, and will say a cheery hello to random people we pass in the street. I was not at all worried about her starting daycare from a social point of view.

E does not love people. If someone looks at her a bit too closely, she cries. I was worried – I am still worried – about her starting daycare from a social point of view. Even though she has seen the staff nearly every week, she has also cried at them nearly every week. I am anticipating a few weeks for settling in.

C was a terrible sleeper. Fed to sleep for ages. I was very, very worried about her starting daycare from a naps point of view. After a few days and conversations with her teacher (yes, actually, I know it’s a short nap but please please please wake her up from her morning nap otherwise she just will refuse to sleep at lunch have you noticed that because I notice that and then bedtime is atrocious), things settled down and I didn’t worry quite so much.

E has been a dream in comparison. Not entirely – there have been days that have been horrible – but so much easier. Refuses to be fed or even held to sleep. Must be lying down. I am not worried about her starting daycare from a naps point of view. And sure enough, she has napped exactly when I said I wanted her to nap. Her teachers are amazed that she wakes right on 9:30.

The night before C’s first day, I was madly trying to name all her things and she refused to go to sleep. It was rather stressful.

The night before E’s first day, she slept beautifully. Until 4:30 or so and by 4:45 she was screeching for me to wake up. Not fun, but it did mean she was definitely very ready for that morning nap.

When we dropped C off for her first day, I cried. I was so worried, and scared for her, and wondering if I had done the right thing. One of the staff assured me they were all highly trained and most of them had children of their own. When I recognised that it is their job, they’re actually better equipped to do this than I am, it made it a whole lot easier.

I had no such qualms with E. I was a little sad the night before and gave her extra extra cuddles, but I was in a totally different headspace. I know the staff are going to look after her. I know C can go for little visits (which they both love, no surprises there). I know it is good for E to experience different carers and other children and new toys and messy play that someone else gets to clean up. I know it will make the next few years easier as she goes through these pre-school years with the same children and carers, and I get that time to work, to earn money, to have time away so I can come back refreshed with all the cuddles and kisses of I miss you.

In Praise of the Starlight Room

/ annamurray / Leave a comment

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

/ annamurray / Leave a comment

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

/ annamurray / Leave a comment

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

/ annamurray / Leave a comment

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.

Unofficial Milestones

/ annamurray / 1 Comment

The last couple of weeks have been rough. Gastro went through the whole family. Our easy baby stopped sleeping. Parent guilt has hit hard as I spend my time trying to get her to sleep and struggle to spend time with, you know, our other child. 

But through all this, there have been little things happening, the little things that make up a life and are the very reason I wanted to write this blog, not wanting to lose them. The little things that are, nonetheless, important. The little things that don’t make it to the milestone pages but maybe they should. 

Like when a baby learns to put her head down, that being on her tummy doesn’t mean she must have her head raised. That resting her head can bring great comfort to her, or be incredibly adorable when it is rested for 3 seconds and then raised again with the smile of achievement as she eyeballs you.

Like when a 3-year-old starts using ‘like’, and ‘so’. Or when she starts ‘reading’ the stories to me and taking hints from the letters as to which word it is. Bonus points for doing different voices, and interjecting comments about the pictures or storyline. 

Like when a daddy can put a ponytail in young, fine, curly hair, a ponytail that doesn’t pull or hurt but does stay in for the whole day. 

These are our little things. Important, little, us.

Where to Begin?

/ annamurray / Leave a comment

Why now? 

Why, at all?

Well. There has been so much happen in the world and in our own little corner of the world recently. The Taliban has advanced through Afghanistan. Covid is raging in American schools and across the world and throughout parts of Australia (different scales, admittedly). Smaller tragedies that have hit home, hard.

Our baby can now sit, and started using the high chair, and flinging food across to our 3-year-old’s hair, and is teething furiously. Our 3-year-old is saying more and more expressions that we haven’t heard from her before, and painting the thunderstorms that kept her awake when she was 2, and getting better at matching sounds to letters, and building forts to sleep in at night.

And all of the stuff of our life will be lost, save for the photos we take, unless I make it more memorable with the actual writing of the words. Photos help, but don’t tell the full story. I can’t get a photo of the heaviness of a baby sleeping on my chest, or the feeling of soft skin and little fingers holding my hand, or the momentary flash of a smile as a face is upturned towards me. I can’t get a photo of the frustration when sleep is a battle, when food isn’t eaten, when no response is given, when their independence overtakes all reason. 

This is, therefore, partly to keep in my mind the wonderful things my children do, and how wondrous it is to be their parent, and just how fortunate we are to be where we are; to work through things for my own sake, to try to be a better parent; and to share the little things we do in our family that make up the stuff of our life.

So this is who we are. I’m Anna, wife of Glenn, mother of our two young girls. We love Star Wars and Minions and Bluey and Frozen and all things pink; baking and bubbles and food and creating.

Welcome.