reflection

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.

Unofficial Milestones

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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?

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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.