tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18725270576181723702012-03-02T23:34:49.091-08:00Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.comBlogger661100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-4754118603533587352012-02-13T02:31:00.000-08:002012-02-13T02:31:55.945-08:00

In the days when there was the time and energy to read and be read to in bed, the DH used to read the occasional page or two of philosophy to me (romantic eh?).  Just whatever he was reading.  A page or two is probably hyperbole.  It only took a paragraph or two before I was off in the land of nod, snoring happily.  I always thought it was the subject matter - to me, reading philosophy is

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-78681543973307628582012-02-09T00:56:00.000-08:002012-02-09T00:57:31.447-08:00

Just when I thought I could relax, on Sunday evening I felt just a suggestion of that old familiar pain, this time on the left side.  For a while I tried to pretend I was imagining it.  Then I tried to explain it away ("must have bumped it during my woman-conquers-weedwhacker gardening frenzy").  Then, as the pain grew worse, I did some bargaining with it ("just let me get a good night's sleep

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-83323917292295050352012-01-25T23:58:00.000-08:002012-02-03T01:13:16.166-08:00

The DH got a very special book for Christmas.  It features pictures of topless women - in 3D!! Just a whole book of breasts.  But it's not as lewd as it sounds.  It's the kind of fun book you have on your coffee table. And that's exactly where it was when Milkbaby came across it.  He looked at the front cover for a few minutes, then pointed at the barely-covered breasts and said "milk".  "

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-59819859892594982692012-01-03T01:27:00.000-08:002012-01-07T17:39:56.337-08:00

Well, unlike last New Year's eve (when I barely made it to midnight), this New Year's we did the unthinkable... we left Milkbaby with his doting grandparents, and drove over 3 hours across the countryside to have a few quiet beers with some friends.  His first night alone without either of us.  And for us, there was no coming back in the event of some unforeseen disaster ("he won't sleep!"). We

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-31616348371995072982011-12-11T00:41:00.000-08:002012-01-07T17:39:56.338-08:00

Co-sleeping, rather like breastfeeding, is another one of those controversial, damned if you do, damned if you don't-type topics.  There are a number of perspectives: The government "lowest common denominator" advice says no co-sleeping. Fullstop. Attachment parenting advocates say it's a great idea. Some experts say it's ok as long as you're not fat, drunk or on drugs, or a heavy sleeper, you

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-39057983981080999182011-11-21T01:33:00.000-08:002011-11-21T01:33:10.341-08:00

Not so long ago, a childless friend remarked to me "you know, if I didn't know better, your blog would really put me off having kids".  "Yeah, I know" I responded quickly.  "But there's nothing interesting or funny about blathering on about how moonily in love you are with your newborn, or his latest achievements.  And plus there's like a tonne of those blogs on the internet already." So, just

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-75188808420765822532011-11-19T01:32:00.000-08:002012-01-07T17:41:16.996-08:00

As I walk through the Creche gate on Friday afternoons, my mind turns to the 48 hours looming ahead of me. Usually I'm looking forward to some quality time with Milkbaby.  Though often that pleasant thought is accompanied by a small ironic voice that says "Ha, 48 hours straight with your kid... how will you cope?  Will you even remember what to do?". I'm usually a bit of a planner.  I keep

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-55743112239163497772011-10-16T03:10:00.000-07:002011-10-16T03:10:55.891-07:00

Earworm (n.): (a loan translation of the German Ohrwurm) a portion of a song or other music that repeats compulsively within ones' mind.  Synonyms include "music meme", "humsickness", "repetunitis", "headsong", and my personal favourite, "tune wedgy". No it's not another gross childhood illness. You thought I was going to say sleep deprivation.  That comes a close second.  And is probably a

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-22773994812472405902011-09-23T16:20:00.000-07:002011-09-23T16:21:52.962-07:00

While on my sickbed, I took to reflecting on my approach to motherhood.  Mostly, I wondered if my 'die hard' attitude to breastfeeding had somehow left me disadvantaged.  Before I go on, I should say that this situation I found myself in (ie, with a baby who refuses to take a bottle or formula, and who showed, until recently, very little interest in solid food) was not something I really gave

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-9966747888840284762011-09-23T02:29:00.000-07:002011-09-23T03:01:30.247-07:00

How to take your toddler to get a passport photo, and leave the shop with your nerves in tact. Sorry, I'm afraid it's not possible. Either get his passport photos done when he's a few weeks old, or forget about international travel until after age five. The latter approach probably involves less stress for everyone anyway. If you want to know how "the third way" might go for you, read on... I

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-27744816206428557562011-09-11T02:19:00.000-07:002011-09-14T01:04:07.899-07:00

I've decided that whether or not you get to the cry-it-out point depends on a number of factors.  These factors can be expressed in an equation, as follows: NN + TLD X MF + (10/NA) > 5000 = CIO                     LOT     Or in words: Where (Number of consecutive nights without unbroken sleep plus total number of times you've said 'lie down please, it's time to sleep' multiplied by minutes of

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-52286989072451797742011-08-28T15:20:00.000-07:002011-08-28T15:22:36.680-07:00

Last Friday I officially completed 10 weeks back at work.  Even though I've actually only worked about 6 out of those ten weeks, I thought, being a nice round number and all, that today I'd bring you ten thoughts on being a working mama: 1. Work* is the easy part.  It's the three hours either side that are diabolical. 2.  If I get to work without snot, food or some other unidentified substance

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-89764991524387277062011-08-25T21:17:00.000-07:002011-12-23T15:39:02.123-08:00

A conversation with an acquaintance last week: "So what school will he go to?" "Not sure.  He's only one so we've got plenty of time to think about it." "Not really.  You should get onto it." "Hmm"   [I'm wondering how deciding on, and enrolling in, a primary school will take 4 years] "Are you Catholic?" "No" "Oh that's too bad... the Catholic school in this suburb is really good.  I've sent all

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-9957451864554274042011-08-25T03:09:00.000-07:002011-08-28T15:22:17.711-07:00

It had to happen sooner or later: chicken pox. It's not caused by chickens. Though they kind of snuck up on us.  Or rather, snuck up on Milkbaby.  No fever, no irritability, no general feelings of malaise. Day 1: it began with just one pox.  (or is that pock?) Thinking it was an insect bite, I sent Milkbaby to creche. Day 2: another pox.  I began to get suspicious. Enter Dr Google.  

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-45594272015022493212011-08-13T01:39:00.000-07:002011-08-13T01:40:55.031-07:00

That's pretty much my motto for life: "it could've been worse".  My Poppa used to say it all the time, usually when we'd hurt ourselves or something hadn't gone our way.  He'd say "it could've been worse - it could have been Poppa".  It helped put things in perspective. It's useful to keep some sort of perspective on this motherhood gig.  For example: poop all over baby?  Could be worse - there

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-86719811175907008862011-08-03T17:26:00.000-07:002011-08-08T21:14:09.789-07:00

I realise that this blog is starting to stray from "motherhood and apple pie" territory into "medical misadventure" territory.  But bear with me.  I'm hoping that this interruption in service will be over soon, and I can return to ranting about baby poop, sleep deprivation, and square carrots. So there I am, back in hospital.  I've been given the medical third degree and my boob has been prodded

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-60772687258648491662011-07-31T02:17:00.000-07:002011-08-01T20:22:37.873-07:00

I thought I was done with this mastitis thing.  Turns out the mastitis had other ideas. Let me just run through the course of events thus far.  After getting needles stuck in my boob, I seemed to be on the road to recovery.  The doc even confirmed this on Tuesday morning when I saw him for one last check up and ultrasound.  On Thursday evening, I took the last of my antibiotics.  On Friday

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-65409764152055179852011-07-26T04:01:00.000-07:002011-07-28T01:17:31.539-07:00

When I pick Milkbaby up from creche, I breastfeed him before we go.  I don't bother to find the quiet breastfeeding chair in the babies' sleep room and instead perch on the seat by the lockers, in the main thoroughfare to the bathrooms.  This means that all of the children in the over twos area can see us as we sit there. Most of them ignore us, but I've had a few interesting conversations with

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-64972572542734729092011-07-22T02:27:00.000-07:002011-08-01T20:22:18.983-07:00

After two nights in hospital and a week off work, I thought I was on the mend.  Until I saw the specialist on Tuesday morning, and the specialist saw the inner workings of the red-hot-poker-boob with the ultrasound machine.  And in her words:We have a saying around here: never let the sun go down on undrained pus.Out came the needles.  Three of them to be precise.  I'll leave the rest to your

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-87019053768844248872011-07-14T14:58:00.000-07:002011-08-01T20:22:18.984-07:00

So continues the saga of the red-hot-poker-boob. On the "would you rather" scale, mastitis pretty much tops the charts.  As in, I'd rather simultaneously give birth, go to the dentist and have a Brazilian bikini wax than have mastitis.  It's honestly that bad.  Not only do you feel like you've got the worst flu going (worse than man-flu even), but your boob is like a place where a civil war and

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-83071774220709782212011-07-11T16:59:00.000-07:002011-08-01T20:22:18.985-07:00

Thursday was Milkbaby's 1st birthday.  It started off pretty well, with some present opening before breakfast, and then a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday upon arrival at creche.  I went to work, sat at my desk and breathed a sigh of relief (largely for having made it to work looking somewhat decent and without snot on my shoulder).  I did a bit of work and thought about what kind of cake

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-66136339161967163632011-07-05T00:31:00.000-07:002011-07-05T23:53:24.411-07:00

About 15 months ago, 13 couples sat nervously in a church hall, awaiting the start of their first antenatal class.  As we introduced ourselves, we were asked to reflect on what we were most apprehensive about.  One said (and I'm paraphrasing here) "I was a bit nervous about who we'd end up with in the group, but just from looking around the room I think we've done alright." Last weekend, 11 of

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-65947787517088137462011-07-04T02:29:00.000-07:002011-08-28T15:22:17.712-07:00

Milkbaby's a puker.  And when I say "puke", I'm not talking about your usual baby posseting. Posset (the Old English kind)  "Posset" - isn't that such a lovely polite Victorian word?  You can use it next time your co-worker turns up to work with baby vomit on his shoulder ("is that posset on your shoulder?").  Or to tell your friend that your baby's spilled on her new carpet ("sorry it's just

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-23519164370266362872011-06-28T02:01:00.000-07:002011-07-04T03:06:49.267-07:00

The state of motherhood is a special kind of madness.  This blog is evidence of that.  But combine it with a bit too much to drink and you get some strange outcomes...   I just had to reproduce this story in full - it's too good not to share.  This woman is ALL class. Lactating woman arrested after spraying officersA lactating US woman was arrested and charged with disorderly conduct after she

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-31390991667774362172011-06-27T02:37:00.000-07:002011-06-28T01:44:42.022-07:00

Milkbaby started creche about a month ago.  Leaving my firstborn with strangers is one of the harder things I've had to do on this motherhood caper (it's right up there with going to the dentist).  The first day he barely noticed my departure, too engrossed in exploring his surrounds.  I walked down the street back to the car, eyes streaming, boobs leaking milk all over the show.   It's the

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-82096347300317559492011-06-22T01:18:00.000-07:002011-07-04T03:06:59.365-07:00

My maternity leave came to an end last Thursday.  I am now officially a "working Mom" (more on this later).  As opposed to a stay-at-home-Mom, or SAHM in internet speak. My maternity leave TO DO list (the optimistic version) went something like this: reorganise book collection sort and put wedding photos into an album and some others into frames get vege and rose garden sorted unpack boxes from

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-91662224388657683772011-06-15T18:35:00.000-07:002011-06-20T01:37:30.794-07:00

Would You Rather...  was one of my favourite books as a child.  It involved all sorts of awful options.  Like, would you rather... stay in a haunted house?  or run through a field of stinging nettles?  Ummm...  Of course I was that annoying kid who was always trying to negotiate: "well as long as it was only one night in the haunted house" or "that depends on how big the field of stinging nettles

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-50755062617767506872011-06-15T17:59:00.000-07:002011-06-15T17:59:49.254-07:00

A friend was complaining that no one took her seriously at her job because she seemed too young. I said (helpfully, I thought) "Just wait till the shoe's on the other foot.  Like when you're giving birth and the doctor delivering your baby looks like he's about 22." Not kidding.  When he walked in at the 27th hour and, get this, politely introduced himself, I wanted to yell "you're not old

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-28111205778732353532011-06-08T14:29:00.000-07:002011-06-15T17:46:25.273-07:00

The "let's have another" conversation was going to happen sooner or later.  I just didn't think it would be the DH who would bring it up. In everything I've read lately, it's always the female wanting another child, and the male politely resisting.  A couple of examples: Ann Enright in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood: "When the baby is a month old - he is so gorgeous - I come,

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-29923473494307612132011-06-04T00:49:00.000-07:002011-06-04T02:53:13.094-07:00

Let me introduce you to my new, least favourite, emotion: [drum roll] da da da daaah! RESENTMENT n. Indignation or ill will felt as a result of a real or imagined grievance. Not such a common emotion in my repertoire - until having a baby.  It's one of those ones that creeps up on you, and you find yourself cursing into your decaf (yes furking decaf) about almost any little thing that just

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-31983624004963229702011-05-29T18:20:00.000-07:002011-06-01T15:18:53.826-07:00

A conversation had last Friday: Me: "I'm thinking about going to a movie tonight - is that ok? (A reasonable request, I hear you say) DH: "Sure, that's a great idea. (You're thinking, what a great guy) Me: "Are you sure it's ok?  You'll be alright at home with the baby? (Why didn't the conversation end with "sure, that's a great idea"? What's with this woman, is she paranoid or what?) DH: "Of

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-62838951338982192932011-05-26T17:03:00.000-07:002011-05-28T00:17:04.441-07:00

If you ever wondered the point at which men become obsessed with their penises, I would venture to answer: IN UTERO.  I am casting my mind back to the early tiny-baby days and I cannot really remember a time when Milkbaby's little hands did not wander to investigate his junk. A common nappy-change-time conversation in our house: "Ok let's just change your nappy.  Let me just get it undone...  

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-67474610402678630742011-05-21T16:15:00.000-07:002011-05-21T16:15:05.701-07:00

A little ode to my favourite chair foundin the corner ofthe junk storethe rocker now nestlesin the corner ofthe yellow room back and forthforth and backwe feed and rockrock and feedfeed and chat colours that matchfabric to scratchknobs to gnawrock me to sleepclose the doorshhhh

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-76735053472699541602011-05-18T23:49:00.000-07:002011-05-18T23:49:29.367-07:00

The star of My Cat Likes to Hide in Boxes, Miss Lily White, passed away peacefully on Monday evening, after a short battle with an unknown illness.   Lily was a Lower Hutt foundling, rescued from a woman with pleurisy and a five o'clock shadow.  (Seriously. Pleurisy!  I thought it was some 1950s disease that no one got any more, since we now all have plenty of gumboots.) Most likely to be found

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-42980776671251366312011-05-17T14:45:00.000-07:002011-05-17T14:46:50.477-07:00

When he's not garrotting himself with the bib, or hurling things over the side of the chair, it struck me last week that getting food into Milkbaby's mouth is like getting a ping-pong ball into the mouth of a Carnival Clown.  Pretty much impossible.  And messy. Photo by Pixelfish74 It's the same with vomiting.  This is a regular occurrence in our house.  So regular I'm considering buying

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-20899233724036741972011-05-08T18:54:00.000-07:002011-09-23T03:01:30.248-07:00

How to pee in a public toilet while wearing your baby in a backpack. So you've just got the damn pack on your back and suddenly you need to pee. Step 1: Wedge yourself and your baby into a toilet cubicle, taking care to lock the door behind you.  No one needs to see you do this. Step 2: Attempt to sit on the throne in the normal fashion.  You can't can you?  Because the baby-filled backpack is

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-42128862273829528902011-05-05T16:58:00.000-07:002011-05-05T16:58:10.696-07:00

While having a recent sort out, I came across this: Total baby fashion crime.   Made from scratchy wool, bunchy in all the wrong places, and with a neckhole small enough to ensure that you'll feel a bit strangly while wearing it. It's also the same colour as our carpet (minus the puke stains): Don't stare for too long or those contrasting orange stripes will make your eyes bleed. And

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-39554363117084322562011-05-04T14:50:00.000-07:002011-05-05T13:16:59.038-07:00

Our spare room is filled with a few small mountains of baby clothes.  And other baby stuff.  Swaddling cloths, a moses basket, a playgym, a year's worth of clothing, and knitwear that, unfortunately, was never modelled.  Having promised to lend "all you'll need for the first year" to a friend, I spent a good part of the weekend sorting through it, ditching never-worn or worn-out clothing, trying

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-62143181045408927992011-04-26T03:05:00.000-07:002011-05-01T22:37:44.826-07:00

This little rant isn't exactly about motherhood.  It's about those people who conspire to keep you from your FULL-TIME OCCUPATION of being a mother.  Yes, that's right folks, I'm talking about telemarketers.  For those who don't believe they exist, come and spend the week at my place, and answer my phone for a few days.  I think someone's marked our number with "suckers live here". Or at least

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-15779607634827274612011-04-25T01:53:00.000-07:002011-09-23T03:01:17.788-07:00

Never, I repeat NEVER, undo a nappy without wipes handy, unless you know exactly what's inside... I was getting Milkbaby ready for his bath.  He was standing, almost naked, at the bath, excitedly leaning over and watching it pour.  I blithely whipped off his nappy, only to be greeted by... yes you guessed it... a GIANT poo. Obviously my sense of smell had failed me. I looked around the

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-57342015914072519372011-04-21T03:32:00.000-07:002011-04-26T01:04:58.828-07:00

As his nickname might suggest, Milkbaby's a tits man.  He continues to show very little interest in food.  Mealtimes for him range from being a boring distraction to a form of unusual torture.   During which time he practises smushing the finger food I've given him, dropping things from his high chair, blowing water and food raspberries, and garroting himself with his bib (he hates bibs with a

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-45872360118351928932011-04-19T15:33:00.000-07:002011-04-19T15:33:48.354-07:00

We all want what we can't have.  It makes life truly unfair sometimes. My DH asked what I wanted for my birthday.  I said one full night's sleep.  Just one. He smiled and said, "anything else?" I settled for asking for a new hoodie. Despite boldly proclaiming that "when Milkbaby is ready to sleep through the night, he will", I have to confess to continuing my search for the holy grail of

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-65857661281298409282011-04-16T03:31:00.000-07:002011-04-16T21:45:21.464-07:00

Arriving back from holiday last month, I stared at the customs form, faintly baffled by what to write in the blank boxes following Occupation or job: I ran through the possibilities with Milkbaby, who, strapped into the frontpack, could not escape my musings. On leave from high-flying government job?  Ex-lawyer?  No, hardly current. Homemaker? Nah, too American 1950s (despite that fact

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-70772744316483831002011-04-13T14:39:00.000-07:002011-04-16T21:45:21.465-07:00

Me, to Milkbaby: "The sooner you start creche the better buddy.  I'm pretty much over this motherhood caper." Milkbaby: "Ohm" DH: "You should enjoy it you know, there's not much time before he starts, and it'll go so fast." Me: "There's nothing enjoyable about it." Milkbaby: "AAaaeergh" (frustrated scream, translating as "would you stop trying to shove that bloody awful porridge down my

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-69110374243151478382011-04-05T16:28:00.000-07:002011-04-06T00:41:28.874-07:00

Ugh, this morning's 5am wake-up call reminded me how much I dislike daylight savings.  Even if the waker-upper cutely showed no sign of fatigue and was certainly not fazed by the fact that it was still dark.   In principle, daylight savings is probably a good idea.  It means that we get an extra hour of daylight in the evenings in the summer months.  BUT ... the time change wreaks havoc in every

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-64196782491557274972011-04-02T00:26:00.000-07:002011-04-05T16:30:38.753-07:00

I've become an expert at animal noises.  Ask me what sound a goose makes and I'll let out a honk before you've thought of the right sound yourself. My proficiency in this area stems from repeated readings of Milkbaby's current favourite book Who Said Moo?.  In it, Red Rooster roams the farm, interviewing each animal to see who responded to his cock-a-doodle-doo ("someone said moo, was it you?")

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-25380942715653763182011-03-07T13:26:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:22:11.046-08:00

Every night for the last week I've been having what I'm calling 'separation anxiety' dreams.  I dream, vividly, that Milkbaby is asleep in bed with me (even though we've only ever really been daytime co-nappers), but then as I come to the surface of the dream I can't find him, frantically searching the bed and patting down the duvet.  Last night when I couldn't find him, in some kind of daze, I

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-50574746384435470422011-03-06T01:35:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:14:02.864-08:00

Ah, the humble rusk... useful for: quieting a fussy baby on a car ride picking up cat fluff from the carpet (and then tasting and ingesting said cat fluff) target practice when strapped in a highchair or carseat infuriating the washerwoman with the concrete-like bits stuck to clothing investigating and sticking into all parts of the face, including eyes, ears and hair Last week, in the process

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-16044972402628109932011-03-01T13:46:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:38:53.065-08:00

A typical evening conversation in our house: Me: "hey I was thinking... this weekend we need to..."(30 seconds elapse)DH: "we need to what?"Me: "what?"DH: "you were saying we needed to do something this weekend"Me: "was I?  Umm, nope it's gone, sorry." Baby brain.  That universal phrase useful for excusing almost all forgetful/vacant behaviour both during and after pregnancy.  Some say myth,

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-45804110759521352642011-02-08T14:11:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:13:31.205-08:00

As I put the finishing touches on my outfit to go out a few weeks ago, I thought, "yes, I could pass for a yummy mummy".  Then I thought, "wait, why do I aspire to yummy-mummyness?"  Dumb question you're thinking - but isn't it like aspiring to be a slapper?  Depends on your definition of yummy mummy.  There are seven official definitions of "yummy mummy" in Urban Dictionary.  To summarise: To be

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-33291496811399744412011-02-04T01:47:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:20:57.498-08:00

We are, as a society, preoccupied with size.  Particularly the size of newborn babies.  I find myself answering the question before it's even asked - you just know it's coming. Grandad's reaction: "wow, over 9 pounds!  I caught a trout that big once." [source] As if hauling in a 9 pound trout was equivalent to 27 hours of labour. And a friend: "just think, that's about 9 blocks of butter!"

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-50196698825353628932011-02-02T00:43:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:24:59.072-08:00

It's like a forced labour camp, this motherhood business.   Solzhenitsyn's classic, "The Gulag Archipelago", is a three volume description of life in a Soviet labour camp (I can only claim to have read the first volume).  An archipelago is a chain or cluster of islands (notice a theme?).  According to Wikipedia, the word Archipelago (in The Gulag Archipelago) compares the system of labor camps (

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-29172861737061018672011-01-31T19:45:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:39:47.001-08:00

"hi, it's me, is the boss there?" "hi boss, it's me.  Yeah look, I'm not coming in to work today... yeah I've got a cold, I think I'll just stay in bed and sleep it off.  I'll try and come in tomorrow." "No, nothing due today, you'll barely miss me." [source] NOT! As I groggily climbed back into bed after a midnight feed, I thought momentarily, "I'll have to call in sick tomorrow."  I

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-50808464614918265682011-01-27T20:59:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:25:11.584-08:00

You spend most of your pregnancy thinking the labour's going to be the hardest bit.  As my cousin said to me after Milkbaby was born: "no one tells you before you have a baby that giving birth is the easy bit, or that progress is managing to shower before lunchtime.  Hang in there."  At two weeks post partum this was so close to the truth I had to have a little cry. In terms of breastfeeding,

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-38229698657123708352011-01-26T14:35:00.000-08:002011-12-23T15:40:54.943-08:00

When you're pregnant, all sorts of people give you well meaning advice.  As I mentioned in my last post, I think it's probably a taboo of the secret society of parenthood for older males to give unsolicited advice about breastfeeding to the uninitiated (and especially if you're a stranger - or just strange). I was browsing the pregnancy books in an op-shop in a small town, when I noticed a short,

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-49699507389600552182011-01-23T18:36:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:39:47.002-08:00

Becoming a parent is like entering a secret society. Before initiation, other parents are strangely excited for you.  Truthfully, I always found all the excitement and congratulations a bit unnatural - like they wanted some company in the hell that they're going (or have gone) through.  Sometimes I got the distinct impression that the excitement was all an act - to your face they're saying "

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-17062049482139489792011-01-20T00:54:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:16:43.865-08:00

At five months, the plunket nurse told me I should start the baby on solids, or I'd end up with a "milk baby".  I nodded and smiled, thinking "what the hell is a milk baby?" I had a vision of a milk-flavoured jellybaby, a strange cross between a milk bottle lolly and a jellybaby: + = MILKBABY Surely not.  Enter google.  According to Dr Hull.com a "milk baby" is "a toddler (usually a big

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-60202638590740409072011-01-16T13:50:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:16:16.621-08:00

It seems that there's not a week that goes by when breastfeeding is not in the news.  This week a study in Britain has "cast doubt on the safety of the exclusive breastfeeding of babies until they are six months old", and Facebook earned the wrath of breastfeeders worldwide when it removed, then reinstated, then removed again, then reinstated again, breastfeeding support page The Leaky Boob.  (

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-67176220792440582402011-01-11T02:58:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:14:50.126-08:00

How did you celebrate your new year? Ours was a subdued affair - a few mediocre DVDs with the fam, waiting for midnight to roll around.  Yet another reminder of the way our life has changed, at least in the short term.  Not that we were huge party animals before baby, but I did wonder what had happened to my old self when I found myself looking at the clock through half closed eyes, and groaning

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-2074798748500825862010-12-31T13:08:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:40:29.317-08:00

The question is, does the baby want to be held by you? Everyone wants to hold babies.  They're so snuggly, they smell delicious, and their skin is so soft. But this motherhood caper has given me a new perspective on when, whether and how you should ask to hold someone's baby.  I've had the full range, and there are a few that stand out: not being asked at all and having baby grabbed from behind

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-24963676548229267562010-12-26T00:58:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:15:07.507-08:00

Sleep.  As I've said before, it's the Holy Grail of motherhood.  The characteristics of the Holy Grail (as described by Wikipedia) and sleep during early parenthood are remarkably similar: a sacred object figuring in literature and certain Christian traditions said to possess miraculous powers something of a myth or legend those in its presence must prove themselves worthy ownership has been

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-12254067368861488082010-12-23T00:31:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:17:29.045-08:00

Ahh, "The Contented Little Baby", seemingly one of the most controversial parenting books of the last decade, and, if you've read it, it's either your bible or the devil's work.  Even if you haven't read it you've probably got an opinion on it. Ok so I'll admit to having read it, when, after six weeks of at least 2 feeds a night, I was looking for that Holy Grail of motherhood - sleep (more on

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-75469844494304507392010-12-22T22:42:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:39:47.002-08:00

At one of my last midwife visits, she raised the whole contraception thing, reminding me that while breastfeeding does provide some protection, it is possible to get pregnant before you get your period back.  I smiled politely at her and said I'd read the brochure.  Inside I was screaming "ARE YOU KIDDING?!!! I'M NEVER HAVING SEX AGAIN!!!"  I agreed to let her prescribe me some condoms.

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-13525078555426009572010-12-06T23:58:00.000-08:002011-03-08T00:39:47.003-08:00

I always swore I'd never have one of those ridiculous Baby on Board signs on my car.  I mean, why tell the world you're carrying such precious cargo?  And why would said world care? But now I do.  And when I see another car with a Baby on Board sign, I give it a wide berth, since I know it means: (a) driver is likely to be suffering from extreme fatigue (b) driver may swerve wildly while

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-54256821788450065562010-09-10T00:19:00.000-07:002011-03-08T00:18:05.323-08:00

Okay, so I'm in the final stages of labour, sweating and panting just like the movies:   Suddenly it occurs to me that there is a huge crowd of people in the room: my two midwives, a student midwife, the hospital midwife, my mother, my partner, the registrar, a trainee doctor, and three people from the paediatric team.  Kind of like this: If I'd known so many people were going to be spectators

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1872527057618172370.post-70589088416972772582010-09-05T00:44:00.000-07:002011-03-08T00:39:47.003-08:00

Why a blog?  Unsure.  A place to share my musings and ramblings I guess, without: (a) the awkwardness of a polite laugh I might get from one of the mums in my antenatal group (b) boring my husband to tears (c) the bewildered look I get from from my younger sister when describing a recent parenting challenge (eg, number threes) (d) backchat and opinions that I must feign interest in from friends/

Island Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14904880272368899900noreply@blogger.com0