Fickle Me This ..

The baby is getting looked after by strangers today. Frankly, I'm disgusted .... at myself.

Words can't convey the relief and utter freedom I feel about him starting daycare this week. My four-celled embryo. My much, much longed-for baby ... my tough lil man guyo who has had such a big, big year.

Here I sit, in a cafe, looking at Peaches Geldof twitter photos while I send out my resume to magazines - feeling more free and alive than I can last remember. It's mortifying.

To be fair, I distinctly remember feeling this way when Max started daycare too: I was thirty, he was 14 months. I dropped him off, drove home, and chain smoked all day, blaring Eminem and lip-synching to the beats. Ahh, those were the carefree days, in the shitbox house - things seemed so much simpler then. Why is it so?

Rocco started yesterday. I finally got him into a place two days a week. Which will probably go up to three days, once mummy gets a proper real-life JOB. (Dear Job Fairy ... help.) It's his second day today, the centre operator rang me at lunchtime, making me panic. "Oh, don't panic .. I'm just ringing to tell you he really is having a wonderful day. We all love him, he's such a cute baby."

Then, she proceeded to tell me the best news ev-ah ..... "He's so great ... he's the favourite already." I don't believe in favouritism - unless it's being directed at my sons, heh.

I was so proud of him that I cried when I got off the phone.

No more newborn stage.

THANK FUCK PRAISE HEAVEN IN A CUPCAKE HOLY HELL BATMAN.

I can't believe I wanted him for so long and yet I was so giddy at offloading him. I tried telling Dave how I felt. His response?

"Ahhhh, just put him in every day now, hon. He'll be fine."

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PS If anyone flames me about this post, don't. I've had bad PND, which I think has been the the biggest factor in feeling so good about daycare. Until you walk a mile to the cancer clinic in my size 10 cowboy boots, you can go fuck yourself.

PPS I just "pretended" to take a photo of my computer (yes I was on Facebook but it was only quick I swear) ... but I actually took a photo of the guy across from me in the cafe. It's fuckin' Billy Joel! I didn't know he was in Australia!

(I don't think it really is him - but the resemblance is uncanny).

EDITED TO ADD: Oh how I raced to pick him up! The reunion! The love in the room! I can't wait to spend the next few days with him.

Besotted. Transfixed. Obsessed.

Yesterday, Rocco headbutted the coffee table and made his teeth bleed, then would ONLY eat MY spicy green chicken curry for lunch. Then, after Dave vacuumed the whole house (for the first time in ummm, EVER) ... he had no nappy on for about five minutes.

In those five minutes, Rocco took a dump - on his carpet, crawled in it, and thoughtfully crawled shit throughout the ENTIRE HOUSE. Tim started gagging in his noodles, I looked up to see shitprints all over our nice clean Australian hardwood floorboards ALL OVER. It would be funny, if it WASN'T FUNNY.

I wept. True.

I spent the night on my hands and knees, scrubbing turds. I had to sniff every nook and cranny in the house, to know where to clean. I turned to Tim and said DON'T EVER HAVE CHILDREN. He told me he will get Rocco back - by taking a dump on his pillow.
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Rocco is in love. Big, big love. If I even mention this persons name, he starts to cry because he's so excited to see him. He must be held and patted by this person at all times. He actually drives this person a little nutso, which I happen to enjoy.

After being the sole caretaker of this lil guyo for most of his life, it is ABOUT TIME parenting duties were shared.

Only daddy will do. They have the biggest bond I've ever seen - it's amazing. And so natural, as they are just as big ratbags as each other. Eating together, showers together. Dave even fashioned a cup holder from his new BFF:

It's like, they speak the same language - rough and tumbling together like old pals. Makes your heart warm.

Once I wondered if Rocco would ever know his dad ...... now I think he wants to marry him.

The Burden of Being Upright.

It's very dangerous for me to start a blog post at 11.41pm. There are twenty-seven kinds of onion layers peeling off me today.

I just spent some time trawling YouTube for video clips of old songs I used to know. This one, this is a pearler. The anthem to my twenties.

I remember I bought the "cassingle" of it, and took it back to my flat in Crows Nest and played and played it and played it. Over and over again. Until my flatmates couldn't stand it any longer and barred me from playing it.

I still did, though .... it was the perfect song, to accompany my beer and vodka and wine-fuelled weekends.

One of my flatmates smashed my cassingle into tiny pieces ... I could hardly blame him.

My GOD I was a nightmare to live with.

(Dave just telepathically read this post from his deep sleep in the other room and yelled out "What do you mean WAS??!!")



Every single lyric rang true. Except, of course, the last three words.

Mmmm MMMM! This IS a tasty burger!!

This baby!!!!

In the past three hours he has eaten one of my earplugs, bitten into a full cake of soap - and chewed it, and thrown every single peg off the back deck.

Earlier, Max, the baby and I went out for lunch. Max was on the cafe computer when our meals came .. he had ordered a kids cheeseburger and I had a chicken burger. The waitress set down my meal ... and then plonked Maxs cheeseburger on top of the babys high chair tray. "Here you go!" She said cheerily to the eleven month old.

Rocco thought Christmas had come early and promptly headbutted his burger, Max turned around at that moment and said "Yuuuuuuck!!!!" .... and I, unable to control my laughter, told the waitress that while the baby probably could eat a burger, he's still a little young.

She was mortified, said "OMG I don't know anything about babies! Sorry!!"

Right now, he is sitting out on the driveway, eating rocks. I'm watching him, resigned, waving my white flag. I think I'm scared of him.

If the baby had a wallet, it would say "Bad Motherfucker."

ADRIAN

Naturally, I have been feeling so wonderful that I woke up this morning sick as dog, with a whole conga line of rats doing the can-can in my head.

Stupid rats .... they tell me what an arsehole I am, sometimes I believe them, it's taken a lot of re-parenting to be as fucked up as I am today. You should have met me before! (Bada-boom bada bing I'm here all week try the veal it's delicious!)

I'm behind in commenting - woefully, ashamedly behind. I sat on the couch today, could hardly move .... and it's just a stupid bad cold, I think. Dave came home early from work - with flowers, and made me chicken soup! Then took Max for a drive! He's so getting lucky when I feel better. I love it when we are both on the same side together. I watched him chopping the coriander.

"Seriously mate .... *cough* how the HELL did you get through chemo?"

He paused. "I have no fucking idea."

Sometimes I suck as a mother. Totally, unbloggably suck. Badly. It's so hard to be there for everybody. I think we all screw up our kids in some way, just different degrees.

And the baby, gah. I can't believe how I can hold him and stroke his little head and watch him do things .... and want to know him. I seem to have let his first year slip by without knowing that much about him. This is painfully true.

What do you call a woman with no guilt?

A man.

Oh - AND Rocco Balboa has a BLACK EYE. On Sunday, he headbutted the step to our sunken living room. Then, he stood up in his high chair and almost fell out, crawled up on top of the coffee table, then came very close to choking to death on a piece of popcorn. He was struggling for air, it was awful. The instant it became unlodged and he took in a deep breath, thoughtful mummy squeezed water down his throat. So he was choking, spluttering, and crying ... all with a black eye. Dave took him and calmed him down - I sat down and put my head in my hands and said "JAYSUS!!!! Is this guy even going to make it to 18???!!!!"

The next day I had to take my bruised baby to check out a new daycare. It crossed my mind that they will take better care of him than me.

I was buying groceries, the check-out operator goes, "Wow, look at that shiner!"

"I know, it's terrible, I feel like people think I punched him."

He laughed and laughed, and said, "Seriously, who would punch a baby in the face? I think it's cute how they always hurt themselves. You should see my brother, he's covered in cuts and bruises."

I felt so much better.



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When was God Born?

**** AHEM .... I posted this today, thought about it, then took it down a few hours later. Because, I'm strange and can flit between trains of thought very easily. Here it is again ... fuck it. Aint nothing like the truth - sets you free, etc.

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Very occasionally, I talk about my dads to Max. He wants to know how they died .... how on earth do you describe to a seven year old what suicide is? Or alcoholism?

Every single time I say something starting with "My dad ..." Max always stops me. "Which dad? Your real dad, your first stepdad, or your second stepdad?"

Every time, without fail, I need to stop and think. For the first two have become one, in my head. An amalgam of paternal fucked-upness, a wonderful way of how NOT to parent your daughter.

I told Max that when he gets a bit older, I will sit down with him and tell him everything. But in the meantime, I just let him know that they both died, it made me very very sad for a long time but I'm ok about it now. He wonders if they are up in heaven. He chatters to me a lot about God and heaven, and often tells me that he was up in heaven and could see me down on earth, being so sad before he was born. "But then I came to you, and you fell in love with me, didn't you mum?"

I sure did. I had a shitload of expectation around Rocco's birth, that I doubt would have been fulfilled even if Dave had not gotten sick ... but that is a post for another time.

Out of the blue comes Maxs questions and ponderings, they always delight me.

"Mum." He told me, very gravely. "Me and Rocco were playing up in heaven, and I knew he was going to be my brother, and we were looking at you and knew you would be our mum."

Then he thinks.

"When was God born?"

I burst out laughing. We were walking on the beach, back to the car, snatching some precious time together - away from the other big noisy guys.

"Max. I LOVE your questions. Don't ever ever think you need to stop asking questions, ever."

"Yeah ok ... but when was God born?"

I told him that was the biggest mystery in the entire world, that we will all find out one day, and most people don't start asking that until they are much older than him.

Later, we were in the kitchen and he was still talking about it. Dave pipes up:

"There is no God."

Max and I froze, looking at each other incredulously. I was annoyed. "Well, people believe in different things. Some people don't think there is a God - some people believe in Buddha. Some people believe in Earth, Mother Nature, Great Spirit. You believe in Mother Nature and Karma, don't you Dave."

Putting him on the spot, he reluctantly agreed. The presence of a higher power has been most evident in Daves life, and I want him to at least admit to his children that he does believe in something, even if it's not the traditional "God" he despises.

Max shook his head. "Man, I can't believe some people don't believe in God! That's crazy!"

I was brought up Catholic. Then discovered booze. Then became born again Christian. Then booze again. Then, I went to seminars on Scientology and Unification Church (aka Moonies). I denounced God. Then I discovered that there was evil in the world .... and if there was evil, there must be the opposite of evil, too.

One very powerful day, I laid down all my weapons and begged God to help me not drink anymore. I drank that day - and the next. But not since.

The God I believe in can be cranky turd. The God I believe in smokes, swears, can procrastinate, and scratches his balls. He (I still say "He" after all these years) ... wants the best for us all, and gives us all so many - SO MANY tiny cracks of amazingness that we can peer into and wonder at the marvel of the world - if we have the eyes to see it.

If I pray to God for more patience, God does not magically bestow me with an infusion of patience sent high from above ... God will send me a fucking traffic jam. So I can LEARN it for myself. God gives me messages in dreams, makes me aware of who needs a kind word, and sometimes whispers in my ear to just grow the fuck up already. Usually when I'm right in the middle of a temper tantrum. If I want to make God laugh, I tell Him my plans. Sometimes I have told him to just fuck off, and given him the finger. Other times, my heart overflows with warmth and gratitude and my prayer has no words but He knows what I'm saying.

God does not send tumours to a family about to have a baby, decides that a child will die, or makes car crashes happen. But He is there, crying next to us, holding our hands and sharing our tears.

God is not Gods real name ... we used to know His real name, but gradually forgot. We will find it out again when we die.

I told Max that yes, it is crazy that some people don't believe in God ... but thank goodness, God never stops believing in people.
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Ok so I have NO IDEA where that post came from - I was totally going to write about something completely different. About our triumphant homecoming - how camping was a hundred times better than any fancy hotel. Digging my toes in the sand last week, I felt the most grounded and at peace. A new, lighter Eden. About families, and the bonds, and the messiness. I have never, ever been so busy in my life. I finally found a wonderful daycare for Rocco (HALLELUJAH). If I don't find more writing work - quickly - I will need to waitress (HELP). About what I learn from being married, the state of the blogworld, etc. But right now I have to make the boys lunch because it's school holidays and they are both here and I have spent the past hour and a half writing about being a mother instead of, you know .... actually being a mother.

Goodbye Sweet Girl

Nothing means anything when something like this happens. I cant even find the right words.

I'm half a world away, trying to find some purple flowers in the bush track. I can't, so I'll turn my blog purple instead. And think peaceful thoughts and gently send them over to Heather and Mike.

I get to kiss my baby goodnight tonight tonight. How lucky am I?

Go gently, sweet baby girl.

Public Toilets YUM!!

If the boys give the baby any more chocolate bunnies, I may have to take him to an audition of Baby Biggest Loser.

Camping is HILARIOUS. Truly. We are in a caravan park, which is like a mini-city. Unfortunately, we are two tents up from the biggest, noisiest, chainsmoking-est alcoholic FUCKWITS known to mankind. So Dave and I have worked out a system, where I put in my earplugs every night and he throws a pillow at me when the baby wakes up. Then he takes the morning shift …. but I end up getting up anyway, because I know how much Dave loves mornings and itches for me to get up with him. So I do.

Max is so big now. When did this happen? I’m trying to reconnect with him as much as I can. We went in the dance competition at the club last night – he taught me the Macarena and the Birdie dance, I taught him the YMCA and the Nutbush. (Ahhhh, Nutbush. The memories!)

Then he went in the limbo competition and won some lollies …. every single time he went under the stick he looked at me – every time he goes down the water slide the same thing – he looks up for me, to see if I am watching. I wondered how often he has looked up, this past year – to see if Dave or I were watching him do something. They say the squeakiest oil gets the most grease ….. the baby is the squeakiest oil in town, where my sweetheart boy Max holds it all in and goes about his day quietly. I’m very anxious, lately …. and last night spun out that somebody had snatched Max from his tent. I had to get up and go check on him, watching him breathe. I could not ever bear it if something happened to him.

And the stepson – my bonus firstborn child? He is in his element. Bossing his dad around, playing with Max … I proudly taught him his new favourite pickup technique.
“Mate, chicks LOVE seeing guys holding small babies.”
It so worked. Sometimes he actually stops and says, “Wow, it’s like, you’re not a normal stepmother!”I say, “Mate – I’m not a normal PERSON.” It is so amazing, to have know this guy since he was seven, watching him grow into a man.

My Davey Gravey is loving it. Despite being in pain from tearing a muscle in his back, he’s holding up well. Got a four-wheel drive to take his ute on the beach – (somebody asked me recently what a “ute” is, I think you call them pick-up trucks in America) ….. and after his initial disdain at camping right in the middle “Of everybody, hon. Chrissake!” … he is talking of staying longer.

Rocco’s teeth are breaking through daily. He is growing up before our eyes. My sister Linda told me to be careful of dingoes in the tent. Then she thought for a moment. “Actually, the dingoes better be careful of Rocco.”

Too true.

I have a restless spirit, which is irritating the hell out of me. I need my head to shut up, but alas all the tools I used to use to do that are illicit and not conducive to rearing healthy children. (Just ask me and my siblings.) Damn. I’ll have to go in the Karaoke competition tonight (PRIZES). Maybe a long, long run. Ten coffees a day. Or a punch in the head. Chrissake.

I think I know what’s wrong …. it’s this time of year. Rocco turns one next month (!!!!!!) Which, of course, coincides with the Great Cancer Fiasco of ‘08. I’ve found myself turning to Dave, looking to make sure he is healthy. Absently wondering how big his tumours were, this time last year. And we didn’t even know.

That he is even still here …. that he gets to celebrate the baby turning one – is such a magnificent gift. I hate how I lose the plot over stupid and trivial things, and have to claw my way back to the Zen mother and wife I want to be. I wish it came easily to me, but it doesn’t.

How cool does this look:

Unfortunately, it is not our campsite. It is our neighbours. I have seen them looking over at us, with a hint of disdain in their eyes. They even sweep their fake grass first thing in the morning. They talk to each other quietly, waiting their turn with respect. The mothers hair is smooth and glossy.

Here is the Rileys Trailerpark campsite:

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Note the empty easter eggs boxes, lying where they were thrown! The "drying up rack" for the cutlery and pots - aka the grass, and the baby chewing on something I can't determine right now. He was crawling around in just a nappy this morning. Then grabbed the drain from the water tap area and started SUCKING on it. It was too much, even for me. I grabbed him, Dave’s all like, “He’s fine, hon.” I was all like “It. Is. Dis. GUSTING FUCKS SAKE.”

I really did say "fuck" in front of the baby. And the neighbours. And snatched the baby away to put some clothes on him.

Zen, I tell you.

___

Oh my - I feel SO much better after writing this! Now I'm off to find the tallest sand dune I can, stick out my antenna arm, and hope it I can post it. Happy Easter, my Bunnies! I hope you are all ok, living your lives out there. If you are not, you should totally come camping with us. It's better than the Comedy Channel. XOXOXOX

My Clucker Broke

What's funnier than a teething baby?

Taking a teething baby on a CAMPING TRIP.

Heaven. Help. Us.

We leave tomorrow. I will be taking my laptop, for "work" (hahahahaha) ... so I will try and update from my tent. There better not be any spiders. I'm in no mood. Having a SHIT time lately, for multitudes of reasons. Life is stupid. It's too hard.

I can't even finish this post ... the baby will not stop crying. He thinks being a newborn was so fun, that he's decided to re-visit it. (The retro little guy!) So, he has woken every two hours for the past few nights.

I will never, ever be clucky again. The other day I was bribing - I mean buying Max some Lego, and I stepped back into the Baby Alive dolls. They all started saying "MA-MA" at once. I was so disturbed that a little bit of wee came out.