Dropping like Flies

It’s like we’ve been sprayed with a can of Mortein around here. Human Mortein.

It started two weeks ago. Mia and Zara with mild colds. Easy street. DVDs on, cuddles, medicine. Older kids are easy to soothe when they’re sick. You indulge them. Then Sophie catches this mild cold, and OH BOY. Not so mild. By the fifth night she’s burning up and I’m suspecting an ear infection. On the sixth day comes the viral rash.

Off to the doctor for anti-biotics. Which the doctor doesn’t give, because of course, a viral rash means it’s viral. Won’t respond to anti-biotics. Which makes me feel better that we’ve been doing the right thing with the Panadol/Nurofen relay. But sucks that I’ve wasted two hours of the morning. Still, I needed to be sure I wasn’t totally neglecting my poor baby. She gets better.

Two days later, Zara comes down with a temperature. No biggie. Medicine, rest, DVDs and cuddles. Stay-at-home days. The next day, I’m on my way to the Biggest Morning Tea at a friend’s house. I’ve spent the morning getting everyone ready, baking, and trying to decide if Mia’s complaint of a ‘sore throat’ warrants not going. Since Mia can stick to her own drinks now, I decide to go. But when I stop at Coles, and she says she feels like vomiting, I turn around. Not fast enough. She vomits all through the car. Somehow, she even gets some on the roof, under my car seat, on toys and shoes, floor and doors.

She’s got a temperature. Clean her up, get the other two out of the car, set them all up in front of the fire. Spend the next hour scrubbing down the car and everything in the car. Out in the sleety, cold rain. Saying it’s the pits doesn’t come close. Another at-home day. I light a fire and let it burn all day. The girls huddle close, and I tell Mia she won’t be going to pre-school tomorrow. By now, Zara’s cough is a bark, and the word ‘croup’ is jumping hoola hoops in my head. Maybe when my kids are all grown up, I should become a GP. I’ll have a good knack for diagnoses.

I don’t know much about croup beyond the fact that I had it as a kid, and that bark is awfully familiar. She has a fever, and by night time, she’s falling asleep in the bath. I put the humidifier in her room and carry her to bed. But her barks are waking her, and she’s crying. I’m in there with her, listening to the dry cough, and her wheezing, laboured breaths. I get a bit scared. Her breathing is more than a wheeze, it’s noisy and struggling. I try doing physio patting on her back to help her cough, but it does nothing.

Chad’s not home, but I feel like I should be taking her to hospital. She’s in my arms, in the lounge room, sleepy and crying and coughing. I call Chad. I’m exhausted from two weeks of bad nights. Zara’s scaring me though, so adrenalin pulses keep me awake. I wish Chad was here as back up. Then I call Mum. She googles croup, and Zara fits the mould. She scares me with the possibilities, but by now, Zara’s asleep in my bed, and the idea of taking her up to the ER to wait around for five hours is not appealing. Not when she needs her sleep. Instead, I set the humidifier (or what she calls ‘that fire’) next to her bed, and I sleep with her so I don’t have to worry that she stops breathing. She makes it through the night okay. Mia wakes about five times, Sophie once.

By morning, exhausted is an understatement. I’ve also come down with the cough a day ago, and feel cold and achey. My head hurts, and all I want to do is sleep. But Chad said he should be home at 2. I can sleep then. Mia’s got a temperature by now and is starting to cough. Oh boy, here we go again. Another day of TV watching, fire burning, quiet activities. But Chad will be home. I can survive till then.

Except that he calls me at 11 to say he’s been assigned the worst possible duty. Not only will he not be home by 2, he won’t be home at all. Till tomorrow morning at 9.30. I could cry. There are lots of times I wish he was home. This is one of the times I need him home. It really sucks being the wife of a pilot sometimes. Another whole day of battling on my own. And another night. By this time, Sophie’s nose is running too, and I know we’re on a steep slippery slide. Mia skips pre-school again.

I bumble my way to the end of the day. Everyone’s dosed up on Panadol, and everyone’s asleep by six. Bodies breath and cough like a sick chorus. I’m just about to head to bed when I get a call from Chad.

“Hayley, I’ve got bad news. I don’t know how to tell you this.”

My first thought is that someone died. Then he tells me his plane has broken down, and he’s stuck in Moree overnight. That there’s no way he’ll be back tomorrow morning. He’ll demand to be on the next flight, though. The one that will get him here at 2. I feel sorry for the guy, cause I know how much he wants to be here, and how angry he thought I’d be. I’ve made it through the day, I’m sure I’ll make it through the night.

The next day, his flight gets cancelled, but he gets on the jump seat for the one after, and makes it home by 3. He’s here and I’m about ready to collapse.

This morning, he lets me sleep in. Takes our big girls out for a milkshake and cake while Sophie has her day sleep, so I can write. Tonight, Mia still has a temperature, Zara’s still coughing, Sophie’s still sick, but we’re all over the hump.

Seriously, how many days till Spring? I’ve suffered enough sickness these past two weeks to last all Winter. Anyone who likes this season, please stand up. Actually, don’t. I might not be very charitable.

A Whole Hand

Lover of Unicorns and fairies and magic.

When you were five minutes old, I could not have envisaged five years. But here we are. Wow. Look at you now.

Our deep, insightful child with an ‘old soul’.

You make us so proud, every day. You continue to forge new frontiers and as you pull us into unchartered territory, we are learning along with you. We are learning how to parent a five year old now. The ‘Fabulous Fives’, and already I can see that this will be an amazing year for you.

At pre-school, you have a little group of friends. The first set of friends you’ve made outside of home. You are anxious to grow older, and I’m anxious to freeze you at this exact age for just a moment longer.

You give your love to us so unconditionally, so freely, even though we yell at you when you’re naughty, or punish you, or snap at you unfairly. You are quick to forgive, and ready to smother us in tight cuddles and kisses. Thank you for loving us.

Five years have escaped through my fingers. The next five are likely to go faster, but I still have the luxury of not believing you could turn ten.

Happy birthday, our beautiful Mia. Five today.

Nine months

Hi baby. My baby. Look at you now.

You started out so small, the first ultrasound didn’t detect you at all. Said you were suspected to be an ectopic pregnancy. Then I had this one, at eight weeks, and I couldn’t wipe the smile off my soul. You were there, and you had a heartbeat.

You were inside me for 8 1/2 months. You’ve been out in the world even longer. You laugh a lot, and seem to ‘get’ when I’m being funny.

You’re serious with strangers, but tolerate them well.

You’re not crawling yet, but it won’t be long. You’re often waking yourself at night by rocking on hands and knees, and you love standing up.

I want you to crawl, Sophie. Lately, you’ve been getting frustrated that you can’t get to things, and you call out to be carried around. But I’m really enjoying the fact that you can’t get into everything and turn this house back into a demolition zone yet. I just reclaimed it after Zara. But, explore your little world, you will. And clean up after you, I will. Because it’s what we’re meant to do.

You bang one leg in glee while you’re sitting in the bumbo seat being fed. You waved back at me the other day, watching your arm in mechanical awe, like ‘wow, I can control this thing!’ You’ve got strong kickers… they’ve been strong since you were a few weeks old… standing you up, stiff as a board.

You also have a loud cry. And stamina. For the last week, you’ve been sick, with temperatures the last few nights, and your sleeping? It’s turned to crap. Last night, you were so unsettled, I didn’t get to sleep until 5.10. That’s right, A.M. Thank God your Dadda  was home to let me play catch up today.

You are happy, easy-going, delightful. Besides when you’re sick or teething, I’m amazed at how easy having a baby can be. Happy nine months on earth, little Soph.

Mother's Day reflections

Today, my Mum is an ocean away, trekking through ancient castles in England and clicking her way through thousands of photos. I sent her an email last night, just to let her know how fortunate I am to have her. Of all the mothers in the world, God gave me her. I don't know how women raise children without their mothers, I only know that they do it. Without Mum as the measuring stick in the sand, I wouldn't be able to read whether the tide's coming or going. She's in my thoughts dozens of times a day, as history repeats itself with me having three girls. I hear phrases from her exit my mouth before I realise what I've said. It's entrenched and involuntary, written into my brain from birth. She's gentle and kind and leaves me wrapped in blanket of love. But it's not just her who's been in my head today. A family friend once said to me, "The older I get, the more I realise the influence my grandmother has had on my life." At the time, I queried whether she meant her grandmother had raised her, or did she mean influence by infiltration? It was the latter. Today, I get it. I sent Dad a text, to let him know I was thinking of him, and her. That woman of wisdom he called his mother. The one who's no longer here, but lingers in my thoughts like a puff of smoke. I smell her still in my house, hear her words of wisdom when I need them most, smile inwardly at things she would have appreciated, hear her 'tut-tut'ing at things she would not have. But it's more than that too. Born of the great depression, she was a hoarder. A re-user. A saver. Sensible, practical, and unimpressed with bravado. A strong matriach. Dad is a watered down version of her, and I of him. When I meet up with my cousins, who shared my Nanna, we laugh at the 'sameness' we share. We're branches of the same tree, born of the values of the same amazing woman. Mothers shape generations. Last night, Chad rustled the girls downstairs, and they came up a while later, with smiles bursting across their faces, and big pieces of paper poorly-hidden behind their backs. Beautiful, hand made, lovingly-drawn cards. At pre-school, Mia made me a Mother's Day card too, but it was on a stock card, and it broke my heart when she told me she was only allowed to draw a picture of me. She'd half-finished a butterfly she wanted to draw me, when she was told she couldn't draw anything else. Yeah, we're still struggling a little with pre-school. Last night, she drew all over her little card. A picnic lunch by the water's edge was the order of today. Chad played with the girls in the park, and I sat down sipping Champagne with Sophie, who was happy being pumped full of blueberries and watermelon. The sky proclaimed the glory of autumn, an unbroken procession of blue. Pelicans slid past on glassy water and the girls built sandcastles under the squinting sun. I sat back and let the dregs of Summer warmth soak into my skin. Thank you God, for motherhood. Thank you for these babies, and this man I'm lucky enough to call my husband.

Diamond update

Guess where my engagement ring is right now? Sitting in the jeweller's shop. And guess where the diamond is? Right there next to it.

Chad and I both had the same dismal opinion about our chances of reclaiming my diamond, but our friend Anne was determined.

"I'm not leaving till we've found it," she declared, as she headed the forensic investigation on our front porch.

We took a broom each, and started sweeping every inch of ground, starting with the most likely spot a diamond might bounce to. We weren't getting anywhere, unless you count getting sweaty under the morning sun as progress. The girls were starting to ride their scooters haphazardly around our search area, and we were trying to fend them off. This was an archaeological dig, one so delicate that we could only brush our way around the surface.

Chad put Sophie down to sleep, then came downstairs and didn't seem to know what to do with himself, so I assigned him the least likely area to search. Broom in hand, he started looking half way down the driveway. It was impossible for the diamond to have gone that far, but he agreed to search anyway.

That's when I heard it. The sweet, beautiful utterance.

"I've found it!"

No, he wasn't mistaken. Cradled in his hand was the small, expensive, sparkly piece of our commitment to each other. He found the needle in the haystack.

It was only 10 am, but I felt like popping some champagne. Not just because we'd saved ourselves a future fortune, but because I had THE diamond, the one he bought when he was 21 for me... not some imposter, but the same one he saved hard for, and paid for in instalments. Not that it's a huge diamond, it's not. It's modest, and pretty, and exactly perfect for where we were at that point in our lives.

So, the diamond's in hospital, being fixed up. And the jeweller assured Chad that when I get my ring back, it's going to look brand new again, which I'm quietly excited about. It's endured three babies, thousands of nappy changes and a million sleepless nights without so much as a clean. Diamond, you've earned your makeover.

The sweetness of three

 

“Mumma, I’ll tell you what,” she turns my face in her chubby hands, about to impart a great secret, “when I turn five, I’ll still love you.”

“Oh, that’s beautiful, Zara.”

Then, with all the might her little heart can muster, she says,

“When I turn into a little old lady, I’ll still love you Mumma. When I turn sixty-fourteen I’ll still love you and I’ll even love you when I die and go to heaven and eat all the treats in heaven.”

Now, if that doesn’t tell you how edible she can be (when she’s not screaming in defiance, that is!), then this will. Check out her newfound ability to wink:

And swing like Tarzan:

And write her name:

If that still doesn’t get you, then this tummy will. Couldn’t you eat it? Oh, such taught, fresh skin… and I could pluck out that macadamia of a belly-button for a snack.

The best part about having a three-year-old? Because she doesn’t nap in the day anymore, we get this during story time every night… sweet, sweet surrender.

How do you tell your husband you lost THE diamond?

Photo Credit: Alexey Lisovoy

“Maybe it’s a magic diamond, and it just disappeared into thin air!” says my four year old with a sense of mysticism.

I really hope not. A diamond can’t just vanish. Even when your engagement ring slips out of your hand, rolls along the deck, falls through a crack, bounces on the tiles down below, flips into the sky and lands on the driveway. It can’t be nowhere. The ring that Chad gave me that wild, stormy night in April of 2003, the ring that I secretly smiled at as I saw my hand flash past me during my Uni years, the ring that I want to leave to one of our girls when I die. Don’t be melodramatic, Hayley. The ring’s still there. It’s just missing the diamond. Don’t tell me not to be melodramatic. That’s like saying the marriage is still there, just not the children. See? It’s the crowning jewel of my engagement ring. The loss is making me play mental ping pong.

Chad’s on his way home as I write. The girls are bound to break the news to him before I do. Bound to tell him how we looked for the thing for almost two hours, scouring every bit of our driveway, patio, and garden. They’ll tell him how we chased each bit of glitter in the drive and every sparkle, and came up disappointed. I know what he’ll say,

“Hayley, why do these things always happen to you?”

And I’ll say, “It could have happened to anyone” because it quite honestly could have. But he won’t buy it. Just like Mum and Dad won’t, and my sisters won’t, and my best friends won’t. Because they’ve said it many times before,

“But, it happened to YOU.”

Okay, so I’ve had my share of clumsy disasters lately. Okay, okay, I’ve had more than my share since I was born. This one’s a sentimental disaster. And a financial one, cause let’s face it, I’m not in a position to fork out for a new diamond, or to spend that amount of money on something I owned two hours ago. Something that is still lurking somewhere on our block of land. I have children, people. And schooling to pay for next year, and pre-school, and swimming lessons, and a single income. There are things I need more than a new diamond.

But, I want my diamond back. Come on Saint Anthony, Patron Saint of lost things. You and I are best friends. I’ve never needed you to help me find anything this important before.

But, if it’s gone back to the earth that it came from, then I’ll sigh and move on. Maybe one day I’ll get another diamond. It’s only a thing. A very symbolic thing, but a thing nonetheless. I’ve still got the marriage. Now, to stop that one slipping out of hands, falling through a crack and flipping through the air… nah. He knew how clumsy I was when he married me. And years after the fact, we can laugh about my accidents. Hysterically. It just takes time. This one’s gonna hurt.