furrybees

an ode

2012-01-06T17:40:00.000-05:00

HOORAY
for the introvert,
the reflector,
the observer,
the inward
seeker.
STRIKE UP THE BAND
for the quieter,
the wondering,
the one
to
one.
LET BELLS RING OUT
for those
nearby,
the opaque,
the inviting.
THANK YOU
for the counter
balance,
the counterpoint,
the contrapuntal.
THREE CHEERS
for the space,
the let be,
the also
suggested.
HOORAY.
Hooray
for the present.

~ Inspired by a tale told earlier this week.

i resolve

2012-01-01T20:15:00.000-05:00

to perfect the savoury, gluten-free, vegetable pancake
to learn, once and for all, how to get stains out of white clothes in an easy, cheap and environmentally-friendly way
to weather the terrible twos with grace and humour
to keep a house that runs like a well-oiled machine
to build my editing business into a large, multi-national corporation (or at least to earn a bit more money for the emergency fund)
to plan the weekly meals (and keep to said plan)
to be a more patient, empathic and loving mother
to write - everyday, all kinds of things
to learn how to use my camera properly
to reduce wasted food to none (that means you, eggplants)

to wean Tiny off Silent Night and onto another soothing song
to read all the books in my book pile - and then some
to lose that final 15 pounds (and help the dog lose hers)
to rise earlier and go to bed at a respectable hour
to live - mindfully, in the moment, noticing - you know the drill
to give Tiny more artsy, craftsy opportunities (and to be at peace with the mess and mayhem)
to be less crabby when I'm feeling crabby and less snappish when I'm feeling snappish
to be a more patient, empathic and loving wife
to take more videos of Tiny and send them to the grandparents

to remember all important birthdays and acknowledge them appropriately
to give my houseplants a less feast-or-famine existence
to be a more patient, empathic and loving dog owner
to finish all the art-quilts I began, and very nearly finished, in June 2011
to use my Ipod
to organise all the photos on my computer
to write a children's book
to spend Tiny's nap-time being uber-productive and not once just sitting down and reading a book or blogs or the newspaper or staring into my cup of tea or out the window or at the tumbleweeds of dog fur gliding by
to be more patient, empathic and loving towards myself

to keep to our budget
to practise my choir music more than three times a term
to learn how to play the ukelele
to become a brilliant conversationalist
to go hiking more often (that would mean three times this year)
to be a brilliant blogger

to treat all to-do lists with squinty-eyed suspicion

Happy New Year, everyone.

May it be more, much more, than you hope for.

Chrissie: day twenty-five

2011-12-24T08:44:00.003-05:00

We, Angels and Mortals, Believers and Non-Believers,
Look heavenward and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at our world and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at each other, then into ourselves
And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation

Peace, My Brother.
Peace, My Sister.
Peace, My Soul.

Maya Angelou, Amazing Peace

To one and all, from all of us - Merry Christmas.

chrissie: day twenty-two

2011-12-22T16:21:00.001-05:00

Today we are writing lists, dashing to shops, modifiying expectations, preparing for road trips, cooking and just generally doing the Christmas Shuffle. We are truly in countdown mode now. Our spirits bounce up and down as we negotiate it all - teaching Tiny all the songs of Christmas, paddling neck-deep in grading (my OTL), spontaneous outings for ice-cream and Christmas lights viewing, some homesickness (mine), salvaging Christmas ornaments from the dog's mouth, daily visits to the neighbourhood 16-foot blow up Santa - it's a complex time.

Amidst it all - the wrapping paper, the sherries, the endless rounds of 'Twas the Night Before Christmas (traditional and Aussie versions) - we brought a lonely Christmas tree in from the cold and gave it pride of place in our own.

'Twas a bright (but bitterly cold and windy) day for Chrissie Tree hunting in the Canadian wilderness.

'Intrepid' is their middle name.

He's a lumberjack and he's okay.

A sensitive, new-age lumberjack, to be sure.

~~Complimentary~~ wild hot ciders for cockle warming.

Ready for the snow.

Friends trimmed while we cooked and supervised.

Scoping out the efforts seasonal.

International harmony - on the Chrissie Tree as in life.

Hope you are faring well in this busy time. Warm wishes from us to you.

chrissie: day nineteen

2011-12-19T23:25:00.003-05:00

From all reports, it's not only cookies that maketh the Canadian Christmas experience. Other sweet treats also abound. Hot cocoa, with 43 mini-marshmallows, is a case in point.

I determined this year that we would greet the precious space between Tiny falling asleep and us falling asleep with a little, wind-down, Christmas beverage ritual. In lieu of drinking a bottle of red wine every single night, I figured that the next most appropriately seasonal and festive thing to drink would be hot cocoa. And I was right. Here's the recipe we have perfected this Christmas.

Hot Cocoa Worth Coming to Canada For

start with 1 heaped teaspoon of cocoa
mix with a small amount of boiling water to make a paste
stir in half a cup of milk (I use vanilla rice milk because I'm radical and edgy like that)
heat (in the microwave if you've not decided they are evil)
fill remainder of mug with boiling water
stir in one generous teaspoon of honey
sprinkle liberally with cinnamon and ginger
sprinkle very, very modestly with cayenne pepper
grab large handfuls of mini-marshmallows and fill top of mug to overflowing
sip whilst chatting idly about the day's events with your loved one(s)

PS: Aussies - I know it's hot, but just try it anyway. You can always follow it with a cold beer.

chrissie: day seventeen

2011-12-17T22:30:00.000-05:00

christmas
lights
freezing
whizzing
cold
children
spellbound
bells
sound
train
tears
frozen

canada

chrissie: day sixteen

2011-12-16T23:21:00.000-05:00

The Twelve Days of Christmas story book. It's a thriller, alright.

~

chrissie: day fifteen

2011-12-16T00:12:00.000-05:00

I should not be left alone with cookie dough.

These are mint chocolate cookies (gluten and dairy-free)

I am Australian. We don't do cookies. For starters, they are called biscuits, or bikkies to be precise. And we certainly don't bake them for Christmas. Fruit cake, yes. Bikkies, no. However, due to the uncertainty of our future, I figured there was no time like the present to hurl myself head first into every Canadian Christmas tradition I could think of. Turns out, I can only really think of one - baking cookies. (There might be some ice skating in there somewhere too, but I'll pretend I don't know that in case someone tries to encourage me to do it.)

What I'm unsure of is the Canadian tradition for eating them. As I was tapping into my inner-Canadian Christmas spirit I was sure I heard a voice say, "Eat five. Straight out of the oven." And so I did. Not wanting to mess with tradition, and not having a Canadian to hand to coach me on this*, I just had to follow the voice.

It was tough. I regret it a tiny bit. But traditions are traditions.

This is a Christmas Moose (yet to be festively iced) in honour of, well, a Canadian Christmas of course.

*My OTL is away tonight. The jury he has been serving on for the last two weeks (yep, the fun never stops around here) has been sequestered and he is right now, at this moment, in Lock Down for Top Secret Deliberations. That leaves me, Tiny and the dog - none of whom know anything about Canadian Christmas traditions. So help me out, my lovely Canadian friends and family. What are the must-do Canadian Christmas activities? Time is tight, but I'm sure I can fit a few new traditions into the mix.

chrissie: day fourteen

2011-12-14T22:47:00.002-05:00

My Christmas groove has gone a bit wonky of late and I'm wondering if that's because we've reached the Hump Days of Christmas. You know how it is, the original excitement of December 1st - legal Christmas carolling, a whole new world of food treats, the excitement (and angst) of present buying and making, the adrenaline rush of getting things posted in the nick of time - all becomes an exhausting morass that is less Peace on Earth and more Jangled Bells. I do believe this happens every year. My hopes and expectations of Christmas inevitably butt up against my actual life and the everyday mundanities that require time, effort and attention. Suddenly it all becomes a bit much and I find myself wondering where the Christmas spirit is hiding. (Not to be confused with the Christmas spirits which are up on top of the pantry and which may well come down for a wee sipping a little later in the evening.)

Somewhere in my life I equated Christmas-time with happiness. I certainly loved it as a kid. However, that childish take on Christmas (where all of life's major decisions were buffered by my parents and all I had to do was enjoy the presents and the food) continues unrealistically into adulthood and brings paradoxical pressures to be happy, enchanted, and excited despite the fact that I now have to organise it, all while keeping our usual life afloat. I pondered all this while folding towels this afternoon and tried to imagine what Christmas would ideally look like to me. Many scenes flashed through my head but I think there was a general theme of quiet joy, nestled in front of an open fire (or in the shade on a lovely beach), reading books, eating fruit cake, enjoying my charming and well behaved family, with a background accompaniment of boys choirs trilling on festively about snow and the baby Jesus. There would also be presents, and wine, and probably roast chicken at some point (and definitely no laundry to do), but my reverie was broken by Tiny needing me to tuck Teddy into the pile of clean sheets so that he (Teddy) could go to sleep.

I'm not sure where I'm headed with this little wander through Christmas past and present, other than to say that nothing's perfect, we plod on, there is no open fire place (or delicious beach) but there is a trilling boys choir on the stereo and a good Christmas murder mystery to read before bedtime and perhaps that is the best I can ask for at this time. Tomorrow is another day and another opportunity for quiet peace, happiness, and Christmas enchantment. I'll let you know how I go.

chrissie: day thirteen

2011-12-13T23:48:00.000-05:00

How did we get to Day Thirteen?! Lordy, as my mother would say.

Now, I don't want this to be seen as a habit. Or a problem. Or as a source of Christmas Concern. However, instead of putting up the Christmas tree (which is leaning forlornly against the back fence, abandoned and alone at this festive time), we eased the pain of thinking up ever new and interesting ways of touting the talents of my OTL (for his billionth job application - which is most definitely Not a Christmas activity) by drinking. Very, very good sherry, as luck would have it. Just one small, festive glass. Enough to take the edge off and remind us that it surely is a time to be merry* (even if our future is somewhat uncertain).

* Never fear, we don't turn exclusively to alcohol to remind us that it is time to be merry. Sometimes we eat chocolate. Rarely, we do both. But that is only for very dire circumstances.

chrissie: day seven

2011-12-07T22:07:00.001-05:00

The first presents were wrapped and sent to Australia today. There are more in the pipeline, but we will have to remorgage the house to send them. Canada Post obviously carts them o'er the seas in a golden chariot (which would, come to think of it, explain the delays).

As a result, Tiny "helped" with his first present wrapping. (Having experienced his first present unwrapping [that he remembers] last month.) It released a trickle of confusion from him which has seen me fielding questions all day: "Tiny* open presents? Tiny has some presents?" He was an interested participant, though, and I feel relieved to have escaped with only a minor crumpling of the wrapping paper and a mere 30cm or so of unuseable, twisted sticky tape. And that was just from my bumbling. Tiny was a model of decorum.

Which made for a nice break from what my OTL has just this night coined "turdlerhood"** rather than toddlerhood. But that is for another post. We are out of wine tonight.

We Christmas on, regardless of the challenges!

* You can substitute his real name here, for all those who know it.
** Please excuse the repeated use of such an unsightly word as "turd" on the blog. Generally, I like to swear and use base words in private, with only my nearest and dearest to look upon me with disapproval and a degree of tut-tutting. However, sometimes, some words just work like no other.

chrissie: day five

2011-12-05T21:13:00.001-05:00

I was one of those mothers today. One of those mothers that carry their screaming, hitting, wailing, thrashing toddler across the (endless, wasteland that is the Canadian Tire) car park to plonk them unceremoniously into their car seat. One of those mothers with a set look on her face - endurance, barely concealed annoyance, forbearance. I've seen her before in shopping centres around the world, and today was my turn.

Tiny has slowly been becoming two. Not just in age, but in disposition. There has been the odd tantrum, a clear increase in willfulness, some wiliness, a degree of shouting and carrying on when needs aren't met - immediately, that is. We have done well, really, to weather the squalls as they've blown up. However, today, with Christmas and all its pressing demands and needling uncertainties on my mind, I had nothing to give. I just wanted straight-up cooperation; compliance, obedience, call it what you will. Sure, I made a few attempts. There was hide-and-seek amongst the clothing racks; there were precious minutes spent patting the dog mannequin and talking about woofing and other such engaging things. But, just as I was called upon to investigate the Great! Big! Bapoom Cleaner! (in minute detail complete with sound effects), I just couldn't do it. I couldn't do it. I just wanted to find the key rings and get going to the swimming pool. Is that too much to ask?

Well, you know the drill - floppiness, shouting, wild back arching, arm flailing which coincided with my head. We were a Christmas spectacle to be sure, entertaining customers all the way from Housewares to Sports and Leisure. And that was before we got to the car park. Needless, to say, as the day struggled on, so did Mummy's humour.

Luckily there are a few, surefire restoratives in this world.

red, red whi-i-i-i-ne

Maynard's Wine Gums wrested from a madman's foaming jaws

hot chocolate in a seasonally appropriate mug

Looking forward to a fresh start tomorrow. Perhaps I'll bring out the bapoom cleaner and we can talk about its every merit over breakfast.

chrissie: day three

2011-12-03T23:19:00.001-05:00

Tonight, I sang. I sang my little heart out, concentrating like a border collie on my little flock of musical notes (just in case one escaped and was blurted out inappropriately). And when the chamber orchestra began, I thought I wouldn't be able to take a breath. There is magic in that.

Just listen. I know you're busy. I know classical music might not be your thing. But just give this two minutes of your day. You won't regret it. I promise.

Merry.

PS: This is the best version I could find on YouTube. It's not my choir. We are much better. Cough.

chrissie: day two

2011-12-02T22:19:00.001-05:00

So, in a fit of Chrissie spirit (chrissie spirrie?), I decided that it was important to take something seasonal to the mum's group gathering this morning. Never let it be said that I let Christmas down, I tell you. Inspired by my new partial addiction to Pinterest, I stumbled across these and felt a little tingle.

True to form, an hour before bedtime, in the one-foot-square space that is my kitchen preparation area, with not one, single, appropriate tool to carry it off (including an oven that works properly), and having never attempted this before in my life, I set to, to bring little meringue Christmas Trees to life.

In the clear light of day, while we peered at the cooled creations atop the stove, we agreed that perhaps Christmas Tree was a little bit of a stretch and that Christmas (cough) Turd* might be more appropriate. However, with a little dusting of icing sugar "snow" and a cheerful red napkin wrapped around them, there was almost enough to distract from such an association. Indeed, the toddlers - whose insistent, sugar-searching antennae were up throughout the morning - cared not one iota.

Onwards and upwards with Christmas, I say.

*Please excuse the necessary but very unseasonal turn of phrase.

chrissie: day one

2011-12-01T23:20:00.001-05:00

It is the first day of the Christmas season (I have made a case for this elsewhere), and celebrations must ensue.

It has taken a few years to encourage my OTL into the full Christmas Season Experience. Sure, he was a generous gift giver. Sure he is never shy with the loving. However, his reclusive bachelor days had left him parched of full Christmas spirit and it has taken a number of years to fill the well, as it were. To be fair, he has been a quick study and, this year, I think he's finally got it. He was heard, recently, planning not one but several Christmas baking days for the weekends to come, after all. Bless him.

And then there is the issue of Tiny. To be charged with the responsibility of creating Christmas Traditions for your child is truly a great task. There is the whole Santa debate - to make-believe or not - and then there's a seemingly endless list of possible Christmas traditions that could be incorporated into one family's affairs. Should we put an orange in a clog, for instance, as the Dutch do? Should we dress in disguise and impose ourselves on our neighbours for alcoholic beverages, as the Newfoundlanders do? Should we make swimming at the beach on Boxing Day mandatory, as the Australians do? It is, indeed, a difficult set of decisions.

Luckily, traditions can grow and change over time, and today was a mix of old and new.

A Christmas coffe from a large unnamed multinational coffee conglomerate. (new)

The obligatory Christmas magazine treat. (old)

The crayon-picture-a-day advent calendar for Tiny. (new)

Special Christmas fare (pikelets with cream cheese and smoked salmon). (old)

More special Christmas fare (garlic prawns and salad). (old)

Making very short work of it. (old)

The lighting of the (one humble string of) Christmas lights. (new)

Love. (new and old)

Here's to traditions. May they bind us, warm us and show us the way.

PS: Turn up the volume, grab your loved ones and take a turn around the room.

ball

2011-11-29T21:54:00.000-05:00

See this ball? I dropped it.

I dropped the ball on the whole blogging-everyday-in-November madness. This time, this year, I just couldn't do it. I honestly don't know how the big bloggers do it, posting most days of the entire year (without a team of cooks, dishwashers, laundry-doers, toddler-entertainers, dog walkers, grocery shoppers, hairstylists, and general life-organisers, that is).

We have had a challenging couple of months. Details aren't necessary to air so publicly, but suffice it to say that change is never a comfortable thing, and there's been a lot of emotional and physical energy burnt dealing with our little lot of changes and challenges. Enough, in fact, to wipe this little would-be November nablopomo blogger completely free of inspiration and quirky spark.

Nevertheless, we're still here and still the little troop of wonder that you've come to know and love. I just won't be blogging about it Every. Single.Day. For a while, anyway.

For some reason, though, despite our lives not yet resolving with a warm, rosy glow, I feel a renewed spark to keep blogging. So let's just pretend I never promised you a rose garden, er, I mean a blog post every day this month and we'll move on. Gracefully. Like Swans.

ugh

2011-11-14T22:53:00.001-05:00

We are in the depths of job application hell at the moment. It's a long story but suffice it to say that tonight's post has been swallowed whole by the process of helping my OTL put his very best face forward. Wish us luck and tomorrow I hope to be back with insightful commentary, pretty pictures, humour, a recipe, some handmade goodies, poetry and a book review - at the very least.

Or something. I'll definitely be back with something.

Until then, my friends!

heights

2011-11-13T23:25:00.001-05:00

hhhrruuuump

nnngrmmmmphuh

concentraaaate

nearly. there.

[sigh]...the speakers

shh. listening

tonight

2011-11-12T23:38:00.001-05:00

two

2011-11-11T22:28:00.001-05:00

Tiny is two.

We celebrated with songs, pancakes, balloons, presents, songs, rides on the "escanator," trains, books, songs, a go with the blender, the food processor and the electric beaters (it's not every day you turn two), pizza with friends, and cake. And songs.

He now says, "Yip, hip.....HOORAY!!!"

We're bushed.

hair

2011-11-10T22:39:00.001-05:00

Many of you may have noticed that Tiny sports an impressive head of hair. He takes after his mother, in case you were wondering. It has lost some of the wild wave of his baby days and is now straight as a drinking straw, in a hue of strawberry blonde that gets redder as it gets longer. He pays it little heed, unless it hangs in his eyes, it which point he rubs them. "Sore eyes." he claims. So that he would be able to see all the fun of his much-anticipated birthday tomorrow ("Fweddie's birthday, soooooon"), I decided, in a fit of spontaneity, that we should fit in a quick haircut tonight - somewhere between walking the dog and eating our beans.

In my enthusiasm, I forgot that he had been practising his "NO!" all week in preparation for turning Terrible Two. If I'd had time to develop an imagined scenario of how it would go, I would have pictured him sitting in his little booster chair, curious, a little unsure, but nevertheless largely compliant. It would have been a nice fantasy, but fantasy it would have been.

There was outrage. There were tears. There was needing Mummy. Needing Daddy. There was twitching and flinching. There was railing. There was gnashing of teeth.

There was reassuring. There was distraction. There were cuddles. There was singing - lots of it - right in the middle of a busy salon. There was hair everywhere (I still feel some in my mouth.) His Daddy got the giggles of absurdity.

And, finally, there was a finished haircut.

account

2011-11-09T23:47:00.000-05:00

I have been so stuck for inspiration these last few days and have been wondering why on earth I signed up for another NaBloPoMo. Each night I sit with my laptop on my, well, lap and look blankly at the screen - full of weariness, mind a-whirl with unprintable (or is that unwriteable?) thoughts - wishing that a big bucket of whipped cream or, even better, peanut butter (given I have a rather inconvenient dairy intolerance), would just drop on me from a great height and give me a legitimate excuse not to post for that day. I suppose if that did happen, then I really would have something to blog about.

In lieu of the great bucket of goo in the sky (which failed to drop again), I took a look at what I wrote last year. I realise that if I could manage it then, I can surely manage it now. It's an interesting thing, keeping a blog. It is a wonderful record of some bits of your life. Of course, there are whole bits left unrecorded which are gradually retreating into the Dim Memory Cupboard - that fate of all memories over time.

I was pondering this exact issue today as I was driving to one errand or another - the impossibility of making, or keeping, an exact account of your life. I once read about an artist who methodically, and quite obsessively, tried to record everything he did in a day. Every, tiny, little, insignificant thing. I can't remember much more than that (please prompt me if you know) but the idea has always intrigued me. It would be an almost unbearably time consuming and mind consuming task. The man obviously didn't have children.

However, I can sort of see its attraction. In part, I imagine that he wanted to just see how each day was spent - to have a written account of how the seconds, minutes, hours were slowly absorbed by decisions, actions, pauses. Yet, I can also see that there is a kind of desperation to it as well. I don't know what his motivations were but should I be drawn to such madness, it would be driven by a desire to catch and hold (capture and imprison) all the details of my life. There's a kind of anxiety born of such an endeavour, one that tries to escape the knowledge that just as life is happening, it is also leaving us; leaving us to be held in the imperfect, changing, slipping world of memory. The inexorability of life can be daunting if you think about it too long.

And then there is the problem of what details are important to record. For just making note of all the activities you did in a day doesn't even begin to cover what you thought about, how you felt, how you changed your mind (or why), who changed you, and when you fell in love (or into despair). Imagine trying to record all of that. It would take all day just to jot down where your mind wandered on the way from the bedroom to sitting down to breakfast. And of course, you can't observe it all objectively anyway (let alone remember it all) and then write it down as if it were a done deal. The moment you think of writing it down shapes what you think next, how you feel, and what calls you to respond to it.

No, this business of keeping an account of one's life is a messy, shot-in-the-dark, make-it-up-as-you-go-along kind of a thing. The best we can do is just offer something. For some of us it will be irregular, quirky, changeable, blog posts which show just a part of one of the many facets that make up a life. Others will attempt a more systematic, thorough-going record - perhaps in a journal or a memoir. I'll leave the obsessive write-every-single-thing-down-until-life-is-whittled-down-to-an-exhausting-pattern-of-doing-and-recording to the artists. Someone has to do it.

I'm going to just record the stuff I can record when I've got a mind to record it. If I keep it cheerful then when I'm old and losing my mind I can look back on my blog and think, "Golly gee, I did have me a good life." (I will have developed a southern American drawl with my dementia.)

dog bowls

2011-11-08T22:55:00.001-05:00

I told you he was cute.

make

2011-11-07T22:40:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time this was a craft blog. Not a very consistent one, it has to be said, or even a very good one. Nevertheless, I did used to make things and show them off. That is, until I dabbled in the ultimate crafty creation - a whole human being - and then it became a blog about Tiny (with the rare side issue thrown in for a splash of colour every now and then).

Well, just to prove that I still make stuff and can still show it off, here is a pair of baby boots made for a friend's new baby.

I am surrounded by new babies at the moment so, who knows, there may well be other crafty endeavours to show off in the near future. No promises. Tiny is a very fascinating little boy, I'll have you know. And cute too. I will obviously have to post another photo of him tomorrow just in case you've forgotten.

song

2011-11-06T22:12:00.000-05:00

If there was one thing I knew while I was pregnant with Tiny, it was that, whatever I did, I would encourage him to love and play music. I had no other clear parenting aim - other than to just do the best I could and to try not to drive him into therapy too early in life - but I promised myself that I would always sing to him, and that he would grow up surrounded by music.

Now, I am no great musician. I sing reasonably well, can read music, and I played the violin for all of my school years. Nonetheless, music has moved, sustained, healed, carried, accompanied and shaped me; without it, I would be a paler creature indeed. It is also a central, shared love of my family; a place of common ground.

So I sang. I can't remember when it started exactly (those first days are a streaky blur), but gradually, rustily, somewhat shyly, I sang. Little ditties to show that nappy changes were a good and not an evil; jaunty sea shanties to make car rides less alarming; and, of course, lullabies to soothe and send to sleep. In the haze and uncertainty of new parenthood, some days it felt like the best I could offer. Gradually, it was clear that he was responding to my offerings. Car-seat fretting stopped at the onset of a rousing rendition of What Shall We Do With a Drunken Sailor; bath time was calmed (for both of us) with a half-remembered version of Rubber Ducky; and I could feel like Super Mum whenever I sang him gently to sleep.

Tiny in his faux leather recliner, kicking back and listening to the classics.

Later, my OTL turned to his clarinet as a Toddler Entertainment Device, and discovered it to be a world of wonder for the Tiny amongst us. At first, just taking it apart and putting it back together again was one of life's great joys. Before long, though, Tiny learned that Dad's occasional toots could also become recognisable songs. Oh, the magic.

Over time, it was clear that music was seeping into him. By the time he could utter his first words (and thus his first verbal demands) music was high on the list of requests. He began to talk in about May this year. By the time he was surrounded by grandparents for our trip to Newfoundland in June, he was readily able to order "Song!" (said with an endearing hard g) whenever a capable adult entered the room. We sang for hours on all road trips (short and long), at the dinner table, on walks to see the ducks, even at the hairdresser. We were pushed to remember every nursery rhyme, every lullaby, every ditty, and, yes, every sea shanty we had ever learned. And, as is the way with the toddler, the repeated request (so important for their learning but so interminable and, let's be honest, unbearable for the parents) had us all groaning and eye rolling before launching back in to another round of whatever the song was of the moment. For many, many, many moments that song was The Farmer in the Dell. Or, "FARMER IN DELL!! FARMER IN DELL!!" as the order normally went.

We seem to have come a long way in the short months between then and now. He now talks in short sentences and has become obsessed with the children's music CDs I first played in the car in a desperate attempt one day to avoid singing The Farmer in the (bloody) Dell. We can't go anywhere now without, "CD ON!! Pwease, Mummy." (I taught him to say please; it lessens the pain somewhat of the chirpy, smiley, simple children's music which can sometimes make me want to grip the steering wheel a little too tightly.)

One of our great joys though, is his desire to hear his Dad nut out nursery rhymes on the clarinet. "Carinet! Carinet!" goes the cry (he is yet to master the difficult letter "L"). Once it has been assembled and a warm up scale whizzed through, the requests begin. "London Bwridge!" "Aiken Dwrum!" "Grand [Old Duke of] York!" and, of course, "Farmer in Dell!" What we hadn't realised was that while he was carefully mastering the classics (nursery rhymes that is), he'd also had one ear trained on his Dad's private practise sessions. One day when the requests were coming thick and fast, he surprised us both with a call for "Cry Me River!" Well, we'll be darned (and were - darned that is).

While not traditionally grouped with Baa Baa Black Sheep, or Incy Wincy Spider, Cry Me a River is now part of the playlist. Sometimes I sing it (over breakfast, changing a nappy - he doesn't mind), other times he prefers the reedy tones of the clarinet. I don't know that this augurs well for a carefree life of skipping through daisies with little heartbreak (as his mother would wish), but at least he's working on the beginnings of a fabulous soundtrack that can accompany him through life's ups and downs. It's surely going to come in more handy than The Farmer in the Dell.

Turn it up.

dog

2011-11-05T23:57:00.000-04:00

I have just spent the last while drafting a long, and very fascinating (of course) post for your viewing pleasure. However, I am nearly out of time to post it today and it's not quite perfect! So that I can do it justice and not miss my One Post A Day promise, it will have to wait until tomorrow. For today, here is a picture of Dot the Dog for you to enjoy :-)

Phew, made it with three minutes to spare. See you tomorrow!

got

2011-11-04T23:12:00.000-04:00

(Joining in with the Friday {this moment} phenomenon, via SouleMama.)

treasures

2011-11-03T23:31:00.002-04:00

Like performing seals, we have become (or is that, been reduced to ) on-demand entertainers. The arrival of Tiny's words has also seen the arrival of the imperious order (such as, "Hold hands!" as we walk down the stairs) as well as, what we might call, the broken-record demand (such as, "Play with! Play with! Play with! Play with!" etc.).

Competing for the most uttered words in any day is, "Draw fishy! Draw fishy! Draw fishy! Draw fiiiiiiiiissshhhhy!" And so, generally, to buy time and peace of mind, we do.

He can't get enough "fishy".

There must be something magical about watching recognisable shapes emerge out of the paper. He, of course, adds the finishing touches to any of our cartoon-like attempts at drawing things. But that is as it should be.

There has been one unforeseen joy about introducing crayons and paper to Tiny. That is watching his dad, the avowed non-artist in the family, labour away at whatever the latest request is. Like this kitty.

Note the straight up tail. Note the careful addition of a knee in the hind leg. Note the stripes. Sure the face is in a somewhat "primitive" style (and he forgot the all-important whiskers), but, hey, the man drew a cat! (He can't even write legibly.)

I never knew he harboured such talents. That's what parenting does to you. It razes you to the ground and then reveals your hidden treasures.

weather

2011-11-02T22:40:00.001-04:00

We've had a real time of it lately. It seems we rounded the headland one sunny afternoon and sailed straight into high seas, blowing winds, driving rain.

While we reel and stagger and regain our footing, some things anchor us.

Despite the weather, I am glad to say that it really doesn't get much better than this.

again

2011-11-01T23:47:00.000-04:00

Don't ask me why but I do believe that I am, right now, this minute, as I write, about to commit to participating in NaBloPoMo for another year. This means that, despite the piles on piles of Things To Do that surround me in this chaotic house, despite the fact that there are very few toddler-free hours in each day in which to attend to said piles, and despite the fact that by this time in the night I am often Very Weary, I am still going to try and come up with something original, interesting and worth reading every day for the next thirty days.

Alrighty, Mr Bedighty (as I often say to Tiny in a motivating let's-get-your-shoes-on kind of a way), here goes. I'm easing in gently for the first post. Most thankfully, Halloween precedes NaBloPoMo and provides plenty of easy fodder and photo opportunities for the hapless blogger. A case in point.

Continuing in what has now become a hallowed tradition in our household, I once again wrestled Tiny into a handmade Halloween costume. This time he went as Robin Hood. Well, a pacifist Robin Hood. Given that his father is a Social Justice and Peace Studies kind of a guy and his mother is a Radical Feminist there was some necessary massaging of the story to do away with the weaponry and to emphasise the Aiding of the Poor.

As any good mother would in the lead up to a big day, I explained at length about Halloween and the subtle though necessary changes to the Robin Hood legend. At his clear "Ya." I knew we were on the same page, but I was most reassured when randomly, in the middle of other, more complex, toddler thoughts, he would cry, "Wobin Hoooooood. WObin HOOOOooooood!!!" I just knew we were of one mind, him and I.

Of course, it all fell into place on the night. It was obvious that he had internalised my ~~hectoring~~ gentle guiding voice, and proved very adept at taking from the (chocolate) rich. He also proved very adept at galloping - As Though On A Horse, people - up and down the costume-bedecked streets. He was the pacifist Robin Hood.

Alas, when it came to the distribution of said riches, it would seem we still have some work to do. It was very clear who would be the beneficiaries.

Toddler steps, as they say.

happle*

2011-10-07T23:43:00.000-04:00

You are all forgiven for thinking that, having reached such a momentous age as 40, I promptly disappeared in a puff of smoke. Happily, no such exotic fate was mine. I've just been caught up in Life. You know how it is - I know you do.

However, eventually this little space calls me back and the cries of the toddler, the new business, the laundry, the dinner, the dishes, the too-ripe tomatoes and the endless other Things To Do all get turned down and I take a little space to sit and write again.

There is much to say but, seeing it is Friday, I thought you might prefer some pretty pictures. My mother tells me that she has been tuning in to furrybees frequently over the last month, only to find that I am forever just about to turn 40 (and excited about it). So that we can all move on, here is some evidence that appropriate 40th birthday celebrations were had (and that I am now 40 years, 1 month and 11 days old. Precisely.). That weekend was very special and, while my camera's battery only lasted for the first 24 hours of it, I think I managed to capture the essence of a weekend filled very much with love.

There was a special (gluten and dairy-free) eggs-benedict-extravaganza breakfast (avec berries).

A surprise (tearful, joyous, beautiful) recital.

Love, from afar.

Including a new birthday tradition: an Incy Wincy Spider singalong (with the grandies via Skype)

A ride in the car (which wasn't too far).

A strange door cat that needed close investigation.

Some toe dipping.

A delicious dinner (which, as you can tell, I ate more than I photographed).

In good company.

And a turkey vulture.

Really, what more could a woman ask for?

* A moment not caught on camera, but forever in my heart, was Tiny turning to me and saying, "Happle Birthday!" We have since sung "Happle Birthday to you" many millions of times.

40

2011-08-25T22:54:00.000-04:00

Not long ago, I realised that no matter what I did, I was going to turn 40 this year. Oh, I twisted and turned in my mind, trying to work out a way of making it not so, but whatever angle I looked at it from, I was going to turn 40. No matter what. Then there was some agonising, and a strong feeling of pressure to Get Things Done, and then a kind of hopelessness mixed with helplessness. And then one day, when I was in Newfoundland, I woke up and it all seemed right and just so and, in fact, spot on that I should turn 40. And, believe it or not, I've heard no whingeing from myself ever since.

I'd like to say, as I've heard others do, that I've never felt stronger, better, kinder, sweeter, more competent, more in control of my life, etc. etc. Perhaps I will tomorrow (most likely after the birthday cake and wines) but I doubt it. Perhaps that will happen when I turn 50. What I do know, though, is that I'm happy to turn 40. I see it as a place of strength to stand in and an opportunity to define what it means for me. I think what happened in Newfoundland is that I dreamed, one night, of all the limiting stereotypes that are hoisted at women as they age - the ones that say they are no longer fresh, fertile and able, the ones that say they are no longer new and wonderful and full of potential, the ones that say that 40 is the beginning of your graceful decline into old age - and I flung them out into the great, grey Atlantic ocean. I let that wild coastal wind pick them up and whip them far, far away from me and in the space that remained I let the cool fresh sea air fill me up with hope and life and wondrous anticipation about my life to come. No wonder I woke up feeling rested. Free, even.

So here's to life. At whatever age. I'm just going to go on with it, do my very best, and love my loved ones with all my might. What more is there?

vocabulary

2011-08-22T22:06:00.000-04:00

As Tiny sits in a sea of spilled corn puffs, alternately eating them and swatting them with the fly swatter, I am reminded that the toddler years are, how shall we say it, experimental years. His creative approach to snacking and entertainment (snacktainment*, one might call it), is a good example of the randomness of the toddler and the bizarre output that can spill forth from seemingly quite simple input. (It's also an example of a wearying mess that someone has to clean up eventually, but that is overlooked for the sake of tonight's brief discussion.) Let's be honest here, who amongst you would have combined the fly swatter with the snacking? The boy's a creative genius.

And so it is with Tiny's language acquisition. Or should I say "language creation." We have been mightily entertained as he picks up words, mispronounces some, creates others and just generally communicates in his own unique way. Like most parents, we are dreading the time when he sorts it all out and starts to speak as we do. So, for posterity's sake, here are a few Tiny classics for the public record.

weemow (trans: lawnmower)

wind trauma (trans: weed trimmer)

agaseam (trans: icecream)

manny (trans: watermelon)

mochacycle (trans: motorcycle)

Tiny has also recently learned the word "huge." He applies it indiscriminately but fairly across categories, with no actual connection between their size and the application of the word: HUUUGE truck; HUUUGE doggie; HUUUGE man; HUUUGE corn puff.

This learning to speak gig is very entertaining, it has to be said. HUUUGEly entertaining, even.

* While 'snacktainment' is very much a Tiny creative, expressive moment, it is also, and perhaps more importantly, a Harmless Toddler Distraction Method (H.T.D.M.). It allowed Mum to write a long overdue blog post and Dad to cook dinner without the dog losing an eyeball or a little boy shouting "LADDER, LADDER, LADDER, LADDER, LADDER, LADDER etc." (because somebody made the mistake of letting him up the step ladder to "help" with the dishes one day and it was so exciting that it remains the number one thing to do in the kitchen).

summer

2011-08-08T23:38:00.000-04:00

There are things to love about summer, and that is exactly what we have been doing - loving the things of summer. You see, in the four years since I met my OTL, and Canada forever became part of my life story, we have only truly experienced one summer. This one. Two (Canadian) summers were spent back in Australia (giving us two winters in those years) and one was spent in a state of bewildered, dislocated/relocating, pregnant no-persons land while we sold up, packed, moved across the country and then spent quality daylight hours trying to find things in boxes.

So, this year, I have been soaking in summer and letting its wide, warm ways seep back into my bones. I can't remember particularly loving summer. Ever. (I did come from steamy old tropical north Queensland, after all.) But unbenownst to me, I am as much formed by the hot sun, the close days and the cicada nights, as any tropical treat. The things you learn in the great white north.

There's a lot to be said for open windows, light clothing, cool grass on hot feet, swims (or sthwimsth, as Tiny might say), salad and sweet fruit, hot dogs in cool rivers, naked beds. We are free and though the work is still hard, the strong, clear light leavens somewhat.

Of course, it helps that we had an absolutely fabulous holiday with family, but though we are back to the everydayness of our everydays, there is still something left. It can only be summer.

I feel an urgency to soak up every last bit of it. To shore myself up for the seasons ahead. I know better now how these northern seasons go, how they complement and contrast. I know better now not to squander or wish away. Time for a late night, juice-filled (locally grown) peach, I think.

some good

2011-06-29T22:16:00.001-04:00

Newfoundland is some good.

On to Ottawa tomorrow. O Canada.

stop

2011-06-19T21:57:00.000-04:00

IN NEWFOUNDLAND STOP ON HOLIDAYS STOP TINY DOTED ON BY ADORING GRANDPARENTS STOP PARENTS ENJOYING FREEDOM STOP TINY TALKING STOP FAVOURITE WORD CHICKPEA STOP

SEE YOU IN A FEW WEEKS STOP LOVE TO YOU ALL

EMMA

handmade (part three)

2011-06-02T00:06:00.000-04:00

I've written over the last two weeks about why handmade makes me happy. I first wrote about the way it helps me to connect to those that are dear to me. My mind, left to roam freely during many hours of design and construction, wanders in and around the memories, hopes and imaginings I have of and for that person. I always hope that somehow the indefinable essence of Time Spent with Good and Loving Intentions infuses a final je ne sais quoi into whatever I’ve turned my hand to (yes, even the 50s-esque crocheted tea cosies). However, don’t be fooled by all these softly lit ideals of reflection and intention, they are not all that leads me to hand make. Indeed, there is an equal, other force that drives me to ~~drink~~ pick up and create - that is my desire to work outside of, however imperfectly, the modern obsession with consumption and the global human and environmental damage that arises from this. I wrote about this (and potentially embarrassing moments of skirt immodesty that happen when I brave big, bland box stores) last week.

Now, while I’ve pondered on these and other issues over the years since that first baby blanket, this current spate of thinking about hand-making (mine and others) was prompted by some recent trips to local thrift stores. Whilst on the hunt for old woollen blankets to full (felt in the washing machine), I've found myself trawling the manchester aisles and feeling great turmoil at the many handmade items I find there: crocheted blankets, hand-embroidered linen, lace doilies, little cross-stitched extravaganzas, macrame pot plant holders (okay, perhaps the turmoil ends when I see the orange nylon macrame pot plant holders). I can’t see these things without wondering wildly, “How did this end up here?”

There’s a term for this, it’s called projection. Standing there, midway down a musty thrift store aisle under bad fluorescent lighting, these crocheted blankets may as well be my crocheted blankets and I can’t believe they have been - gasp! - donated. When I first began to notice them, I would look at all the work that had gone into each one – the labour, the thought, the skill – and wonder at the story behind each one. Who laboured at this? For whom was it intended? How was it received, used? How did it shift from “keep” to “donate”? Why? And while answers for each blanket or handcrafted “masterpiece” discovered were never forthcoming, with practice I have imagined a thousand different stories that track the tale from making to donating.

And they’re not all bad - although, in my worst imaginings it is only ungrateful sods who have heartlessly given away the fruits of their own grandmother’s painstaking labour from frail, arthritic hands - but even that is surely a rare case*. Truthfully, every kind of story lies behind those now-donated handmade goodies – everything from the boring to the scandalous. At least one of those blankets will have never been intended for anybody and purely donated because the maker has no need for it. And at least one of those blankets will have been “re-gifted” because the receiver had no idea about what it is to make and receive handmade things and could never get past the fact that the neon-blue and rust orange alternating stripes of one granny square would always clash wildly with everything in their house. Whatever the case, the best part is that, whatever story was started with the first stitch of each blanket, the ending (and let’s hope it’s a happy one) is yet to come. Perhaps one day, a woman – someone, say, of great taste and beauty who has a penchant for the handmade – will wander into the store and see immediately the great artistry in combining lime green, black and silver feathery, acrylic yarn into a scalloped-edged crocheted knee blanket and snap it up enthusiastically, warmly imagining it was made just for her.

And perhaps it was.

* I did share a house once with a woman who threw away (that’s right, into the bin) a hand embroidered sampler - complete with name, date and birth weight – that was made by her grandmother to celebrate her birth. I thought she was an odd bod then (not to mention an ungrateful sod) and still do.

PS: I took these photos, amidst much wry amusement from fellow shoppers, at a local thrift store. These are Real Life Donated Handmade Items for your viewing pleasure.

this

2011-05-27T23:08:00.000-04:00

Joining soulemama. A single moment from the week. For savouring.

handmade (part two)

2011-05-25T23:39:00.000-04:00

The act, and process, of creating things with your hands for others - whether for function, whimsy, or art - is an act not just of material creation but of relationship. I wrote of this last week, when I admitted to my hopeless addiction to making things for those that I know and love. Not that I make every gift that I give to people. Heavens above. (Did I mention somewhere that I have a toddler in the house?) But I do make some and, over the years, I've seen that this act is one that attempts two important things: to appreciate who it is that I am making things for; and to share a little of who I am - through the act of making itself, the choice of gift, my style, and my skills, for instance. This is a risky endeavour, all relationship building is in some way, but there is often excitement and reward in taking such a risk, too.

Beyond this delicious relational aspect to handmade gifts, my other reasons for making things by hand get more complicated (and not a little murky). Some of it is very intuitive, the desire coming to me at gut level, telling me that nothing else will do than to dream up something "just right" for this person at this time. This is closely related to an inner certainty that I can make things or, more importantly, that I can learn how to make (some) things (and that the effort will be worth it). However, being a naturally deep and deliberative kind of a gal (okay stop nodding Mum and Dad and, well, everyone who knows me well), you won’t be surprised when I say that this gut instinct doesn’t arise out of a vacuum. I, like many in the craft world today, respond viscerally and forcefully to much of our modern consumer culture and the deadening impact of the mass producing, global manufacturing beast we contend with on our every foray to the shops.

"The ascendancy of chain store culture and global manufacturing has left us dressing, furnishing, and decorating alike. We are encouraged to be consumers, not producers, of our own culture. Our ties to the local and human sources of our goods have been lost. Buying [and making] handmade helps us reconnect."

From: Why Buy Handmade?

Many of you will be familiar with this beast (and why it is a beast) but to summarise, quickly, why I feel like running around, screaming, with my skirt pulled over my head whenever I go into big box stores, it’s things like: the gobsmacking amount of stuff that we’re encouraged to want, replace, update, add (where does it all go? how big are our landfills? how deep our cupboards? how big our houses?); the way it’s all made (labour sinks of the poor, unskilled and foreign, factories that pollute); the environmental cost (huge carbon footprints for global production, manufacturing, transportation, storage and handling; drains on natural resources for our insatiable appetite for plastic; waste and what we do with it); the cultural reproduction of sameness. I could probably go on but I won’t. You get the picture and can probably see why sitting in my little studio (or on the couch, or in the car, or on the bed), skirt chastely in place, nimbling away at whatever flight of fancy lies before me, feels like a cool breeze on a hot day. It is almost impossible to escape this consumer culture beast (I buy, of course I buy stuff - and it’s not all made from organic wool volunteered by local sheep giddy with their good life) but there is something in the lessening of its grip on my life. There is something in the rebellion that saves a woman. The weight, of that bit of the world at least, is lessened.

So, giving handmade gives back. Again. It gives back a small sense of peace, it gives back a sense of difference and why that is good, and it gives back a sense of lightly treading where you want others to follow.

Which is why, when I receive handmade gifts, that I can feel a little breathless, a little heady, a little speechless. Just for a bit. Because I know; I know that something - something wonderful, something palpable, something outside of - has occurred here. I can’t claim that those who have made stuff for me have done it with the same reasons in mind as I have spoken about here and there, however some part of all of it must be true. Whatever their processes, reasons, experiences, I at least know something of the time, the energy, the thinking, the love and the refusing to not do it, that goes into each creation. And that makes all the difference.

PS: These photos are of handmade gifts that we received when Tiny was born. I thanked all the makers then, and thank them again now. I get it.

handmade (part one)

2011-05-18T23:02:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking a bit about handmadeness of late. When I went to write about it, it went from a couple of bullet points in my head to a lengthy treatise which, quite possibly, covers all the thoughts I have ever had about making stuff by hand. Well nearly. Short of having a professor to submit it to for grading, I thought I'd post it here, in a short series, over the next few Wednesdays. Enjoy (or not, as is your prerogative)!

giving

In 2001, I became hopelessly entangled in the handmade world. At the time, I didn't know the tendril-like features of this world (or surely I would have been more cautious at the get go); all I wanted was to crochet a baby blanket for my very good friend's first baby. And so it began - the learning (to crochet), the researching (for the perfect pattern), the planning (for the perfect combination of stitch, yarn and colour combination), the shopping (for the perfect yarn), and finally, the creating. There wasn't a single step in the process that I didn't like. A born researcher and perfectionist, I spent hours trawling books and websites, searching for that one, unique, pattern that would be easy enough for a beginner but would not look too basic and that would be appropriate for a baby but not be too festooned with pastel pompoms as to make me want to sick up on to it mid-stitch. Most importantly, though, I was searching for something that my friend (not necessarily her newborn baby) would love and would welcome into her new life and the home she was building around them.

Thoughts of my friend did not end there. As I began to crochet, I thought often, with each stitch, about the woman that I know - her stories, her likes and dislikes, her fears and favourites, her hopes and plans - and tried to imagine her new life in another country. As I watched the blanket grow, nervously anticipating the final product, I thought about our friendship - its history and present - and felt the jumble of emotions that the stretch of all close friendships creates over time. And in that time of counting stitches, following row on row, I also let myself imagine, over and again, the way she might receive this gift. I wasn't so inflated as to imagine a falling-on-her-knees-at-the-letterbox-in-gratitude kind of reception, but nor did I think she would receive it disinterestedly. Mostly, I just hoped that she would get that I had Made Her Something. And that that was significant.

It took me many hours to make that blanket. Many, many hours, from beginning to end, and I thought about her during much of that time. As I have come to learn, this is one of the truly and addictively engaging bits about handmade gift giving - the many hours immersed in thoughts of the person you are making things for and, at the end of the day, your hopes (and fears) that it will mean something to them, also. We all know that there is a kind of magic in pairing a person with the perfect gift. It is such a thoroughly enjoyable and rewarding experience for everyone. Handmade gift giving is just like that. Only in slow motion. And, if you get it really right, multiplied a dozen times over.

I haven't always got it right, it must be said. Sometimes my inspiration has been off kilter; sometimes my ideas have not fruited as imagined; sometimes irony, or silliness, has been interpreted too literally and I've had to explain the joke. (Although, to their credit, neither of my brothers blinked when they received their own personal 50s-esque tea cosies.) Inevitably, sometimes the match between person and present is just not right and no magic ensues. Nevertheless, I never regret the making and rarely regret the pairing of gift with person. (I may cringe slightly later down the track, but that's hindsight for you.) Because the gift goes both ways in handmade gift giving. I am always grateful for the time I found - amidst the chaos and order of a busy life - to dream big, to think carefully (and care-fully) about those I am making for, and am grateful for the time spent bringing a little piece of unique Emma-ness into the world for others to know and, importantly, to know me by.

Making gifts by hand, as I have come to know it, is an appreciative move - one that strives for greater connection and understanding between the giver and, well, the givee. All the hours spent imagining that blanket and the friend that would unwrap it, were also hours invested in relationship building of a kind. As I sought to appreciate who she was, I was also offering a little bit of who I am - my tastes, my skills, my values - so that she might know me a little better too. In this way, I am better for having plodded away at my perfectly imperfect hand hewn offering. And in this way, too, the gift made is given also to me.

I can see now that I am stuck with handmade gift giving for the rest of my days. Having been ensnared in this rewarding cycle of making, giving, sharing and receiving, I can see no way out. Therefore, if you are my friend or family and you receive a crocheted toilet roll cover in the shape of a doll this Christmas, just know that I will enjoy the present as much as you do.

PS: From memory, my friend was very moved by my gift. Years later, she sent me an email to say that she had unpacked it again while she was preparing for the birth of her third child.

PPS: These photos are a little motley collection of some of the gifts I have made for other friends' babies (or their mothers, as the case may be) over the years. To my knowledge, a photo of the original crocheted blanket does not exist. It will just have to be created in your imaginations.

exchange

2011-05-16T23:10:00.000-04:00

I saw this sheep* on the weekend
and this sheep saw me.
Little was exchanged between us**
and little changed in the world as we know it.
But it did happen.
There is something in that.

* Speaking of sheep, there is something that happens in my brain every time I sing Tiny's new favourite song, Baa Baa Black Sheep. It is akin to the pins and needles you get in your leg when you've been sitting on it for too long - a kind of numbness and tingling pain. Nobody said that 35 years after you last stopped singing that song (because you were completely done with it and needed to move on), that you'd have to do it all over again. With feeling. Repeatedly. And then some.

** This sheep had lambs. That is why it is giving me a knowing, resigned look. It obviously has to sing La, La Pink Person more than it ever really wanted to.

challenges 4 & 5

2011-05-13T22:26:00.002-04:00

When I logged on to post the sewing feats of the day yesterday, I found that Blogger was down and in "read-only" mode. It stayed that way until this afternoon by which time I, and many other bloggers, had said enough choice words to their computer screens that the combined frustrated energy could have powered a small suburb for a day. Nonetheless, we're back and all is again well with the world.
----------

You know, I don’t know what I hate more – shopping for Tiny’s clothes or making them. I can see, for the startled blog reader, that this may represent a bit of an anomaly given my general attraction to making stuff by hand, but it’s true. As I stooped over the ironing board last night, back aching, pinning up a hem, I thought bluntly to myself, “Really, Emma, this is not just boring but it’s painful. Painfully boring.” To which I nodded resignedly, pondering the ramifications of ‘fessing up to this - on the blog - at the end of a week dedicated purely to sewing stuff for the littlies.

Ironically, as I worked away, muttering under my breath, these pants came together more quickly and more easily than anything I’ve embarked on for a while. They are the same pattern as Wednesday’s only smaller, and I started them at 8.30pm last night and was finished by shortly after 9.30pm. Quite the thing, really, although I was too busy grumbling to truly appreciate it.

Despite my ill humour, Teddy graciously agreed to model them for the camera. I should take a lesson in cheerful forbearance from him, actually. Despite pulling his pants up egregiously high under his armpits, he didn’t once utter a word of complaint. Good ol’ Teddy.

Although I think he’s plotting his escape here.

As for today’s effort, I’m afraid I have nothing to show for it. As I lay next to Tiny tonight, demonstrating what it looks like to close your eyes and drift peacefully off to sleep (he seemed to need a little reminder), I plotted all kinds of quick projects with wild fabric combinations that could serve as my final project for the Kid’s Clothing Week Challenge. However, the bit where you actually have to close your eyes (to give full effect to the toddler you are convincing to go to sleep) meant that I spent a bit too much time “demonstrating” and not enough time tiptoeing out of the room and Getting On With Things. Now I’ve run out of oomph and time, so I think we’ll just have to call it a day for KCWC and be proud that Tiny’s wardrobe is now two pairs of pants and one sharp vest larger.

Have a lovely weekend, everyone.

challenge 3

2011-05-11T23:02:00.000-04:00

They're big. They're baggy. They have funky detail. And, most importantly, they're finished. What more could you ask for? (He'll also be wearing them until high school they've got so much growing room in them.)

As my first attempt, I love them. Although, I don't love the process of making them as much as I'd like. The truth of the matter is that I'm slow. I'm a slow sewist (or sewer, as the case may be, but that would be wrong). I put it down to being self taught and ill-practiced; a reasonable excuse which I'll be sticking to throughout. That said, it took me much longer than an hour to "whip" these up today. Luckily I had extra time up my sleeve, otherwise, we'd still be admiring images of pins, patterns and half-sewn pants on Friday. Perhaps it will get easier with the next pair. Let's just say I won't be opening a little market stall for funky boy pants anytime soon.

Nonetheless, ta da!

Now. On to the next fashion item for the week.

challenge 2

2011-05-10T23:33:00.001-04:00

So. This is as far as I got with my hour today.

These are the pants that will go with the pocket that was sewn onto the vest yesterday.

To be honest, it may not have been a full hour. It may have taken me a little while to settle into the task after putting Tiny down for his afternoon nap. Things take longer to set up when you have to tiptoe up and down the hallway, hoping each floorboard creak isn't followed shortly after by a quiet but definitely awake "Da." However, after much cutting out, sticking together and pinning, we are set to go for tomorrow. The pattern is this one and will hopefully give Tiny's little cloth-nappied bottom room to wriggle.

After bemoaning the state of boy's clothes yesterday, I was excited (and a little humbled) to see what others are making for this Kid's Clothing Week Challenge. It seems there are plenty of others out there who want to dress their boys in a broader range of clothes and styles. Take a peek at the Flickr pool, some of it is quite inspired.

challenge

2011-05-09T22:34:00.001-04:00

Of all the tasks a new mother has to learn, dressing your little one is surely one of the easier and least requiring of Parenting Books or urgent Google searches late at night. Sure, for the slave to fashion, dressing your child may have a weight to it that others don't carry but, for most of us, finding something that is clean and that doesn't clash too wildly with the furniture feels generally like a step in the right direction when preparing your child for the day's activities. And so it is with Tiny and me.

Except that I have a small aversion to almost all boys clothes commercially available.

I know, I know; I always have to make everything so difficult. It's just that they are either boring, obsessed with sports, armies, trucks or dogs, or come in navy blue and red. Or brown and orange. Whatever the colours, the general message seems to be that little boys are really just Little Men and therefore should be dressed accordingly. I'll save my gender analysis of this for another day (you lucky, lucky people) but suffice it to say, I've long looked for alternatives to these clothes for Tiny, but to little avail.

So, I have secretly been harbouring a desire to make his clothes. I dream of the time when I am Very Organised and take a little time in each day to craft him somethings wonderful; little somethings that could assuage my frayed, boy-clothes-shopping spirits. In my imaginings, I come up with fun and funky outfits that are neither too Manly nor too cutesy, and that are neither too fussy nor too conservatively boring. What these outfits look like in reality, though, I can never quite get to. It seems my programming in what boys should wear is as strong as everyone else's.

However, today I have taken up the challenge to at least have a wee stab at it. I'll be joining Elsie Marley and 300-odd other makers/sewists/crafters in the Kids Clothes Week Challenge. The challenge is to take an hour a day for a week to make things for your kids (and then blog about it if you feel so inclined). I think I can manage that.

I am easing myself into such a challenge gently today. I am hoping that this does not disqualify me at the outset but today I began by finishing a piece that has been waiting a while for its final touches - the Grandpa Vest. As previously discussed, it needed a little something to finish it off and today I decided that little something would be a wee pocket. For putting his pipe in. Or rocks, as the case may be. He is only 18-months-old after all.

Next cab off the rank is a pair of matching pants. Let's see how productive tomorrow's hour will be.

PS: Yes, I am aware that making a "grandpa vest" and putting a pocket with stripes of charcoal grey, blue and red on it hardly subverts the Manly boys clothing I poo-pooed in previous paragraphs. I am nothing if not inconsistent, it seems. Sometimes.

portrait

2011-05-06T21:36:00.003-04:00

Tiny with Dad (or "Grandpa" as random people at the shops like to call him).

Tiny with Mum (or "Grandma" as the after hours paediatrician called her).

Sigh. Time to rethink that Going Grey Gracefully stance, I do believe.

Don't they know that (not quite) 40 is the new 30?

beam

2011-05-04T14:27:00.001-04:00

We have a new camera.

I'm learning how to drive it. Tiny is learning how to focus through the high beam of light it shoots into the middle of his forehead everytime I focus it at him.

I see a big future in photography ahead of us.

Yay, anyway. Watch this space.

chocolate

2011-04-25T22:48:00.001-04:00

I have chocolate poisoning.

On Good Friday I woke with clear intentions, a watertight plan and Resolve (note the capital r). I was going to enjoy the Easter weekend, and all its foody goodness, but I was going to exercise restraint, modelling moderation and healthy choices that would inspire impressionable young (and older) minds. It all began well. There was a salad lunch counterpoint to a hot cross bun breakfast; there was a long, brisk walk with the dog before homemade whole grain pizzas. And even though a bottle of wine disappeared between the two of us that evening, it didn't feel like the beginning of a dangerous, slippery, sliding slope of debauchery. Because it wasn't. It was merely evidence of two grown ups enjoying a rare Tiny's-in-bed-and-we're-Freeeeee! treat.

Saturday dawned promisingly (although slightly hazily, let's be fair) and the delicious but not too dangerous Easter meal plan continued. Balance continued unabated (bacon at breakfast but greens at lunch) and a feeling of virtuousness began to wash over me. "See," I thought to myself, "you can have fun without blowing all weight loss efforts completely out of the water." Yet, there is an inevitability to this story that is as predictable as the Fundy tides. Yes, there was moderation; yes, there was balance; yes, there was a clear plan. But there were also taxes and I had not factored their weight into my Easter equation.

Perhaps it all went wrong when we decided to fill the forms out by hand rather than pay to do it all online. Or perhaps it is the simple fact that working out your yearly taxes is eye-crossingly, mind-numbingly boring, whichever way you do it. Whatever the cause, by Sunday, when I was filling out the forms for the third time (having noticed mistakes on the first and second attempt), I sought to relieve my swimming eyes and turned them from the forms and figures to rest on the large dark chocolate bunny gifted to me earlier that day. Maybe it was its (slightly demonic) green eyes, maybe it was the way I felt it was quietly mocking me from its cellophane nest as I filled out form number 933 but, suddenly, I reached over and snapped off a little bit of bunny ear.

I know I need say no more. Except to say that the fall was utter and complete. The taxes are still not finished and I have chocolate poisoning. We can only hope for a better day tomorrow.

picture this

2011-04-22T21:00:00.000-04:00

It is light and colour. My desk, by the window, is light, colour and industry. This is what I see; you may see something more, or something else. There is a cup of tea (in process), and a green wagon (waiting) on the grass beyond. This moment - when I stand up, absently looking back to where I have been - is light, colour and Projects Underway. Somehow it's an artful arrangement. After all, it's just my desk scattered with the things I am doing. But there's a cheerful box of every-coloured origami cubes (that only I know is growing daily, one cube at a time) and there's a whimsical, childish doodle coloured-in on the sketch pad below the tea. There's a laptop and a small wash of Stuff that pushes my sewing machine to the margins. But it is the light that makes it. The cool, bright light from a pale grey sky. The clear, white light on the scattered markers, the colourful cubes, the green wagon. Suddenly, it is remarkable. And so I do. Remark, that is.

In lieu of a photo, we have words! In lieu of a woman wielding a camera, there is a woman wielding descriptions, allusions, and invitations to see. (Arguably, she is more of a worry this way than the other but humour her, she needs her outlets.) It is such a good challenge to describe the snapshots of a day. Relying on the camera to catch "moments" relieves me of the work of deciding exactly what it is that is captivating about a thing. Ironically, I rarely captured all those moments with the darned camera as it was either not to hand or my skills (or its capacities) were not up to the task. However, I still tried, almost daily, and sometimes things worked out and were golden. This is a different endeavour, though, and in the spirit of seeing the bright side of things, it is also a good creative exercise for my wee addled brain. Watch this space.

In other news, it is Good Friday. Which is Hot Cross Bun Day. So, another batch of gluten free hot cross buns were made (and consumed), friends were entertained (and entertaining), the toddler was fed, humoured, read to, entertained, read to, fed, sung to, danced with, read to, run with, fed, chased, carried, kissed, read to, squeezed, tickled, fed, bowled over by the dog and put to bed. Now we are going to watch a movie with a glass of wine. I think this is the beginning of a wonderful weekend.

Cheers to all.

words

2011-04-20T22:49:00.000-04:00

I have lost our camera. There has been some wild upturning of furniture, a lot of emptying of bags and pockets, and a fair bit of checking in usual (and unusual) places. There has also been some telephoning around and a hopeful visit to the dog park noticeboard. But, no. Nothing. I feel stuck in disbelief that it could be gone when it feels so right that it would be lying somewhere, snug in its little cat case, peeking out from under a book or accidently tucked under a cushion. I even looked in the dog food bag (for Tiny has a special "organising" logic for small items he finds in his everyday). I feel sick about it. And a bit lost myself. How can I show a life lived without the images that mark it? How can I remember it? What of the moments it holds in its memory still?

I know one answer, of course: Use your words. Let the linear march of word after word invite you to imagine the details, see the best angles, juxtapose the light and dark. But what if I can't quite convey what it is to see Tiny in his light blue sleeping sack, freshly woken from his afternoon nap. There he is in the sea of my bed, sitting up, bent in the middle. He is a mermaid and a very small blue and green walrus. He is groggy, his face is gentle, flushed and pleased to see me. He has been calling "Da!" but begins a soft, short sentence of toddlerese - all sounds and half-formed words - when I pause at the doorway. He is recounting, or explaining, or exploring an idea. It is hard to tell but I feel the pressure to answer correctly, lest he think I'm not listening properly.

That would have been a good photo. (How many times do I think that in a day?) To be sure, I rarely have the camera ready at hand to capture such things. Nevertheless, I feel its loss keenly, particularly in this space. What is there to come and visit if there isn't something sweet to rest your eye on amidst all the words? Oh well, we'll all just have to muddle on. For a little while, dear readers, that is just what you will have to do. Read. That is, until I work out a solution to my camera-less life. I will do my best to capture moments as if I they are an image before us and we can imagine together the things I have seen.

PS: All suggestions on how to replace a Canon Ixus 70 and with what, gratefully received.

still

2011-03-30T21:53:00.001-04:00

Still struggling but, not wanting to be a boring whiner twentyfourseven (except to my OTL who accepts that listening to me is one of his contractual duties of marriage), I took some moments today to focus on the goods in my life.

1: Melting snow
2: Sun-warmed dogs
3: Streaming sunlight
4: Soy lattes
5: Friend encounters (of the unexpected kind)
6: Toddler squeezes
7: Library books

A humble list of seven, yes, but not a swear word nor a despairing slump in any of them. (Unless you count the swear words uttered when the sun-warmed dog turned out to be a severely muddy-bellied and -footed dog as well, but not being a whiner twentyfourseven, I won't mention it).

Yes, there are good things happening and I will use my great reserves of Sheer Bloodymindedness to focus on them and not the grumbly grumpies. In this spirit then, it's only fitting to mention that Sunday saw a mammoth effort in reclaiming my creative space from slowly being sucked into some kind of black hole of irredeemable mess, scatter and mayhem. It is now all clear surfaces, neat piles and organisation. Here's a peek.

Cheers.

struggle

2011-03-28T22:38:00.000-04:00

I've got to be frank. Not Frank, but frank. I am struggling. Sigh. I feel like I have been dragging old car bodies around behind me for a couple of weeks now. I am lacking a lighthearted spring in my step; a joie de vivre that could bounce me merrily through the days. The worst part about it is that, despite some stern self-questioning, I can't really work out why. Perhaps it's not as difficult as I'm imagining, indeed, my suspicions are that it's quite simple: Spring has not sprung.

It has snowed three times since the official start of Spring, and while I've been very grateful for the blue skies that we've had in between, it is not enough. It is as simple as that. I want more. I want Spring. Spring with a capital S. I want buds, shoots of green, daffodils. I want blue skies, muddy lawns, robins looking for grubs. I want freshly thawed mittens on the side of the road, revealed for the first time since their snowy burial. I want one layer and everyday shoes - for all of us. I want, I want, I want.

Which doesn't help, I know. I should be looking for the little everyday joys; appreciating The Moment; letting it go and loving Right Now. But I am assaulted in the night by dreams of Australia - beaches, bright tropical light, warmth, sunshine - so that I wake with an old car body's-worth of aching homesickness to clatter along behind me the rest of the day.

This, too, shall pass. In the meantime, I will plod along, muddle through, look for signs. Like the crimson red cardinals, newly at our bird feeder. Or the joy of a dog at the "beach." Or a boy, ready to garden, as soon as it's warm enough to take his winter hat off.

lost

2011-03-22T22:17:00.000-04:00

Lost: one white cable that allows me to download all the pretty end-of-winter-beginning-of-spring pictures from my camera to my computer.

Found:

one of Tiny's forks (under couch cushions)
one sock, one tumbleweed of dog fur, one plastic, pretend screwdriver, and one wooden puzzle piece (under said couch)
one of the dog's stuffable chew toys (behind my sewing machine)
a growing sense of unease that I do not Run a Tight Ship, as it were, around here

Happy Spring, anyway, northern hemisphere people. May there be warm, sunny days, and plenty of them, just around the corner.

end

2011-03-11T21:25:00.000-05:00

Look, I thought we'd talked about this.

This does not look like the end of winter.

women

2011-03-08T22:30:00.001-05:00

I have a three-foot tall, blow-up parrot in my lounge room.

If you'd ask me this morning whether I'd have a three-foot tall, blow-up parrot in my house by day's end, I probably would have said "no." However, life is like that, no? One minute you have a sick little boy in your arms at the supermarket and the next minute, instead of sensibly buying some bananas, you find yourself watching the nice lady at the counter filling the world's largest balloon parrot full of helium.

In my defense, I thought it was one of those dainty, round balloons that would bob about prettily and harmlessly, cheering up this pale-faced, weary little boy. Instead, as I wrestled it into the backseat of the car to loom loudly, resplendent in all its colours, over Tiny, I knew that it wasn't quite going to do the trick. To his credit though, he took it all in his stride, eyes rather wider than normal. While there were no delighted squeals emanating from the backseat as I had hoped, there was the occasional awed "Da," between long spells of silence. It can't be easy making friends with a parrot that is taller than you, but he was trying.

Which is all a rather roundabout way of getting to the guts of today's post: Women. It is the 100th anniversary of International Women's Day and, as the strong, proud feminist that I am, it would be greatly remiss of me to let it slide by without a word or two on the matter. Which is exactly what I want to say: Women matter.

As a child of feminist and feminist-sympathising parents, I grew up surrounded by the ideas of feminism. The first lesson I learned (not, perhaps, the first I was taught, though) is the one that will stay with me evermore. It is a simple one: Women matter. They matter because they are women. Who they are, what they do and the accounts they give of their lives all matter. So, we should pay attention. In those early days, although I heard words like "oppression" and "domination," and listened to women talk about inequalities and discrimination, I couldn't grasp what that actually meant. Really, at thirteen I just wanted George Michael to love me and to grow up and be a sultry cabaret singer. Ahem. However, this message, which anchors much of the rest of the feminist analyses of the world, is a timeless one. Dare I say it again? Women matter because they are women (which, historically, culturally, environmentally, socially, biologically and in many other ways, is different from being men).

Interestingly, my experience of saying this, or something similar, to people over the years, is a bit like trying to fit a large, blow-up parrot into the backseat of my hatchback. In some cases it has made me a bit of a spectacle, in others, it has been seen as a kind of looming threat. Nevertheless, in pockets all over the world, people today are seeing this message for what it is. Women matter: What a resplendent, colourful, and joyous thing that is. Not unlike a three-foot tall, blow-up parrot balloon, really.

Happy International Women's Day, women everywhere.

squares

2011-03-02T22:13:00.001-05:00

This is what I did today instead of cleaning the bathroom.

No Rage Sewing today, more like Rebellion Sewing.

This is a little project I am cooking up to try and creatively solve a rather chilly problem we have. More when it is finished.

irrits

2011-02-25T21:16:00.001-05:00

See these, right.

Well - after a wakeful night, and the dog escaping, and then Tiny learning a few new, highly inappropriate words from his mother, and then freezing myself and my little boy to the bone in the sub-Arctic windscape that is the dog park, and then listening to him shouty complain all around the shop for an hour, and then watching him spit out his nutritious and delicious lunch one mouthful at a time, and then banging my head on the upper cupboard corner, and then taking three toes out on the door frame - I made this.

To place my little tootsies on when I do these (47 times a day).

This may well be my first recorded effort at Rage Sewing (not Sewing Rage, which is a different affliction to be discussed on another occasion).

Phew.

That feels better.

vest

2011-02-23T23:04:00.001-05:00

For a long time now, my blog subtitle has read "See Emma Sew (and Stuff)." As you all know, lately there's been a whole lot of "stuff" and not a lot of "sew." Well hold on to your hats everyone, there's been a creation at Chez Furrybees!

This is officially the first item of clothing I have made for the Tiny one. Oh, I've had dreams, and plenty of them. I even have a little stash of fabric that fills the corner of my cutting table waiting for all manner of groovy, one-off, cool-kid clothing items to come to life. However, this one just about made itself the other day while I was fiddling with some felted sweaters and I felt I couldn't ignore its simplicity and ease.

All winter (and even fall), I have wanted to make Tiny a vest. Something classic that would have been at home on a portly gentleman of the 1950s (and so would therefore look completely adorable and not a little entertaining on a 15-month-old). Like this one, perhaps. However, all great patterns, it seems, require one to be a knitter (not me) and not a crocheter (me) and so it wasn't meant to be.

However, the beauty of felting old, thrifted sweaters, is that you get to do what you like with someone else's knitting (or some machine's knitting) in a tenth of the time with oodles of margin for making mistakes. So I just cut and trimmed and shaped and sewed a few sides and buttons and - voila! - a little man's sweater. I have been going back and forth between whether the unfinished edges are, well, edgy, or just unfinished and require a little something. I'm going with cool and edgy at the moment but will update accordingly if I change my mind.

Tiny loves it, or the buttons, more precisely, and spent quite a lot of time pointing at them and then trying to put them in his mouth. I think it's a hit, raw edges or no.

PS: The model was given unfettered access to the buttons, knobs and levers on the Highly Coveted And Longed For (Daily) sewing machine so that the photo shoot could go smoothly. No little fingers were harmed in the making of this blog post.

please

2011-02-21T19:51:00.003-05:00

Let's be frank.

Winter has gone on way too long.

This place needs fresh air, sunlight. We need to brush the sickness away and get those humans out onto some fresh green grass.

Anyone?

mixed

2011-02-14T23:16:00.000-05:00

As you know, I'm no slouch at telling those I love that, well, I love them. However, Valentine's Day makes me itch. I have never settled comfortably with it (even when I was a teenager and longed for The Boy of the moment to leave a little love note on my bicycle seat). Things have not improved with time, particularly now that I am old, critical and live in North America where, it seems, never a significant day is left undecorated. There are love hearts hanging in windows all over this fair town, I tell you.

The worst part about it is that a little bit of me gets sucked in. Every time. As I watched the streams of men leaving our local florist this afternoon, I couldn't help but wish a bunch of long lovelies were coming my way, too. This is despite the ambivalence, and puzzlement, I share with my OTL about why we should be declaring our love, en masse, with everyone else, on the same day.

However, such is the pull of social/cultural/commercial phenomena like this that I find I can't waft freely above it as I would wish, smiling peacefully with an Inner Knowing that Love could never be summed up by the fleeting flash that is Valentine's Day. Nope. I stood there, instead, feeling a pang and wanting to be invited to the same party that everyone else was going to. And then I felt silly that I would want this when I have so much more than this, every day.

To compensate for such an itchy, silly, uncomfortable moment, and in celebration of life, love, truth and beauty, despite The Day, I decided to make something sinful and chocolatey. An entirely appropriate response, if I say so myself.

This flourless chocolate cake has four ingredients.

photo courtesy of taste.com.au

What's not to love?

love

2011-02-12T16:05:00.001-05:00

This is the man that I love.

He warned me, during our long correspondence, that he didn't look like your typical rugby player. "What," I thought, "oafish with thick, cauliflower ears? That's a relief." He hadn't wanted me to form an unrealistic expectation of who he was, but I already had his measure from the very first emails.

In four years, he has stayed strong and true to those initial impressions. His heart is as big as an ox. His love is unwavering, abundant. He is smart and silly. (And sexy.) He is twice the man that his small stature belies.

Four years ago today, crumpled and tired, he stepped off a long international flight and straight into our first embrace.

I am so glad he did.

this

2011-02-04T21:43:00.007-05:00

Tiny. Helping with the finances.

PS: My usual liberal interpretion of the {this moment} phenomenon over at Soulemama.

organise

2011-01-31T21:42:00.002-05:00

Organisation is a tricky beast. I find I long to be both well organised with smoothly running systems and to be free to do what I want, when I want, in equal measure. These two parts of my personality bicker, endlessly. However, it seems that my old life - which erred more on the free-to-be-me side - does not mesh well with my new, I-have-a-toddler-who-is-completely-dependent-on-me-for-his-well-being-and-requires-more-than-buttered-toast-to-survive life.

Enter the meal planner.

Of course, there was a degree of rebellion at first (my free-wheeling side was feeling pouty) but, by the weekend, order and systems reigned and a plan was devised.

There was even nuance - Meatless Monday remembered; Terrible Tuesday (where my OTL isn't home until late and I'm frazzled and looking for the hidden booze by 8.30pm) catered for; and Thick of Things Thursday (where there are a number of separate extra curricular activities planned for both parents and only one car to accomplish it all) smoothly accommodated. All was going splendidly and To Plan, most importantly, until Tiny decided to help me unpack the groceries this afternoon.

Nine (9) (yes, that is nine, neuf, neun, nueve) cracked eggs later and our first ever family meal plan was necessarily abandoned.

No worries, mate. Here's a little recipe we like to call Emma's Eight Egg (one was too far gone to be rescued) Corn, Peas, Sun Dried Tomatoes and Basil Slap Up, Last Minute, Winging It Frittata.

I knew my spontaneous side would find a way to have a say in the end.

climb

2011-01-26T21:58:00.000-05:00

It seems we have come to this.

The scene went something like this:

MOTHER

(emerging from kitchen to investigate

suspicious silences)

Tiny!

What are you doing?!

(looking around for camera)

How did you get up there?! That's not for babies!!

(quickly clears rubbish from floor so that

house looks tidy for blog readership)

Be careful!

(takes photos)

Watch out for the edge there, baby!

(takes more photos)

TINY

Da.

cup

2011-01-24T22:10:00.001-05:00

Dear God,

Please don't tell me I've just discovered the three minute Chocolate Cake in a Cup recipe.

Love

Emma

PS: Mum. It's 17 points. Per cup. Cough.

PPS: We did have a tofu stir fry beforehand and so that cancels things out a bit.

PPPS: And it's Meatless Monday, so it's for a good cause.

PPPPS: It was a noble act to eat it, actually, come to think of it.

crunchy

2011-01-17T21:08:00.001-05:00

After an unexpected week away from the blog, I logged in last night to add the Queensland Flood Appeal icon to my sidebar (please check it out and participate in some fabulous auctions) and realised that I'd left you all with a very depressing photo as your week's furrybees entertainment. We are all better now and just have the lingering tickle-coughs that last forever and remind you of your brush with death (or with a winter cold, if you don't want to be quite so dramatic).
So, I thought I'd post a photo of this to cheer you up.

It's actually not much better than a black and white photo of cough syrup, I realise this. But it's full of such wholesome goodness that you'll be healthier just having looked at it. Here it is in close up.

Yes, you're right. It doesn't get any better in close up. However, as our first ever Mushroom Sesame Tofu Stew, it was delicious. I would only tweak it ever so slightly at the edges, if I were to make it again.

We have just started to participate in Meatless Monday you see, and this was our first go. Tiny gobbled it up and I think this confirms me, once and for all, as a Crunchy Granola Mother. It even has the ultimate in hippy food - tahini - in it. Tofu and tahini. It doesn't get much crunchier than that, my friends. Just wait until I make him take a carrot salad to school for lunch. The boy is going to be teased mercilessly for his plaited sandals.

Speaking of which (or should that be whom), Tiny has been working diligently alongside me as I type, bringing me gifts to treasure and savour as I think and write.

This may be his small way of getting back at me for the plaited sandals to come. Each day he spends some very pleasurable time completely emptying the pantry of all the food within his wee grasp. Every day, that is. Several times a day. All of the food. I'm choosing not to see it as a commentary on the food that is in there but as evidence of his obvious genius. Yes, that is a big leap, but I'm his mother and I'll do what I like.

See. Look at him here with another offering. Genius.

cough

2011-01-05T23:04:00.000-05:00

The view from here.

Splutter.

Tiny and I are sneezing and coughing our way through the days at the moment. I wish I could take a leaf out of his book. He just loves life so much that in between all the snorting and snuffling he just gets on with the joy of things. "Yes, my ear hurts." I can hear him think, "but there's the pantry! With things in it! To touch! To take out! To put in strange places all over the house!"

For some reason I decided to make light of sneezing and coughing from when he was the tiniest baby. I think I wanted him to know that even though those noises were loud, they weren't scary. On the whole, it wasn't a bad plan. It makes for a bit of fun if one of us has a cold as he giggles every time there is a sneeze or a splutter from any quarter of the house. Even the dog's sneeze is a cause of great merriment around here. However, tonight at dinner I was seized by one of those terrible, unrelenting tickles in my throat which led to a dreadful bout of spluttering and general carry on. As I slumped over my dinner plate, trying to catch my breath (you can see he doesn't get his stoicism from me), I heard a delighted chortle from the other side of the table. I'm glad I can be a source of entertainment for the boy.

Perhaps I can introduce the lessons of Good Timing and Empathy in the coming years.

wishes

2011-01-03T23:07:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year.

Traditionally, I have loved a New Year. Although I've never really loved seeing them in - generally that part has always been a tad disappointing. However the symbolism of beginnings has always appealed and, somehow, the Start of the Whole Year usually even more so. For many years I have taken a little bit of time to reflect on the year that was - enjoying in and cringing at the memories in equal measure - and have used that as a basis for making New Year's resolutions. Some years, I have written earnest letters to myself recapping my journey thus far and sketching out a rough plan for the one ahead. These little private treatises would document what I thought was important and who I thought I ought to be in the year to come.

I feel a little envious of that past Me, to be honest. Life was much simpler then (although I was wracked by the obvious and massive complexity of it at the time) and my connections and responsibilities were much lighter. Perhaps that is why I find it difficult to find the space and time to repeat the exercise now that my life is so very different. I have let the weight and significance of the coming New Year hover around me over the last week but despite being offered this perfect and timely opportunity to Set Goals and list Important Character Traits to Develop, I have not done a thing. Not a one. Oh, I've flirted with a few ideas. But, late at night, when I should be sleeping, I find any earnest resolution making quickly deteriorates into a sleepy fantasy world where we have come into generous amounts of money, all my friends and relatives live nearby, and we have unlimited free babysitting. Some wiring seems to have shorted in my head so that resolution has become wishlist and I can't seem to overcome it. There are worse fates, I suppose.

Before I give up completely, though, let me take the luxury of this little writing space to resolve to do at least three things this year:

Firstly, and most earnestly, I resolve to generously believe in myself and my skills.

Secondly, and most yearnfully, I resolve to make time for me.

Thirdly, and most unrealistically, I resolve to find a way to come into generous amounts of money, to move all my friends and family close to me, and to find unlimited free babysitting.

Happy New Year!

PS: These photos are a little snapshot of Christmas 2010. In order they are: 1. Tiny the King of the Christmas Dinner Table; 2. "opening" a present; 3. sledding for the first time; 4. on Lake Cordova, Boxing Day.

savouring

2010-12-25T00:04:00.001-05:00

Merry Christmas everyone.

Well, it's here and nearly over (how did that happen?). So that it doesn't pass unremarked on this blog, and so that you all can feel even a little of the warm, furry bee that is Christmas here, here are a few festive photos for your Christmas viewing pleasure.

He stood in awe of the sparkly tree that had come in the night.

Before long, he'd taken his first bite.

Without a minute to spare, the cooking began in earnest late last night (Christmas Eve Eve) and continued this morning (after we'd thrown in the (tea)towel at midnight).

My OTL is fearless when it comes to gluten free pastry. Having no cooking pretentions frees you up immensely, it seems. He doesn't know this is supposed to be very hard. They are cranberry and apple mince pies (and are delicious, if I do say so myself). I feel a Christmas tradition beginning.

Undaunted, he went on to a gluten-free tourtiere which, in my haste to get us all on the road for our Chrissie holiday, forgot to photograph.

And this was my first baking extravaganza off the rank. The gluten-free version of the Down Under Christmas Cake. Bouyed by thinly veiled panic and can-do Christmas-miracles-do-happen spirit, I went from this straight into gluten and dairy-free Pumpkin Pie (which I also forgot to photograph). True to form, none of these recipes have been tried and we are now travelling Ontario to force previously untested goods onto family. Now that's Christmas spirit.

Best wishes to you all. I had better rush before Santa catches me.

May the new year bring peace on earth.

brrr

2010-12-13T20:55:00.000-05:00

Baby, it's cold outside.

Tapping in to some ancient roots.

How women got around before there were cars to take skating on icy roads.

PS: This one is for my baby-wearing enthusiast friend, Diane.

home

2010-12-09T00:14:00.000-05:00

I was asked to write about homecoming a few weeks ago. I knew, with a quick rush of confusion, that I could approach this topic from a multitude of angles. I thought of my recent trip to Australia and the coming “home” that meant for me. Then I thought of our return to Canada and the unexpected relief I felt at that homecoming after a wonderful but tiring time away. I also thought of the many times during the week when I count the minutes (and sometimes seconds) for my OTL’s nightly homecomings in anticipation of another pair of arms, hands, eyes with which to deal with Tiny’s (quite big) world and needs. But mostly I thought about the notion of “home”, and what that means when we think of “coming” to it. (“Lordy,” as my mother would say, and probably why it has taken me a few weeks to start this post.)

If I’ve learned one thing since I left Australia, it is that the idea of home is a complex one, and not necessarily one with a fixed address. If you’d asked me before I left Australia to define my place, my land, my home, I would have directed you to tropical North Queensland. I would have painted you a picture of lush, overlapping, large-leafed plants; of warm, flat, tropical water; and of the slow pace that a hot, humid climate insists upon. Not to mention the light - the warm, clear, bright light of tropical sunlight. However, at the time I left Australia, I hadn’t lived in that place for 16 years. I had long since moved away from my childhood home to the city of Brisbane - with its sub-tropical/semi-temperate climate; its different, more filtered light; its nearby wild, cold seas; and its quicker, city pace. Yet, for all those years I called that place home, too, and it remains the city that most will associate with me.

I spent my first years in Canada waiting for some sense of “home” to call me back. I thought, given enough time, that the waves of homesickness would slowly grow stronger and, eventually, I would give my OTL the nod and we would begin our plans to move to Australia for good. I thought the call to home would ring clear as a bell and the decision would be straightforward (if not easy). Yet, my OTL often reminds me of how emphatic I was whenever, after a burst of tears from me, he would ask if I wanted to return. “No,” I would exclaim quickly, “not yet.”

I think one of the reasons I could answer so confidently, then, was that I never confused my grief for my old life with my sense of the place that I must return to. And there’s the rub. How do you know the place that you need to return to? What is possible for homecoming, if your sense of home is never quite finally defined?

I have been in Canada now for three and a half years. In that time, I have lived in three provinces in three vastly different towns in three distinctively different parts of the country. To be sure, I have seen and experienced a lot more of Canada than many Canadians. I have met many people and made more new friends in these years than I had for the ten prior to leaving Australia. I have also married a Canadian, gained a whole new family, become a Permanent Resident and a home owner, and had a baby. I have changed my life, and my place, almost completely. If ever there were the beginnings of a sense of “home,” Canada surely is host to some important ones.

However, there will always be an uneasy tension between the memories and attachments of my old home and the possibilities and realities of my new one. Both pull forcefully on me – nostalgically, pragmatically, imaginatively – and never the twain shall meet. Instead, as I ponder this topic tonight, I am tempted to fashion a new sense of home to help me better understand it. (I’m borrowing from my studies in Identity to help me think this through, though, so bear with me.) In the same way that we can understand our identities to be ever changing as our lives progress – in that we are always in a state of being and becoming who we are – so is my sense of home. Home is not a set of coordinates on a map (although it can start there). Home is a sense of place, despite geography, that through the meaning we make, the relationships we have, and the life we create there, is always in a state of being and becoming Home (with a capital h). For me, it matters who is there and how we are there. This is a complex idea that could probably do with more careful thinking but I like the possibilities it offers. To risk a terrible cliché, home is a journey and not a destination. (Okay, I apologise for that. That was uncalled for.) However, it does help me to understand why this tropical girl can sometimes feel a sense of homecoming on a snowy day in Canada.

Earlier tonight I called my OTL to tell him I was on my way back to the house. In the background I could hear Tiny tromping on the wooden floors and saying “Wagoo, wagoo, wagoo!” with great enthusiasm and it made me laugh out loud right there in the car service centre. I realised, in that moment, on this snowy night, where home was and why. Home, for now, anyway.

PS: London has been experiencing “Snowmageddon!” (as the local newspaper reports it), which means that more than half of the average winter snowfall has fallen in the last three days. It has been fun, and beautiful, and exciting, and I have loved it. It is a far cry from Townsville, Queensland, I can tell you. Most of these are photos I took of the neighbouring suburb this morning while walking Dot the Dog.

this here

2010-12-06T15:16:00.004-05:00

I had a "this moment" image all ready to go for last Friday.

In it I saw Christmas and loved the way winter was beginning to settle on Tiny's outdoor play, moving us away from time in the swing to time indoors.

What with one thing and another, Friday came and went with no blog post (there was a choir concert to perform in, after all), but on Saturday, after another light dusting, things looked even more picturesque and I was glad I waited.

I could just see my photo caption: Christmas has arrived, Canadian style.

But weekends, and timely blog posts, always get away from us, no?

As does the weather, it would seem.

Tiny's little green cart is still there. It's the higher mound of snow to the right of the swing.

And this is the dog, ploughing a track through so that she can do a wee.

I think we can safely say, Christmas has arrived, Canadian style.

festive

2010-12-01T22:27:00.000-05:00

See. I came back. As promised.

Yep, that's the dog. In her diaper. Her name is Dot, Dot the dog. She is wearing a diaper because she is in heat and dropping little droplets of blood everywhere. Something I have never had to deal with before, I must say. For now she is a foster dog for the London Humane Society but, as we gradually fall in love with her (and her capacity for endless patience with Tiny as he tries to hang off her lips), who knows where it will end. There may well be a new member in our cast yet.

In other news, it is now officially Christmas. (Despite what you may have heard previously in the shops.) According to my family's Christmas Lore (policed heavily by my mother), December 1st is the first day of the Festive season and no Christmas jollity will be entered into until that date.

Thus the re-emergence of some homemade Christmas goodies. A little clutch of Christmas trees for Tiny to discover and "reorganise".

We've been a bit preoccupied for Christmas carols tonight, but I can't go to bed without dancing with my OTL in the lounge room to just one of our favourites. Merry and jolly to you all.

go

2010-11-30T23:49:00.000-05:00

I made it! No, not this little train set traffic sign, but all the way through November, posting every day. I deserve some chocolate and a good cup of tea, I do believe. Now, where is my OTL when I need him...

This has been hard work. It has also been fun, interesting, exciting and very rewarding but it has been hard work. I made a commitment to myself at the beginning that I would always attempt a post that was worth reading (or tuning in to, at least). It would have been very easy to write about our everyday lives at Chez Furrybees, but let's be honest, there would have been a fair bit of snoring on all sides of the globe if I'd done that. So, each night I squeezed out whatever piece of creative energy I had left and waited to see what would come to the surface of my weary noggin. Generally, I'm pretty happy with what the old girl churned out.

I learned a bit over the month, too. I learned that there is an art to giving an account of your life. One of the unexpected benefits of writing and photographing your everyday, is that it has encouraged me to see beauty and interest in places and spaces which may otherwise have passed me by. This is something often commented on by others in the blogosphere, however it's been interesting to see how it manifests as I've been travelling along.

I've also learned that, no matter how long your day and how weary you are at the end of it, that it is always worth it to have made yourself construct something, to have contributed creatively to your little life in some small way. This is a lovely lesson and one that I'm destined to forget and stumble upon again and again. C'est la vie.

In case you are among the few who worries I will Never Post Again, I am not going anywhere. There are still writing promises to keep. I have been composing drafts in my head on the topic of homecoming and so it's probably high time a final copy came out of there to make way for more festive, seasonal thoughts. And then there's a dog to introduce and all manner of stories about Tiny and his obsession with the compost bin. Stay tuned, people, the best is yet to come.

Tonight, though, I'll leave this momentous last blog post from a challenging but rewarding month with one last thought. Dog diapers. That's the kind of day I had. It's a long story and I may tell it sometime but today I had to buy some cloth dog diapers and then watch a dog run madly up and down the hallway trying to scrape them off her bottom. It was gold, I tell you.

weary

2010-11-29T23:05:00.000-05:00

We are weary.

Our experience of being new parents has been that of being strapped to a roller coaster that never stops. It has its dizzyingly fun moments, its go-slow moments of great anticipation before dipping maddeningly, and then, sometimes, there's a backwards loop-de-loop that will leave us disoriented and out of breath. But, wonderfully and terribly, there seems to be no getting off this ride. I often look around at other new parents I have met along the way, and wonder if they're experiencing the same thing. To me, they seem sane and well rested, and I wonder if I look as harried and chaotic as I often feel.

I was ready for very little in the practical, hands-on side of parenting. In the days of my pregnancy, I thought a lot about what kind of a life I wished for our family. I let rosy, warm images float into my consciousness and, after late night conversations with my OTL, I'd think about the kind of parents we would hopefully become and how we'd grow our parenting through our strong, shared (but hopefully flexible) value system. I love doing this kind of thinking. It allows me some delicious dreaming but is also shaped by my moral compass and my skills in critical reflection. These are hard won attributes and I relished applying them to such an important time of my life.

However, not once, not ever in the whole pregnancy, did I ever pause to think how I would get the laundry done in a laundry that screams Danger! Danger! for small inquisitive children. Nor did I try and think of practical strategies for washing the dishes with a toddler hanging off one of my legs. And, furthermore, I never dreamed that I would have to do anything quite so organised as plan meals ahead and shop for them before time so that all of us would have more to eat than just egg on toast. Unheard of!

However, on a day when Tiny is sick (not terribly but enough to make him feel increasingly more miserable and tired as the day wears on), I am reminded of how many skills you need that were never part of my rosy imaginings. Most significantly tonight, I think we are often so bone weary because of the sheer physical nature of parenting a toddler. Today I picked a stressed and whiny Tiny up approximately 40,000 times. It is very difficult to ignore a miserable little one at your feet, and so up and down into my arms he went all day. A cuddle here, some dancing there, a song with actions here, a swinging game there. And then, when it was all too much, I cooked dinner one handed while he watched, tucked away in my other arm. I used to suffer from a kind of repetitive strain injury in one arm from too much typing. These days, everything, from the top of my head down, feels a bit like it has been used too much all day. I suppose I should be grateful it has all balanced out.

The thing is, though, is that I wouldn't have it any other way. I don't care if I have to employ an osteopath full time. Holding that little boy is one of the greatest joys of my life. One day he's going to be too big for any of that piffle with his mother and I'm going to feel keenly his moving away from my arms. Until then, I'm going to find it in me every time to give him a cuddle when he needs it. There'll be time enough for rest another day.

gate

2010-11-28T21:41:00.000-05:00

Mum!

Let me through?

[shake shake shake]

Let me throoooooooough!

No?

Bugger ya then...

shoes

2010-11-27T23:07:00.000-05:00

Things I have learned from making this shoe:

not to give up my day job (or night one, come to that) and become a cobbler
that sweatshop labour really is an abomination
that I can't believe I have to make another one

Things I have learned from the dog chewing Tiny's shoe:

that if to a carpenter everything looks like a nail, then, to a dog, every piece of leather looks like a rawhide chew toy
that shouting "drop!" "leave!" "down!" "Aaaaaaah!" doesn't stop said dog from quickly swallowing one half of said shoe

this IV

2010-11-26T23:11:00.000-05:00

[Participating in this moment.

A Friday ritual: one photo, (nearly) no words.]

I love them.

PS: There is only so much hair allowed in any one family. Because Tiny seems to have enough for two babies, my OTL has to take one for the team.

guest

2010-11-25T23:10:00.000-05:00

My OTL is the guest photographer on the blog tonight. As I rushed out the door to choir practice, trilling experimentally as I went (as a warm up you see), I managed to cry "Photos! Take! Blog!" And, because we are of one mind, him and I, he hopped straight to it. So, tonight, I present a few more little corners of my home. This time from Way Up Close (the camera was set on macro and he went with it).

First up, the guard squirrel. It hangs on the side of the wooden bowl that keeps our garlic bulbs. Garlic is coveted like that in Canada. You need guard squirrels. (Not a word of a lie.)

Secondly, an imagined conversation between a pig and an echidna.

Pig: I'm so tired and bored with my life.

Echidna: Yeah...

Echidna: My toes curl upwards.

And finally, Lola, no Bobby, no Pippy, no Polly... or The Dog That Cannot Be Named.

I know that some of my OTL's family tune into this blog regularly and I would just like to apologise to them. I have been a terrible, irredeemable and slightly absurd influence on him. He did take a photo of some tomatoes and his cup of tea, if that means anything, but they didn't make the cut.

things

2010-11-24T22:45:00.000-05:00

Brain numb. Too much thinking. Not enough sleeping.

Here's a pretty picture to distract you.

In other news, I have just started reading this book. No reason...

http://insideofadog.com/

mother (part two)

2010-11-23T23:25:00.001-05:00

Let's just dive straight back into the argument here...

----------------------------------------

You may well be wondering where I am heading with all of this. Join the club, it's warm in here! Perhaps a little recap will get us all on the straight and narrow.

Yesterday, I questioned the way parenting advice books often present their advice as neutral, scientifically supported, expert-driven manuals for the modern parent. To the casual reader, it is easy to assume that the advice offered is just the current thinking on what is the best, most effective way to raise your children. There is no disputing that these books can be useful or offer creative alternatives to the ever-learning and growing parent. Nor is there any dispute that they can use reputable scientific research to back up their suggestions. However, the point I had wanted to make is that they are not just these things. They are also carefully crafted worldviews that tell us who we ought to be and, by association, what kind of a world we should want. I picked on the Sears' Baby Book yesterday, not because I don't like what they have to say, indeed there's a lot that appeals to me, but because I wanted to show how moral values show up, even in how-to manuals.

Tracey Hogg, the famous sleep training celebrity, is very clear about who we should be and the kinds of children we want. In her world, parents need to offer schedules, routines and consistency to take control of life with a newborn. In this way, they gradually teach their babies to become "independent and resourceful" in getting themselves to sleep. I am not criticising Hogg here, I am just trying to show how worldviews creep in. For Hogg, parents are guardians of time and life patterns, so that children can become independent and resourceful. For the Sears, parents work in harmony with their children, and value children who are trusting and connected. Both are cheerful, easy-to-read, how-to manuals but could they be more different in what they consider is the right, or good thing to do or become?

Which brings me back to the "good" mother (the topic du jour) and back to Jong's terrible article. The "good" mother is an ideal born out of a given ideology. There is no objective, ideologically, politically or morally neutral definition of what it is to be a good mother. Indeed, there is no simple, universally agreed upon 10 point plan pointing us in the right direction. This is not a bad thing. What is bad, though, is when advice is gussied up as if it is The Truth and not actually supporting a particular worldview about how we all ought to be.

Which is why Jong grates on me so. Oh, does she grate. It is not her extraordinarily thin so-called feminist analysis of Attachment Parenting which gets me. Nor is it her generous borrowing from French feminist Elisabeth Badinter's new book that irks. What does grate, though, is the way she tries to "free" women from the constraints of ideologically-driven parenting advice while simultaneously constructing a pretty clear picture of what, for her, is a "good" mother based on her own worldview. Subtly, but consistently, she weaves the notion that success for women is defined by the public sphere of career and money-earning. Add to this her support for the liberal notion of a woman being "free to choose" her way of mothering and not be bound by any biological imperative to nurture, and we see a rather well-worn liberal feminist approach to mothering that mysteriously mirrors many of the patriarchal structures that shape our society today. A full critique of this argument has to wait for another day (or lifetime). Here, all I want to do is flag the worldview that weighs down Jong's analysis so that we can better understand how she arrives at her advice on what it is to be a "good" mother.

Her article is written to provoke some and assuage others. What it doesn't do is acknowledge the underpinning libertarian worldview that shapes her argument. If she did, then it would have been impossible for her to end with "do the best you can, there are no rules." For there are always rules for how to be a "good" mother, even a career-driven, nanny-employing "good" mother, we just have to find the right book of advice.

-------------------------------
Lovely people, that's the best I can do under the circumstances. I hope it makes some sense and thanks, Jenny, for making my brain hurt. Tomorrow will probably see a return of gratuitous shots of cute babies.

mother (part one)

2010-11-22T22:36:00.001-05:00

Because I've been set a corker of a topic to write about, and because my response is taking time and zapping the last remaining energy I possess today (except the tiny bit that I need to climb the stairs and hurl myself into bed), this post will be in two parts, spread over two days. Here is the tantalising introduction to my argument. Tune in tomorrow for the cracker of a finale.

---------------------------------------------

Okay, so it's Monday and Mondays are for hitching up your pants, rolling up your sleeves and getting stuck into things. (Sometimes they are for swanning around in your bathrobe but, alas, not today.) Today, I'm going to tackle one of the big topics given to me last week - the "good" mother. So, hang onto your hats.

First of all, let me preface this by saying that my good friend Jenny - a mothering scholar currently finishing her PhD in the field of mothering studies - set me this here little topic. So, let's just acknowledge up front that I am wading into a whole pool of scholarly discussion without even some yellow floaties to attach to my poor flailing arms.

Secondly, this is a huge topic - one we could all talk about until the cows come home (and many have) and still not reach a conclusion. So, my aim here is to not even attempt a conclusion but to simply share some thoughts that have been noodling around inside me of late. There has been a little bit of discussion generated on the very interesting Apron Strings blog which stems from a recent article by the well-known author Erica Jong. In this article, Jong takes a (rather wild and whipping) fire hose to the modern parenting school of Attachment Parenting and questions whether it is a new source of oppression for women. She rejects it as a form of hyper-parenting that is a "new torture for mothers—a set of expectations that makes them feel inadequate no matter how passionately they attend to their children." For Jong, Attachment Parenting leaves mothers and fathers guilt-ridden and exhausted and leaves children ill-equipped for life beyond childhood and family. In a final advice-giving flourish she exhorts us to abandon Attachment Parenting and just "do the best you can. There are no rules."

This article is terribly written, badly argued, and filled with questionable evidence used in support of dubious claims. Indeed, I am sorely tempted to agree with Suzie MacKenzie when she wrote in The Guardian a decade ago: "Jong is incorrect all over the place, and never more so than when she writes." However, my interest here is not to defend Attachment Parenting against Jong but to think about the role of parenting advice in the construction of what it is to be a "good" mother.

I am heartily sick of advice. Particularly of the parenting variety. This doesn't stop me seeking it out, reading it or listening to radio shows when authors, bathing in the warm glow of their recent conclusions, wax lyrical about what we should all be doing. I just continue to feel exasperated each time I do. However, I continue to tune in for two reasons. The first is that, like many of us, I rely on people, hopefully experienced ones if not experts, to guide me in all endeavours where I am a novice. The second reason, though, is that, like all of us, I am deeply embedded in the culture I live in and, whether I like it or not, pay some attention to the norms, social mores and competing dynamics that shape that culture. Believe it or not, parenting advice fits here and is used to both describe the world we have, as well as to shape it.

Almost all parenting advice, in the veritable library of parenting advice available to us, is presented as generally neutral, sound, authoritative and intended only to be a benevolent guide along the bewildering journey of new parenthood: "The instruction manual that Mother Nature forgot..." or "the 'baby-bible' of the post-Dr Spock generation." While they may be many of these things, they are not neutral, non-political, scientific descriptions of how to parent. Rather, I think they are actually complex moral arguments, presented in a sometimes misleadingly straightforward "how-to" format, that describe not only what you should do as parents, but who we ought to be (as mothers and fathers) and who our children should become as future members of our culture. For example, it doesn't take much digging to find the moral virtues that the Sears (of Attachment Parenting fame) believe a parent should have: "to be in harmony with their children...to [be able to] read their babies' cues, and...respond intuitively and appropriately...and who enjoy parenting." Not, we might note, something less touching like: "to provide food, water and adequate shelter for ten years until they find a job and start contributing to the family income," which might have been something a working class family a hundred and fifty years ago might have considered fair. I pick on the Sears simply because I have their book close to hand, but a quick dip into most other parenting books will show that they are not alone in drawing a picture of who it is good to be as a parent.

"So, what is wrong with that?" I hear you mutter. Well, nothing, except for the fact that none of them acknowledge that they are making moral claims and that they are tailoring the research they cite to fit a worldview they hold about the kinds of mothers, and fathers, they believe ought to populate the western world.

-------------------------------

Stay tuned for part two where I tie all kinds of complex and thinly observed loose ends into one helluva argument.

room

2010-11-21T22:58:00.000-05:00

I am not a woman that decides quickly. Many, who know me well, will be nodding wisely (or shaking their heads despairingly) at this. They have been witness to this for many years. Don't get me wrong, once I've put my mind to something, I can go like the blazes, however it can often take a fair bit of Weighing Up the Options before all systems are fully firing. My mother tells the story of how, one Christmas, we looked in every shop in all of Greater Perth, before I would decide on which pair of bathers (swimming costume) I wanted as a Christmas present. This is a slight exaggeration, but only slight.

From deep, yet very scientific, self analysis over the years I have observed that this gets worse when I am stressed or overwhelmed. At those times, making the Exact Right Decision becomes an almost paralysing pursuit. When we moved to London last year - to a new town, a new house, a place we knew no one and with me six months pregnant - the conditions for me making snappy decisions were not, surprisingly, there. At a time when I was supposed to be merrily nesting and just generally feather fluffing in preparation for our new baby, all I really wanted to do was hide in a box (a fairly big one, of course) humming soothingly and reading Harry Potter books. Instead, I waddled along as best I could, but left big decisions, like how to decorate Tiny's new room, for that longed-for time when I'd feel Up To It.

As it turned out, those decisions remained, well, undecided, for quite a while as we worked to settle in to our new lives. Luckily my parents intervened during their first visit and Tiny's room got a new coat of paint and some functional (and funky) furniture in time for his arrival. The walls, however, remained blank.

Now it is a year later and, when I have little time and even less energy, thoughts on how to shape that space for him are coming thick and fast. In the odd, idle moment I can find myself dreaming about all the things that I would do, buy, hang, adorn, cover and finish for that room, to turn it into the warm, sweet world that I want him to feel at home in. But at the moment they remain in my imagination as I fill each day to the brim with caring for and about this house and all the people in it.

However, bit by bit, I am bringing one idea closer to realisation. Continuing my quest of creating a joyful, child-friendly space, I have begun to create a child-themed family portrait to show Tiny how he nestles within two interlocking families that were all, once upon a time, kids too. I have been gathering snapshots of us all - grandparents, uncles, aunts, parents - as children, and will hang them together, in a little collection, on a wall in his bedroom. The goal is a small display that captures the everyday jaunts and joys of our childhoods for him to ponder and enjoy as he makes his way through his own.

There is much photo editing and salvaging to do, but I think it will be worth it. If only for the sheer pleasure of imagining us all, once upon a time.

PS: Wasn't I cute.
PPS: I just love the unprofessional nature of these shots. That they are all off-centre and midway through some endeavour delights me no end.

blank

2010-11-20T22:46:00.000-05:00

Okay, surely you all knew that there had to be one post in the whole NaBloPoMo month where weariness, an empty camera memory card and complete brain blankness would coincide to manifest in the Post That Should Not Be a Post. Well that glorious day is here, wonderful people. I have nothing. Not a skerrick, nay even a titch of original, interesting that's-just-so-Emma juiciness to offer you.

So, instead, I am going to cheat a tiny bit and refer you to some other people's entertaining tidbits that I have come across recently.

The first is one of the funniest things I have seen all week and makes me wonder why my own simple drawings can't be this effective. Perhaps I should try.

This second one I stumbled upon on Friday. It is a very badly done how-to video which enchanted me all the way to its surprise ending. There is something extremely endearing about the woman who is doing it and she deserves an audience, despite of, or is it because of, its terribleness. Give it a whirl if you've got time.

I promise I'll be better tomorrow.

this III

2010-11-19T21:26:00.000-05:00

[Participating in this moment.

A Friday ritual: one photo, (nearly) no words.]

Tiny removes all the pieces and I put them all back. I'm getting very good at farm animal jigsaws, I'm proud to say.

write

2010-11-18T22:51:00.000-05:00

After my call for audience participation the other day, a few of you very kindly offered suggestions on what you would like to see me write about. They are, in order of appearance:

what it is to be a "good" mother
the food I eat (in my dairy and wheat free world); and
homecomings

Rich topics all, I think you would agree. Given how my brain has clacked away in the background since reading your suggestions, I imagine I could dedicate any number of posts to each topic. They each have their challenges, though. Most obviously, options one and three require me to use my noggin a fair bit, and option two requires me to ask miracles of my little Canon point-and-shoot so that I can present reasonably recognisable pictures of food for your viewing pleasure. That said, I look forward to having a little think, a little write, (taking a lot of quite bad photos), and doing a little posting over the next little while. Let's just see what I can come up with.

Fortuitously, I baked muffins for a celebratory morning tea today. Golden Harvest Muffins, to be precise. So, perhaps we can consider this the first food post. They are made with quinoa flour, sorghum flour, tapioca starch, sweet potato, brown sugar, maple syrup, orange juice and an egg. And they were as good as they sound. So good, in fact, that I had to rescue the last two (in my defense, I had one) so that I could make a record they ever existed.

True to form, whenever I have guests I attempt a recipe that I have never made before. This adds just that little extra spice of anxiety I need to be at my sharpest for when the first knock on the door sounds. Even more, I didn't have the exact right ingredients for this never-before-tried recipe and so I had to wing it with what I had in the fridge. Why I do this, repeatedly, over many years, I don't know. However, it all worked out and they were received with open arms by guests, babies, and OTLs alike. Phew.

complaints

2010-11-17T20:57:00.000-05:00

Today I heard about something that tickled my fancy. The Complaints Choir. In fact, there is not one but many Complaints Choirs all over the world. It seems the idea began when a couple of wacky Fins decided to gather people's everyday moans and groans about the State of Things. They then put them to music and corralled a choir to sing the complaints out, loud and proud. Young people these days.

This has been taken up enthusiastically by many countries around the world, however the original Helsinki version is very entertaining.

Ever since Tiny was about six weeks old, I have talked to him about the art of complaining as well as the virtue of keeping a stiff upper lip. Indeed, in those early days, during our long chats into the night, I would try and teach him (for his own good you see) that complaints will only be received on Tuesdays, between 2pm and 4pm. Tuesdays. 2 to 4.

Despite his obvious genius IQ, this has been a rather hard concept for him to grasp. It could be due to the completely absurd nature of my "lesson" or it could just be that he is only small and still learning about stuff. Whatever, it seems that at some time in every day, an opportunity to remind him of my rule comes our way. Now don't get me wrong, sometimes there are legitimate reasons for immediate, unreserved complaint. For example: "I've just fallen down some stairs!" or "I've got a dirty great big molar coming through my gum and it's making me miserable." However, sometimes he tests the rule for wriggle room and here I've got to be on the ball. For example: "I just fell all four inches to the ground and landed on my soft bottom!" or "The drone of the car engine is lulling me to sleep against my will!" or even "Why won't you pick me up immediately and hold me until I'm ready to be put down?!" Like all good parents, though, unless the situation is grave (see legitimate reasons above) my rule has stayed firm. Tuesdays. 2 to 4.

Now, in case you're wondering why I haven't written a parenting book yet, it's because this doesn't work. In fact, that I've had to remind him every day for a year should tell me something about its efficacy. Perhaps I should just take my cue from the Complaints Choir and turn complaining into a virtue. Stop resisting and, like a wacky Fin, gather all his daily, mundane complaints and sing them, loud and proud, out into the world. (Just picture me on the front porch, in full voice, each evening.)

This may start the neighbours complaining but, pah, they can write their own song.

poop

2010-11-16T22:04:00.000-05:00

I have had a poop of a day.

But this photo cheers me up.

This is Tiny about three months ago while we were in Australia. He is playing ball with his furry cousin, Harry the Dog (courtesy of my brothers iPhone and its fancy apps).

Harry the Dog is single-handedly responsible for teaching Tiny how to roll a ball. His patient, gentle, insistent, single-minded devotion to "training" Tiny paid off and by the end of our stay he was picking up the ball and rolling it to Harry.

The things a dog will do to get someone, anyone - even if they're only nine months old - to play ball with them.

PS: For baffled Canadian (and other) readers, "poop," in Australian lingo, means what you think but is pronounced a bit like the "oo" in "look."

pumpkin too

2010-11-15T20:55:00.000-05:00

First they took my eyes out and then they ate my braaaaaaains.

I thought you might like to see what happened to pumpkin number 2. We have since retired all half eaten zombie pumpkins to the great compost bin in the sky. You can only look at such gruesome raiding for so long before it begins to wear on the psyche.

I am now into week three of NaBloPoMo. I'm a bit chuffed about this, I've got to admit. It hasn't been easy, and some nights, when I've been searching for inspiration on what to write about, I've sat at my computer and thought, " ," followed closely by " ." Which doesn't always make for riveting blog reading, I do understand. Luckily, something strikes me eventually and then I'm off, sculpting the next bit of furrybees whimsy for public viewing.

However, if there is anything you would particularly like me to write about, please let me know. Just as long as it's not on Power, Privilege and Difference (which was sort of my PhD topic and something I seemed single-handedly unable to write coherent words about - or enough of them, anyway), I'll see what I can do.

This is your chance, folks. It may never come your way again. Use the power wisely.

cakes

2010-11-14T22:51:00.000-05:00

http://www.marthastewart.com/photogallery/kids-cupcakes#slide_6

This is not the cake I made for Tiny's birthday. Just in case you were wondering. This is a cupcake that Martha Stewart's team of cake stylists, food consultants and photographers created.

In the absence of these (I did try whistling out the back to see if there was a stray cake stylist behind the shed), these are the cakes I made for Tiny's birthday.

Cake number one.

This is the chocolate cake from my childhood, complete with chocolate icing and 100s and 1000s on the top. It's an old fashioned, simple cake that my mother baked for quite a few birthdays for my brothers and I. As such, despite of (or because of) its complete and utter humbleness, it now inhabits a kind of Pinnacle Of All Cakes status in my childhood mind and no fancy adult Death-By-Chocolate Mud Cake can rival it. I can still see a perfectly round one, iced and bejewelled, sitting pretty on our white painted dining room table.

As a 10-year-old fledgling cook, it was simple enough for me to cook on my own (with Mum's shouted guidance from the laundry below) and I loved the old, tattered recipe book it came from with my grandmother's orange-penned cross indicating which recipe was best out of the available options. So, when it came time to begin a little cake baking tradition for my own little family, it came as no surprise that I turned to this one. Not hedgehog cupcakes, I know, but something sweeter and more story filled.

Cake number two.

Homemade in all its lopsided, green-frogged glory. I had vague (yet grand) plans to make a frog-shaped cake (until the morning of the party when a little panicky rethinking in the supermarket aisle had me going with a frog-themed one instead). This one makes me laugh because it really is dreadful. Green icing is impossible to make classy in any way, even with the style guidance of my niece and both nephews (who are responsible for the sprinkles).

Yet, here could be the start of another tradition: very terrible birthday cakes with inedible decorations. Tiny is one lucky little boy, if you ask me. I'll remind him of this next year when I pull out the blue food dye for a dolphin-themed birthday cake that could go equally wrong.

For the record: Tiny thought both cakes were terrible and swallowed about a teaspoonful of each. He particularly thought the icing was an affront to his person. Others gobbled them up well enough, though, so I'm thinking this is just his little one-year-old idiosyncrasy.

bottoms

2010-11-13T23:51:00.000-05:00

Bottoms. That is what these kitchen chair cushions are intended for. We all must have a purpose in life and that, frankly, is the purpose of these. However, there is no rule that says bottom-hosting cushions should be boring. So, throwing caution to the wind, I hatched a plan for playful cushions (over a year ago) which I finally brought to fruition this week.

For those of you who know me in person, you will know that I am not, outwardly, a whimsical/playful/artsy looking woman. I don't waft in and out of spaces in interesting skirts or have hair in multiple hues of orange. I don't have funky, colourful glasses frames or wear a slash of bright red lipstick as my trademark. I don't even have one funky piece of jewellery that would hint at the True Me beneath my otherwise straightforward exterior. I wear jeans most of the time and black, grey or dark blue a fair bit. Not exclusively, but you get the picture.

However, somewhere in there is a woman who wants to wear red skirts with apple green shoes and rich purple cat's eye glasses frames. While I don't let her out when I'm shopping for clothes, I do let her out in fabric stores and thrift stores around the world. On those days, she runs amok through my imagination.

When I discovered these fabrics, I was pregnant and living in Manitoba at the beginning of spring (which is cold, muddy, icy and just generally yuck). I was thinking about the kind of house I wanted to bring this little person into and I was pretty clear that I wanted them to discover joyful, whimsical, playful bits throughout it. I'm not a huge fan of children-themed things (something, perhaps, we can discuss at a later date) but I love play and, given time and opportunity, creating spaces that charm and delight. Constant moving has hampered that urge in me of late, but I do believe these cushions will help me redress this. I feel a shift from functional to fanciful happening and it feels good.

Now, time to change the kitchen walls from Band-Aid Beige to something a little more pleasing to the eye.

PS: This, for those trying to keep up, is my contribution to Pillow Challenge Week.

this too

2010-11-12T12:49:00.000-05:00

[See this moment. A Friday ritual: one photo, (nearly) no words. Savouring this Skyping moment from the week.]

a boy

2010-11-11T22:57:00.000-05:00

Tiny turned one today. I sobbed, sang happy birthday, cuddled, played, cooked a cake, sobbed some more, tickled, sang, made spaghetti, laughed, carried, cuddled, took photos, opened presents, fielded well-wishes, felt teary (but no sobbing), sang happy birthday again, kissed, cuddled and then bid goodnight. Not by myself, mind you, he was there for much of it (as was his doting father and grandmother).

To borrow from a friend I spoke to this morning, this has been the longest and shortest year of my life.

I am crazy for this little boy. We had a weary, shaky, difficult start that required more strength than I ever knew I had but what great and abundant treasures we've found here. He is a beautiful, spirited, inquisitive, friendly, open little chap who lights up our lives. He chuckles, walks like a zombie (arms out front), likes his books (even upside down), loves jumping on and just generally hurling himself around the sofa, is the current world champion of Going Downstairs Backwards, and has comic timing to rival the best. If he had one birthday wish it would be to have free reign of the house. Free reign to check out those kitchen cupboards once and for all - to lick the dishwashing liquid bottle, to play with the drain pipe and to root around in the compost bin looking for tasty morsels. Free reign to explore the fridge - to pour the milk all over the floor, to stick his fingers in leftovers and to work small jars off the top shelf so they crash to floor with a clatter. Free reign to check out the bathroom unsupervised - to unravel the toilet paper, to dangle his hands in the loo, to climb into the bath with a fully clothed splash. Free reign to do as a boy fancies, really. Instead, he got a great deal of loving diversions and free reign to bang however many pot lids and small tins of sardines he could carry.

We are forever indebted to this little bundle of energy that was created out of great love. Our lives have been changed unexepectedly, beautifully and forever. We are newer, and older, and changed and wouldn't have it any other way.

Happy Birthday, my baby.

Now, to bed. I am bushed.

cold

2010-11-10T20:05:00.000-05:00

The entire household is being badly squeezed by a seasonal cold.

Complaints are high.

Long-suffering looks are high.

Inspiration is low.

There's a birthday to celebrate tomorrow, though, so we will all rally and put our party hats on at rakish angles.

Now, to find a birthday cake recipe that one and all can eat.

See you tomorrow with a full report.

PS: I took this photo last year when I had an Etsy shop that sold vintage goods. It spoke to me as I sniffed and coughed my way through my albums looking for something pretty to describe our sad fates.

shaky

2010-11-09T21:49:00.000-05:00

This game is called Shaky Shaky (pron: sjaeki sjaeki), thus the blurriness.

This is also a gratuitous shot of a cute baby.

I warned you.

spots

2010-11-08T19:43:00.000-05:00

We had this book when I was a kid.

I remember sitting on the lounge room floor (that's the living room floor, for all non-Australian readers...) and being completely entranced and absorbed. Not by the words but by this fellows very cheerful spots.

I am sure my parents never envisioned that these books would penetrate my adult world in any meaningful way, however this book marks the beginning of a lifelong love of spots. Not just any old spots, mind you, but cheerful spots.

And you've got to admit, these are pretty darn cheerful.

So consider me officially part of Pillow Challenge Week. This kitchen chair cushion is just the beginning.

pillows

2010-11-07T22:21:00.000-05:00

Another blog challenge came to my attention during the week and I have been flirting (possibly disastrously) with it ever since. It is Pillow Challenge Week. A comical, quizzical, absurd title, you are right, but one with great potential. Much to my acute disappointment, it is not a challenge to spend as much time as humanly possible with your head on one with your eyes closed, but it is a creative challenge to make pillows, as many as you can, all week.

This is attractive to me because I have a largish pile of fabric and an even larger pile of pillow forms in my workroom that have all been waiting extremely patiently to be introduced. Waiting, you won't be surprised to know, for about a year. (I've been otherwise pre-occupied, it would seem.) The reason these piles exist is that I had the simple notion, once upon a time, that the path to true happiness comes in the form of soft cushioning that miraculously ties together the completely mismatched furniture that adorns my house. For all I know, this is bang on as a theory but I have never had the chance to find out. Until now.

Let's see what can be achieved. If it is true happiness, you can be sure there will be a blog post about it.

PS: This is a travel pillow that I made last year for friend's little girl to travel from the US to Australia with. I love orange and so does she, I was delighted to find out.

that

2010-11-06T23:29:00.000-04:00

I thought you might all like to see the other side of his costume.

I took the plunge last weekend and entered the ranks of mothers all over the world who put their babies into homemade costumes and then take them out in public. While Halloween is not an Australian tradition, public humiliation of your children is universal.

In case you are thinking, "What a cute mouse outfit!" he's actually meant to be a fearsome, northern Manitoban, human-eating polar bear. I even tried to teach him to say "Rowr!" and curl his fingers like terrifying talons before the big day. (He was more interested in practising his going-backwards-downstairs skills that week, though. Which is not your average polar bear skill set, I do agree.) Nevertheless, as my very first attempt at making a costume out of bibs and bobs and bits of thing, I'm pretty proud of my efforts.

Come on, they are hand sewn ears, people!

this

2010-11-05T21:42:00.000-04:00

[What do I mean "this"? See this moment on soulemama's beautiful blog for more information. It's a Friday ritual I'll be participating in this month.]

corners

2010-11-04T22:28:00.000-04:00

I discovered the world of blogs when I arrived in Canada in 2007. We lived in a very small town in New Brunswick and, because I was only "visiting", my entertainment options were housework, people watching at the only (thankfully decent) coffee shop in town, or going to visit the local ducks at the waterfowl park. Once these were ticked off for the day, there was an awful lot of whistling into an empty house, or peering down the street to see if my OTL was coming home yet. Of course, I could have finished my PhD, or taught myself a second language (French, possibly, given we were a stone's throw from the largest Acadian population in Canada), or just done something Morally Virtuous and Productive. I didn't though, I found craft blogs and a community of women whose interest in and devotion to creativity, however stumbling and humble, was a revelation and an inspiration.

I read them furtively at first, feeling a weird kind of voyeurism as I peeked into others' lives and thoughts. However, soon I was enthusiastically looking forward to each instalment as they documented their creative, domestic lives. Domestically inclined craft blogs fascinate me for many reasons. It would be easy to dismiss them as mere accounts of women's trivial lives - their cooking, their sewing, their knitting, their mothering - but if you pause and look for long enough, they are also, sometimes, reflections on some of the great philosophical questions: What is Beauty? What is Truth? What is the Good?

I kid you not.

Which is why you have a little shot of one of the corners of my home today. One that, in its balance and composition of colour and pattern, gives me great joy whenever I spy it from the kitchen doorway. Some feminists have argued that, while we may not find many women among the "great" artists before the 20th century, it is not to say that their artistic work has been completely absent. Indeed, as the creators of the family home - through their handiwork, their furniture arranging, their attention to detail in cooking and other mundane yet still creative pursuits - some women were, indeed, great artists. Not a claim I am making for myself here, but just to say that Beauty can be found in the humblest of domestic settings, as well as on the grandest stage.

In case you are worried that my house looks this ordered despite the rampages of a one year old, here is a study in contrasts on the other side of the room. Which, in itself, has its own beauty, I guess.