It's all about the washing. Dreaming of a dryer and the before-them-me.

So I don't know about other mummies, but when rain comes calling, all my thoughts turn to washing. There is a stress that is attached to rain that I never knew in the life of the before-kids-me.

There is a maths equation that just does not work out around here. Wet washing x 7 + too much rain - (3 airers + 1 x 5.5kg dryer) = ? I wish the answer was 'all clean and dry clothes'. Unfortunately the real answer is 'currently no clean/dry work pants for tomorrow.'

The washing is on now and I will be making full use of the gas heater to make sure they are dry; but stress. About CLOTHES. This is not life or death. It's just plain irritating. There are many problems out there that need my attention. I just can't see them over the pile of clothes in the way right now.

Then today another mum shared that she has a 7.5kg dryer that has a 6 star energy rating. Yep. No dryer guilt and it's huge. That family probably has lots of clean AND dry clothes in their house. Slightly jealous and in awe, to say the least. And that got me thinking.

As I drove home I was dreaming about a dryer. A dryer. Sitting there, imagining going home to piles of clean, dry clothes, I realised how much of the mummy-me bears absolutely no resemblance to the before-them-me.

I remember deciding that I wouldn't be one to change who I am for kids. Ha! Hands up all who were dragged kicking and screaming into the after-kids-version-of-you. For me, that 'I'm not changing' decision lays clearly at the bottom of the bin along with "my kids won't watch TV until they are two" and "I won't let my baby rule the house" (side note: he who cries the loudest, longest, wins here. No contest.)

It's all good though. I've let go of so much stuff that didn't matter, to take hold of life now. Even the horrible washing on rainy days is completely ok, when I look at the family attached to it. It's just one of those moments when I realise that a massive shift has taken place, so slowly, that I didn't even notice it happening.

Life is so much more fun and exciting now. Seeing things through their eyes is amazing. The laughing out loud that happens so often can't be beat.

Still, I wouldn't say no to opening the before-them-me's closet tomorrow morning. All that heartache choosing what to wear would be really nice about now;)

Anyway. The sun will come out. The washing will get done. And I'll get to those other more importantly things waiting for me and stop dreaming about dryers and the before-them-me.

Right now I'm content, thinking of all of you - my village - all dealing with the rain-washing situation too, separated only by distance. I hope for clean and dry clothes for all of you too.x

Finding something so small. And tears.

I spent today sorting through the too many toys. Part two: the downstairs playroom, which is unfortunately where I've been chucking everything while doing the entire upstairs, so it was a huge job. Going about my work I made all kinds of interesting discoveries. Things like, nobody has had idea where the downstairs TV remote has been for months (found later with the computers upstairs- naturally), found the shooting bit out of Henry's buzz lightyear space ship when he was in the room:/ and a million toys I forgot we even owned.

It felt great finally getting to a job that I had been pushing aside for so long. Organising, cleaning, finding new places for things, moving toys onto the growing 'give away' pile and generally finding a room again under baskets and tubs of STUFF. Craig had the two littlies upstairs. With a half day off, he was spending time being just daddy. As the day followed a double shift, Henry and Daisy were loving every minute. Music, laughter and the sounds of little kids dancing drifted down the stairs. I absent mindedly moved more toys aside, still smiling at the craziness that was going on in the lounge above.

Then, there they were.  A couple of very small discoveries that brought sudden tears to my eyes. Little toys that would mean nothing to anyone else, but oh so much to me. Two tiny rattles and a plastic link. Nothing really. Only, so much. Maybe too much. Some of the last remaining pieces of babydom.

A few months ago, before Daisy was beyond baby, I gave pretty much everything away. Everything. I was contacted by a friend, who had found someone who was soon due to have a baby girl. The mother had nothing. She needed help. I could give it. So I did. The timing was perfect. I passed it all on, emotional, but completely happy to see everything go to someone who desperately needed it. And Daisy was still a baby. At least I could still tell myself that.

Daisy is no longer a baby. She may look like one as she sleeps, but she can say 'cot' now, so a toddler she has become. I have loved seeing her grow and change. Knowing she is the last, I have paid close attention to every moment and the other children have been old enough to enjoy it with Craig and I. Just about every observation has been shared. Learning to clap, to crawl, to walk, to talk: has been a together experience. The moving on has flowed, on the river of time, as I have slowly left pieces behind, this time never to experience again. And I'm ok with that. The new, fun and grown up stages are yet to come. I'm so excited! I can't wait to see what comes next.

And yet, the rattle. And tears.

The sadness found in a moment of time passing reflects just how much that moment meant in the first place. The wonderful, quiet, loud, sleep deprived, cuddly, baby-scented moments are over. Gone. But I will always have the memories. And the all consuming love, that I very much doubt will ever change. The hard parts that once were, will continue to fade, and the good times will remain.

I decided that I would keep just one rattle. It couldn't hurt to be brought back to the simple, confusing, magical time of my babies once in a while. Cherishing the past will help me get through the tough moments to come. I know now that the good is mixed in with the bad, and the good is more than worth it. Eventually, in any situation, the tough bits will fall away, leaving me stronger than I ever was before. That has become clear.

With one last look at the rattle I put it away. I feel heavy with moving on from an experience that can never quite be put into words. I feel I have experienced overwhelming, life changing grace, that I was blessed to be a part of someone's babyhood five times over. And to work out along the way how wonderful it could be despite the pain, constant questioning, sadness and often defeat. I learnt to love beyond all reason and understanding, knowing that in a heartbeat I would give everything for someone other than myself. The little hands that touched my heart, forever changing it, showed me how to be content in the small and the slow and the everyday. They taught me to notice what matters most.

I doubt I will come across that tiny rattle for many years to come. But on seeing it again I know that I will instantly be back in the baby time once again. The moment in time, however brief, when I became someone's mummy, forevermore.x

Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby, loo. The moment I will have forever.

Song for a Fifth Child by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton (1921- )

Mother, oh mother, come shake out your cloth!
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing and butter the bread,
Sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking!

Oh, I've grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby, loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).
The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew
And out in the yard there's a hullabaloo
But I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren't her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo.)

Oh, cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
But children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust, go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby. Babies don't keep.

Daisy is now asleep. The house is quiet. Henry and his cousin are playing happily in the back yard. I asked them if perhaps they would like to paint with me. But I got 'the look' from both of them.

"We're busy. I'm just digging this little hole."
"And I'm driving in it."

They immediately returned to their game. Denied.

Oh, how things have changed! Only a few short years ago it would have been Henry, not Daisy, held close in the rocking chair. The boy who once loved to fall asleep snuggled in beside me is far too busy for even so much as a hug these days.

Today Daisy has a bit of a cold and Craig is in bed after night shift. His snoring woke her after she had been asleep for five minutes. Thinking back 10 years, I realise had this happened with Jack, I would have freaked out. Actually I would have burst into tears. The WORK I put into trying to get him to sleep was overwhelming. It was my whole world for a while there. Everything else became secondary. And I never once considered he was amongst the small percentage of little ones who just didn't need as much sleep as the others. That and he had undiagnosed reflux until we had Izzy and noticed it. I never considered that the one book I read, that promised to make him sleep, may not have been a good fit for him. Or me.

Since then I have grown and changed as much as my little ones. I have learnt what works for me, works for me and that has nothing to do with anyone else. I have learnt so much from other mothers. I have come to love the saying 'be like a wise old cow, take in all the straw and spit out the sticks.' I have discovered that there is always something to take away from listening. Even if all it is, is being happy for the other person, while silently knowing what I have been told is not right for me. I have also learnt from my children. They have always been different from each other and have helped me see that all mothers are different too, including me. Now I know all the 'different' is the challenge I needed, and continue to need, to see the world open up with infinite possibilities.

As I heard Daisy start to talk five minutes after falling asleep I realised just how much I have changed. As I walked towards my bedroom door, I was happy. I smiled as I opened the door and said "is daddy keeping you awake?" Her cute cheeky grin in reply made my smile grow wider. I rolled Craig onto his side to stop him snoring and walked back to my little one, now standing in her cot. Her gorgeous big eyes so obviously still tired.

I gathered her up in my arms and kissed her until she giggled, holding her close, as her baby scented head moved to rest on my shoulder. I grabbed her faded, pink blanket and made my way to the now time-worn rocking chair.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking!

As I sat down and relaxed into the chair, Daisy snuggled into the crook of my arm, a place she has been many times before, and looked up at me. Time could stand still in that moment forever. She blinked, almost turned away, but looked back again to check I was still there. She wriggled around snuggling in under her blanket, her tiny hand tapping lightly on my collar bone, as she closed her eyes, ready for sleep once again.

I rocked slowly. Moments passed. Her breathing steadied. Minutes blended together as her hand dropped and her eyelashes, never completely touching her cheek, fluttered. Now completely asleep, I could sit and stare at her. Completely beautiful and content. I sat wondering who she would become one day. I sat hoping that time could slow down and I could keep her little for just a bit longer, while knowing that time would always move on, and all I could do was value each precious moment I've been given. I sat more determined yet again to make the most of it all.

One day the shaky lip will disappear for good. A certain little boy will stop being excited when he finds the train with his name on it. And that all consuming you-are-my-world look that I see in many big beautiful eyes as they race up to hug me tight and unexpectantly, will fade. But I will always have the moment that a baby-becoming-a-toddler looked up one last time before her eyelids drooped and she snuggled in on my lap to sleep. I'm glad I didn't miss it this time.

Oh, cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,

But children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.

So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust, go to sleep.

I'm rocking my baby. Babies don't keep.

Sometimes winter isn't only for learning endurance. And the best pear tree teepee ever.

I love Autumn. I love the change in the air. I just love change for the most part.

My greatest flaw is that I can become bored easily and I find it hard to just sit still and be. I generally like moving onto the next big thing. I love the anticipation and challenge as much as I love the crisp Autumn air as I go to hang the washing out of a morning and the leaves in their various shades.

But deep down I always know that winter will come. The leaves will be gone and it will be just cold. Like this realisation, I sometimes know that moving onto the next big thing will require a winter of my own. I remember coming to this point right before I gave birth to Daisy. Oh so excited! Standing on the brink of a new adventure. Oh so terrified. Winter was near and I knew it.

Yesterday Craig cut our pear tree back. Autumn is long gone, so sadly it was time. I don't like this part of winter. All the beautiful trees are pruned back to nothing, ugly, until spring. So I watched on as I hung the washing out, hoping winter would hurry up and go. Reflecting as I did, winter is just to endure. Waiting. As patiently as possible, until spring.

Walking back inside I sighed, knowing all that was left was to pick up the pieces. More work. Reminding me of the winter I have since emerged from. Soon I became caught up in other tasks and forgot the remains of the pear tree.

Later that afternoon with busy children milling about the house, girls in their pjs early after a hard day at school, the boys ran outside to play. Isabel and Lucy took turns playing with Daisy and doing their homework, giving me time to finish up a blog post and organise the washing (dry, dryer needed, inside hanging required). The afternoon passed and suddenly Jack and Henry appeared at the back door with huge smiles, claiming that I just had to see something really special. I slowly got up from typing, as this request is a constant one in my house, and made my way rather unenthusiastically to the back door.

As I walked around the corner, an amazing stick teepee stood before me. The boys stood beaming, "mum look at what we made!" At first I was speechless. It always impresses me just how wonderfully creative they are (although the creative following-of-directions not so much!) I smiled and replied, "wow! Great effort boys! You must have worked really hard on that." Everyone came out to look. Lucy in her pjs, Elsa dress and all, because how often is a great teepee made from left overs?

As it turns out winter is not just for enduring. For me, I will look on my next winter with new eyes. It's a time to be creative. To look that bit harder for the good. To make teepees out of a beautiful tree that has been cut back to nothing and had its growth discarded. Because when life next lands around my feet, I hope I will see the endless possibilities that lay before me. Not just the mess and loss of what I once had. I hope.

Putting the tree back together would never have worked. It would never have been the same, and trying to make it so, would only have been a reminder of what was broken. Using the pieces to make something new was the amazing part. 

I often reflect on the fact that I have learnt more and grown more due to my children, than they do because of me. Hard work with a dash of creativity, minus focusing on what was. Thank you my gorgeous boys. Lesson learnt.