river

This morning, Tiny came into bed with me. He almost never does, but this morning he felt that I needed a little nursing. For my ailments, you see. I wasn't sure what ailed me, other than a desire for more sleep, but it was obvious I needed reassurance. "Don't worry, Mummy. I am right here."

Soon he'd found a random towel to keep my bare arm warm, he'd judiciously meted out a small dose of kisses, and read me a book (which consisted of him flicking through the pages silently, looking at the pictures). All the while, I lay there looking at him. Looking, looking, drinking in that very moment with the tight knowledge that it was slipping away with every ticked second.

While he chatted away comfortingly, with doses of cautionary advice—"Remember, mosquitos can bite."— I tried to drink in every curve of his cheek, his perfect skin, his face in thoughtful repose. What ailed me, I realised, is what ails us all, the relentlessness of the present moment. Not the burden it carries—that has its own unique challenges—but the fact that it keeps taking you away from the moment before, the one just passed, the one that you'd only just started to enjoy, to see the enormity of, the beauty, the wonder. It has gone, as has the one before it, and so the one to come. What Tiny didn't know is that what often ails me is the helpless desire to have this moment forever. Even though it has already gone.

I know I am not the first person to think these thoughts. (Although they are so much more profound when you think them, no?) I am actually quite aware that there are whole spiritual traditions that help us think this stuff through. It's just that, sometimes you need to say it out aloud. Sometimes you need to say, despite my quest to flow seamlessly with the river of life, sometimes, when you're right in the middle of watching your own little human becoming the little human he is, you just want to grab an overhanging branch and hold on for dear life. Just to stop for a second and hold it all awhile.

Except you can't. Or should that be--accept I can't.

In the middle of days that are full, exhausting, boring, joyful, funny, exquisite, painful, we often look at each other, my OTL and I, in recognition. For as ordinary and everyday as it all inevitably is—the couch does smell of pee, after all—it is also simply breathtaking.

We are caught between this moment—its practical needs, its joys, its frustrations—and the knowledge it is going. Some days I take photos. It gives me the brief illusion of having control over the flow of that river. They are no overhanging branch, but they are at least a place to pause long after the moment has gone.

These photos: High on Tiny's list of Fantastic Things To Do at the moment is to make popsicles from oranges, wait interminably for them to "get solid", and then eat them in the way that all three year olds do, completely in the moment.

gravy

Happy birthday to my youngest brother and to the uncle that taught Tiny how to say "fake".*

From 10, 000 miles away, we send warm hugs. This is Tiny's very own creation--a paper princess with "hair".

Love

Us

*Actually, it was a different but similar-sounding word that, fortunately, Tiny misheard. Unfortunately, there was a lot of stifled snickering every time Tiny said "fake" which only reinforced it as something to say.**
** And, to be fair, it was my other brother who actually introduced the misheard word, only for it to be reinforced emphatically, shortly thereafter, by uncle number two.***
***We are very relieved to this day that Tiny still insists on saying "fake" and nothing else. There's a lot less to explain at daycare when your son's worst word is an accusation of dishonesty rather than a top shelf swear word.

mother's day

High time for an update, don't you think?

I do write about four blog posts a week. In my head, that is. I've told you all the funniest stories; uploaded brilliant photos which capture the profound and the mundane from our lives; and just generally added interest and beauty to the world. It's a busy place, my head.

As for the actual blog, not quite so much. But what better time than Mother's Day (well, actually a few days after) to start it all again, I ask you.

This is a spray of wild flowers, collected from our garden. My OTL tries repeatedly to burst my heart with his earnest, sweet ways.
It is dangerous being married to him.

This is my fourth Mother's Day and, I must say, I think I'm almost feeling comfortable with it. The first one was like a surreal dream where I was the leading lady on the opening night of a play I had not yet read the script for. I smiled and took a bow, but was wondering when the audience would cotton on that I was making up my lines as fast as I could act them.

Tiny is a dab hand at the adding and stirring. We are still working on the measuring. 

Each year has grown easier. Tiny now gets it in a way that he hadn't been able to in previous years. He was most interested in the proceedings his Daddy had devised for the day. But I also feel less awkward about sharing the limelight a bit with my own mother, who, let's face it, was The One and Only Mother for the first 36 years of my life.

 

Yes, this year there was a degree of relaxed enjoyment about the day.  I still cried (although that is hardly worth mentioning to those of you who know me well) but I now feel more like a mother than ever before. This is probably because I am constantly saying, "No, you can't watch anymore TV," and that has confirmed my status more than childbirth ever did.

The best part about Mother's Day, I realised early, is that I can do the one thing I love to do most: make spontaneous plans and share the fun with two of my very favourite people on the earth (and the dog).

Fuelled by buckwheat pancakes, bacon, egg and toast, we packed up even more food and set off on a road trip adventure to our nearest spot of wild--Lake Huron and The Pinery.

Wending our way to the beach.

The added bliss of a little crochet on the road. 

Like I said, excursions with two very, very favourites (and the dog).

Just in case you were wondering, it was blowing a gale and bitterly cold. But what better way to blow away the ghosts and the cobwebs and embrace the day for what it is?

Needless to say, we had the beach to ourselves. Of particular delight for Dot the Dog was the unfettered access to fish carcasses for her to eat/roll in etc. (She is a mother, too, you know. It was her day to enjoy as well.)

No prizes for guessing what this dog is thinking.

It was wonderful. We walked, ate, walked, ate and toured around places we'd never been before.

I think I could get used to this. Does it only happen once a year?

good

We have been looking everywhere for spring.

If you look at any blog/twitter feed/news site from North America in the last month you will see the same thing repeated over and again: Where is spring? Why is winter dragging on and on and on and on? How are we to live under these conditions? Waaaaahhhh, etc. I'd like to say that we have risen above such lily-livered attitudes at Chez Furrybees, but that would be lying.

Sure, we've made the best of things.

We've even been to the "beach" in search of fresh air and sunshine. Which we found in some measure. (Australians, yes, that is water. It is frozen water. All of it.)

But mostly we've just had this.

With cheerful mornings, like this.

It has not been hard to work out what this dog is thinking.

Yet we've met the challenge with grace and dignity.*

Today, thanks surely to the Great and Beneficent Goddess Above, the sun actually shone into the house. 

Into. The. House. 

Corners were lit, window sills were warmed, and house plants were given fresh hope. 

Oh, happy day.

So we did the only sensible thing. We went walking with friends.

Now. Two guesses what this dog is thinking.

Happy Easter, everyone. It truly has been a Good Friday.

* For the puzzled, my OTL is wearing a plastic toy boat, Tiny is sporting two sides of a puzzle box as improvised goalie pads, and they are both playing "ice" hockey with the lid of a play-doh container and at least one wooden spoon.

ball

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.

this

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

portrait

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?

love

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.

crunchy

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.

rhyming slang

We're not much for Valentine's Day in these parts.

However, we are very much for dog fur. Oops, I mean lerve. L.O.V.E Leeeerrrve. (I think the random dog fur that peppers the place is competing for space with the lerve though.)

As evidence of The Lerve Propensity, we celebrated our second anniversary of meeting face to face yesterday. It's been two years since our first hug, our first kiss, our first nervous laughter in the middle of a busy international airport. Sigh.

Okay, okay - before you're sick onto your keyboard and vow never to return to such a soppy rubbish blog again, here's the little something I made in honour of the occasion (something I made for my One True Leeerrrve).


Please forgive the terrible photo (and the wicker laundry basket the hoop is propped on) - I'm yet to work out how to make anything that isn't super macro look good. Normally it's the other way around, no?

As is my wont in these matters, this is another applique (a la Emma's technique) with some random embroidery for joy's sake. I have to admit that I loved practising my running writing (circa grade three) to get these sweet words down. I don't write like that anymore, but I tell you, it's like riding a bicycle (a bit wobbly at first but we got there eventually).

Have a lovely weekend everyone, Valentine's Day or no.