Last week I was in the kitchen with one eye on a peanut butter sandwich in progress and the other on my cherub playing outside in the sandpit. The sun filtering through the kitchen venetians filled the air with floating glitter-dust. The cherub yanked the cat’s tail and it darted into the grass. I wondered if it were possible to be any happier.

The cherub appeared at the back door suddenly.

“Ma! Ma!”

I made my way over to see what all the excitement was about, and he reached out his closed hand towards me with an expression that said he was pretty much about to burst with pride. I thought he’d probably found a great rock or a fascinating stick. He uncurled his little 18-month-old fist to reveal his treasure…

It was a tomato. A small, hard, green tomato.

“No no no NO NO NO NOOOOOH!!!!!!!!” was my only thought as I flung myself out the back door, peanut butter forgotten, and raced to my precious tomato plants out along the back fence. Sure enough, there on the ground about a metre away lay an impressive collection of approximately fifteen unripe tomatoes.

I stood with my hands pressed to my face, staring in disbelief at two and a half months of watering, weeding and tending, until a very proud little person came and stood beside me, surveying the pile.

“Yep, there you go Mum,” he might have said, if he could speak in sentences, “Picked ‘em fresh, just for you.”

As I explained to him in my most solemn and convincing manner that green tomatoes were not to be picked, and we ‘put them back’ together, I noticed that being utterly exasperated while feeling love beyond words makes a you feel intensely alive.

I’m sure it won’t be the last time I feel that feeling, either. He’s still got a baby watermelon to find in there yet.

The tantrums have come with a force for Wrigglebot this week, my usually placid son has, for minutes at a time, turned into a monster. Now we have dealt with two year old tantrums before but three year old tantrums are another thing entirely. He is stronger and faster and he knows it. Where before I knew I could easily place him in his bed or in the trolley now he is strong enough to struggle and it is difficult to hold him.

The first one came at the supermarket when I was trying to put him in the trolley to do a spot of grocery shopping with all three of the little ones, ambitious I know but normally it isn’t such a trial. He didn’t want to go in, he wanted to sit on the seat. Now the seat is next to the baby carry bit on these super ginourmous trolleys and isn’t big enough for him so it wasn’t an option. He would not listen and we really needed bread and milk so there wasn’t going to be any surrender from me. Right at that moment I saw a kindly looking stranger coming, he looked about Husband’s age and was watching the commotion, really it was hard not to, it must have been a bit like watching a car accident, as much as you feel sorry for the people involved you just can’t look away, and that’s what I was counting on. I needed help.

Says me, ‘If you don’t hop in this trolley this man is going to tell you off, he is going to say, ‘Young man sit in the trolley like a good boy.’ I was looking straight at the man and he was looking at me, like I said it was like a train wreck, hypnotic.

Says Wrigglebot, ‘AAAhhhhh, no, no ,no.’

Says Man, ‘Young man, sit in the trolley like a good boy.’

Says Wrigglebot, ‘……..’ (silence) And he got in and said nothing. And that was that, we continued with our shopping as if nothing had happened.

The second tantrum happened today when I was told him he wasn’t allowed to take a book to bed for his nap. He usually does and just reads but he was super tired today hence the tantrum. It went on and on and at that moment I was wishing for a random stranger to walk through my house but it was not to be. I eventually got him in bed (top bunks can be a little tricky with a struggling boy) said goodnight calmly and left.

‘Mummy kiss me, Mummy kiss me.’ I heard between cries.

‘Mummy doesn’t kiss boys who are screaming and yelling and rude.’ I replied.

He gulped and stopped, I kissed him and that was that.

They don’t last very long and his moods change really quickly, strangely enough this has coincided with Wrigglebot not sleeping during the day, most times he is pleasant but when the monster arrives he is uncontrollable. So if you see a blonde woman struggling with a child and can’t look away feel free to offer assistance, any help is welcome.

Oh and to the man who was coming out of Coles, thankyou.

I have only 7 weeks to go before baby number two arrives. I am excited and can’t wait to meet my beautiful baby. I am finding that as the weeks roll on my anxiety increases though which I guess is normal.
I’m not sure what I’d prefer; the naive first pregnancy where you have no idea of what’s to come with birth and coping with a newborn, or consecutive pregnancies where you know exactly what you’re in for!

I am huge. Much bigger than what I was with my first and I am even having another ultrasound next week because I am measuring a few weeks ahead.
I am amazed by how many people – friends, family, strangers – who are incredibly insensitive to my size and my state of being altogether. The comments are coming thick and fast and I fear for the person who finally breaks this camel’s back!
“Gosh, you are huge! You must be having a big baby!” This gets a fake smile from me and a, “Yes, well I hope it’s big and healthy.”
“Oh my, you must be due any day now?!” This gets a, “No actually I have quite a few weeks left.” They have nothing more to say but I can read every bit of horror on their faces.
“You know, you are so big and you are only going to get bigger!” This gets a, “Yes I realise this.” And I mutter something under my breath that no one should hear.
“You must be covered in stretch marks with a belly that size!” I was actually too horrified to even answer this and just walked away from the stranger – yes, a stranger had the nerve to say this!

I also find it amazing how many women who have been through this themselves and still make comments.
So, from this moment on I vow to make only positive comments to pregnant women I know and love (even if they do look huge and exhausted), and to make no comments at all to pregnant strangers – and then, if I really can’t help myself, I will just tell them how glorious they look.

In the meantime, I will continue trying to perfect my snarl – after all, I have my pregnancy hormones to blame if I do finally snap!

Over the past few months it has really come to my attention how difficult my life as a woman, wife, employee, house goddess (okay, cleaner), and mother really can be at times. I mean, look at all those titles I have and that is only to name a few! I could add hairdresser, psychologist, chef, clown, singer (of mostly nursery rhymes these days), impersonator (a beached whale and waddling duck is my forte during this stage of my pregnancy)…

Anyway, I have also come to realise that I am never actually doing any of these jobs to perfection (except the impersonator) and it is extremely hard to swallow this when you are a perfectionist.

The house is in a shocking state and I would be embarrassed if visitors were to arrive uninvited. This is the most challenging of jobs at present because as I put things away, Milla seems to think it’s her job to just get them right back out again. Whilst vaccuuming, Milla believes it is her job to sit on the vaccuum cleaner like a horse and scream ‘Woo Hoo!’ at the top of her lungs.

Grocery shopping has become more challenging too. Since Milla has started walking, she wants to walk everywhere and putting her in a trolley is like prison. I often get to the last piece of rock hard cheese and a major milk shortage before I venture out. Therefore, meals look a little sad by the end of the week and I often find myself wondering what I could create with a tin of baked beans, lettuce leaves and some pasta.

And as a wife…well, my husband is now sleeping on the sofa bed because the beached whale impersonation is best in bed. I have kneed him in the private parts in the middle of the night just trying to move my huge bump from one side to the other! I am now sleeping with five pillows and at 2:30am I can hear him sleeping peacefully in the next room. Thankfully one of us is now getting some sleep.

I am slowly learning that something’s gotta give, I am never going to have control of every facet of life, and I need to give myself a break. Afterall, when I go down with the flu or I am away, my husband says the ‘glue’ of the house is gone, everything comes unstuck and just doesn’t seem to function without me – so I figure must be doing something right.

When you’re looking after a little person, you’ve always got stories. Not a day goes by without something story-worthy happening, and that’s probably partly because the way the little people see the world around them – with constant joy and wonder – is the way we mums see them. Their amazement at watching a worm crawling along the ground can be likened to our amazement at watching the person who once couldn’t hold their own head up, use a FORK for the VERY FIRST TIME! Unbelievable!!

These stories about the daily achievements and hilarity of our Pride and Joys are utterly enthralling to us mums. However, to 99% of the rest of the world, they’re…somewhat less than enthralling. Some may use the term ‘boring’. They’re not even really stories, because they generally lack a beginning, a middle and an end. More snorey than story. Just a statement that ’someone did something’. If the story-receiver isn’t invested in that ’someone’, or the ’something’ is not outrageously cute, I’m afraid it’s about as interesting as listening to your dream about how you were Spiderman, in great detail.

There are certain audiences I believe our wonderful stories and/or snories should (or shouldn’t) be bestowed upon:

Anybody telling story about the child to the mother = utterly enthralling. Always.
Mother telling story to father = interesting. As long as you just pick the best ones, not the ones that involve people throwing around his DVD collection.
Mother to another mother at playgroup = interesting. As long as they’re able to relate it to their child in some way as soon as you pause for breath.
Mother to grandmother = enthralling, particularly if the grandmother can play with the child while you’re telling the story, or talk about when the child is coming over next after you’ve finished the story.
Mother to family member or good friend = reasonably interesting, as long as it doesn’t drag on forever, which is difficult because the family is often a captive audience, so one tends to add unnecessary detail so you can talk about the child for longer.
Mother to childless acquaintance = generally boring, unless it involves poo. Then it’s gross instead.
Mother to childless male acquaintance = run, run for your life.
Mother to blog audience = you log on, you’re asking for it.

You know what though, we mums aren’t completely oblivious; we know that the fact our cherub bent upside down and laughed at us through his legs today may be boring to the guy at the servo. We just don’t care. Coz it’s our world and it brings us joy to experience it, and more joy to relive it by talking about it. Making people do the smile and nod is a small price to pay for that joy, I say.

And as far as I can tell, it’s gonna keep bringing us joy for the duration of our childrens’ lives, because I’m 26 and my mum still tells snories about me.

Wrigglebot had his first day at 3 year old activity group on Monday. I had to pack a lunch, I had to cover a book, I felt like my little Wrigglebot had suddenly grown up. I went to drop him off prepared for tears and so I stuck around for a little bit until he was busy doing a puzzle. I then told him I was leaving and he turned and grabbed me, this is it, I thought, this is when he pleads with me not to leave, but then he just hugged me, kissed me and calmly said ‘Bye Mummy.’ I was proud, and if I’m honest, a little disappointed. I know it is all a part of growing up but a few tears might have made me feel just a little better, a little more needed.

Then to cap it all off last night I had an information session about enrolling him for kinder next year. Now you may have thought that it would be all fairly straight forward but I kid you not it is as complicated as applying for uni. You attend open days before putting in preferences for both session times and kindergartens and then when it is all sorted with preference given to age you get your first round offer (I am not joking it is the same as uni) which you need to accept or reject within ten days before it is all finalised. I am just starting to realise that even though I keep telling Wrigglebot he is a big boy, as in ‘Big boys eat all their dinner,’ he really is.

I sometimes think of what I might be if I was born in another place and time. Something that would utilise my unique talents and abilities. Maybe a queen, but I don’t quite have the diplomacy for that, perhaps a revolutionary, a scientist or an explorer, personally I would have loved to have been a novelist with Mary Shelley at her bonfires swapping stories. But the more I think about it the more apparent it becomes to me. I would be a wet nurse. I mean look at this chubba, that is where my true talent lies.

And I have to clean between all of those chins.

I had stupidly thought the older your child, the more manageable life would be – this is not so (so far anyway) and life with Toddzilla is becoming increasingly difficult.
I am beginning to wonder now if I made the most of that little baby that would stay on her blanket just where I put her, and that little baby who didn’t know the words ‘no’ and ‘don’t’.

Milla throws the best of tantrums when she is told she is not allowed to touch, eat, hit, and throw certain things – sound familiar? She has always had an inbuilt radar that attracts her to all things not suitable for play and although I have baby proofed the house as best I can, I still find myself constantly having to direct her attention to more suitable, toddler friendly items.

Just in the last few weeks Toddzilla has really tested my limits. She knows full well that the DVD player is off limits but she goes over to it, turns toward me, raises her eyebrows and gives the cheekiest of grins…then proceeds to press all the buttons and opens and shuts the little doors. As soon as I make a move towards her she will get as many hits of the DVD player in as possible before she is wrenched away!

My dilemma is this: I know she is just looking for a reaction and enjoys the reaction she gets, but how can I just ignore her? The art of distraction has only worked for so long and I make the best of efforts not to use the words ‘no’ and ‘don’t’ myself. But I need to let her know that what she’s doing is not ok.

Life with a toddler sure is confusing, hilarious, tiring, wonderful, and oh so challenging!

Disciplining is hard work and it’s hard to know what to do and how to react at times. It’s hard to judge motive in little ones who can’t talk and even when they can, they sometimes still can’t explain why they did something. So we guess, sometimes we’re right and many times we are wrong but that’s okay, we learn and it gets easier, hopefully anyway. Our one rule that we stick to for ourselves is ‘Don’t smile, don’t laugh.’ The little ones love attention and a smile only encourages them and so we try to hold them back when they are being naughty but sometimes it is hard.

Wrigglebot was meant to be napping, he sleeps on the top bunk and has many toys and books up there. Suddenly I hear, ‘Mummy I’m stuck.’ I have a quick look, expecting to see him dangling from his bunk or his head wedged in the ladder or some such catastrophe, instead I see his doona and I know that I cannot cope with this one so I call in reinforcements. Husband deals with a Wrigglebot who had undone the buttons and crawled into his doona cover and could not find his way out again. Husband did exceptionally, abiding by the rule until he left the room and then we both lost it.

It does make me think though, when I was a child and got in trouble, were my parents really angry or were they just following the ‘Don’t smile, don’t laugh’ rule. I’m sure that’s what it was.

My husband’s parents are total hippies. His mother was the bra burning type back in the ol’days, I’m sure their recreational habits back then were not one bit legal, and my dear husband went to school with strange sandwich fillings he desperately tried to trade -to the absolute disgust of other students.

Of course, my dear mum-in-law is back to wearing bras most of the time and everything is pretty much normal in their household, but my greatest concern is how relaxed they are with Milla. This was a problem for me because leaving her in the vegie patch and allowing her to frolic amongst the brocoli and thyme was something that was incredibly likely.

I had been so worried about leaving Milla in their care for the first time and decided that short stints would be the best way to go before she pulled a lengthy stay and especially before she pulled an all-nighter.

We began with the day we had our 20 week ultrasound and if you read about what a disaster that was, you would understand that by the time we picked Milla up, I couldn’t care less what she’d been subjected to so long as she was still in one piece. Thankfully she was in one piece and as happy as can be.

A few weeks ago, they expressed their desperate desire to have her sleep the night. We were thrilled with the idea of going to the movies since it had been over two years since we last frequented a cinema (sad I know). But, I was so worried about leaving her and wanted so much to be a fly on the wall. I wasn’t reassured by my husband either because he also felt a little apprehensive about leaving her – but I couldn’t tell if this was just because it was the first time or because it was in their care.

We left her, and had a fantastic night – totally uninterrupted dinner (which was my favourite part) and a great film.
They sent a picture text to say that Milla was ‘having a ball’ with a photo of her sitting with the chickens in the chook shed and whilst I am all for a bit of dirt I was a little mortified that I wasn’t there to supervise.

We rushed the next morning to pick Milla up and there she was, and I kid you not, with daisies in her hair and barefoot and naked, grinning from ear to ear.

I realised at this point that these were incredibly important experiences for Milla to have. Although I try hard to offer a range of activities for her to enjoy at home and with our little adventures out each week, there is no better life experience for her than spending time just doing ’stuff’ with the ones that love her.
It makes for an enriched and happy life, and that’s exactly what I wish for her.