Hannah (out of nowhere): “I’m not a little girl anymore, I’m a big girl.”
Me: “What makes you a big girl?” I thought she’d say using the potty or something like that….
Hannah: “God. And milk. LOTS of milk.”
hahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!
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A little while ago, I was asked to give some busy girl beauty tips to realbeauty.com as part of a mommy blogger feature.
Yes, I know, hilarious considering how awkward I was growing up. What can I say, I’m a late bloomer.
I’m ecstatic to be part of such a feature, so go on, have a look, see what my tip is… I know you’re curious.
Click here to see it.
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Hannah wants to bake all the time. She used to actually help me bake, stirring and putting things in the bowl. But now she wants to have her own bowl, her own utensils, her own ingredients. She has her own little play kitchen right next to our kitchen bench (counter). I put an ingredient in my bowl, then put a little bit of the same ingredient in a measuring cup for Hannah. Hannah tips it in her bowl on her play kitchen and stirs it around, eating it as she goes. Her whole play kitchen gets covered in gooey half-mixed batter. Her hair gets clumps of food stuck in it. This continues the whole time I make something.
We made some delicious banana bread the other day (adapted from my mom’s recipe), so I thought I’d share the recipe with you. I was thinking of making recipes a regular part of my blog. Like once a week, or once every 2 weeks. What do you guys think?
Moist, delicious banana bread:
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup honey (I used manuka honey)
3 mashed bananas
1/4 cup butter, softened
1/4 cup apple sauce
1/4 cup milk
2 tsp vanilla
2 eggs
2 cups wholemeal (brown/whole wheat) self-raising flour
pre-heat oven to 180c
1. Combine all ingredients except flour.
2. Stir for 1 minute with a wooden spoon.
3. Add flour.
4. Stir until moistened.
5. Pour into baking paper lined loaf tin
6. Place loaf tin into larger pan (I used a brownie pan)
7. Put water in larger pan, to about the half-full mark
8. Bake for 50-60 minutes
Putting the loaf pan in another pan filled with water ensures the bottom of the banana bread doesn’t burn and also keeps everything nice and moist whilst cooking. Our oven is beyond ridiculous, with just one element at the bottom of the oven. No, it’s not fan forced either, so if I don’t cook with the in-a-larger-pan-with-water method, the bottom burns and the top is raw. Why would they make an oven like that???????????????
Baking paper lined loaf tin in a brownie pan filled with water
The finished product
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I forgot to get The Jess to put the pram in the car the other day when she took us to the plaza (shopping mall, in case you didn’t get that). I still can’t drive or move heavy things around because my stupid arm is still in a cast from just below my elbow to the middle of my hand. sigh.
I had the Ergo (baby carrier) in the car, so I just put Daniel in there. After a bit of shopping, he got hungry. I pulled down the strap of my tank top and unhooked my bra cup. Good thing about the ergo is, baby can feed while in it.
We walked to the play area (there is an awesome indoor free play area next to the food court. Brilliant idea Westfields…) so Hannah could play a bit before going home. Get some of her bottomless energy out.
Daniel finished eating and I got him out of the ergo and took it off.
“I have to go pee pee.” Hannah told me.
We got up to take her to the little toilet in the parents room.
On the way, we passed a group of teen-aged boys. They started giggling like school girls.
I looked down. Oops.
At least it wasn’t actually my boob. Just my flesh-coloured bra that could easily be mistaken for one by passers by. And yes, I did say “Oops, my boob’s still out.” out loud. Right in front of them. I was talking to the Jess.
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“Here’s the personal massager you ordered.” the dirty old delivery man said.
Oh my gosh, WHAT!?!?!?! “I did NOT order a personal massager!” I practically yelled at him.
Sorry about the messy writing...still have to do everything with my left hand
“You’re Sheri ____?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t order any personal massager!”
“And feminine moisturiser.” He read off the customs declaration on the package.
I gave him a weird look.
Of course it probably didn’t help that I was dripping wet with only a pink towel around myself. It was 6 days before Christmas and we were waiting on a big package full of all our Christmas presents that we ordered from the states. I wasn’t about to miss the arrival of that package.
I was in the middle of my morning shower when I heard the knock on the door. Sure I could have let him leave a note and then picked it up at the post office. But I have 2 kids. And 2 hands. That leaves no hands for carrying the package from the post office to the car. Did I mention that the post office is on the busiest street in my town?
So I jumped out of that shower like a drowned rat on the scent of cheese and excitedly ran for my front door, glad that the Christmas package was actually arriving before Christmas.
“Well, enjoy your surprise package then.” Yeah thanks old man.
I looked at the package in my hands wondering who the heck would send me a “personal massager.”
“Kegel exerciser. Feminine Moisturiser.” The customs declaration said. Oh…It was just some products to review on my blog. So why was the dirty old delivery man telling me it was a personal massager? And even if it was, no one would ever, EVER want the delivery man to say it out loud.
I jumped at the chance to review a pelvic floor exerciser for Intimina. We all know how child birth weakens the pelvic floor. I couldn’t even jump rope without a little pee coming out. I wrote a blog post about it. So embarrassing! Add another birth and I was in serious need of some pelvic floor help.
Kegel exercisers
I have to say I was a little intimidated by the fact that I had to actually put something…er...in there. I still have memories of my over zealous use of the epi-no when I was pregnant with Hannah. Long story short, I over inflated it (it’s supposed to stretch you out a bit so you don’t tear giving birth), and it made me bleed. Ick.
When I finally tried out the little pink kegel exerciser, it was fine. It didn’t hurt, and once in place, I didn’t even notice it.
The Laselle Kegel Exercisers work by “providing a solid object for you to flex around for more effective strengthening.” The weighted ball inside causes vibrations that prompt your pelvic floor to contract and relax. I couldn’t find anywhere on their website or the packaging how long you’re supposed to use them each day, so I just went about my chores with it for about 20 minutes, with some flex and holding.
An email from Intima let me know that it’s like any other exercise; you start with a few reps and a small amount of time and then increase to suit your needs.
All I know is: I can jump up and down (I can’t really jump rope, my arm is still in a cast…), and no pee comes out. Kegel Exercisers: $15.95AUD. Jumping without soiling my underpants: priceless.
To buy in the U.S. click here
To buy in Australia click here
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This isn’t the post I was going to publish today, but the events of this morning are still fresh in my mind.
The kids and I were doing some craft. I put some washable ink all over their little hands to make hand prints on some paper. I wiped Daniel’s hands off and took Hannah to the bathroom to wash ours in the sink.
I heard choking noises coming from the living room, only a few feet from the bathroom. I quickly left the bathroom to check on Danny. He was laying on his stomach, propped up on his arms, clearly choking on something. I didn’t know what he could possibly be choking on. I vacuumed the floor yesterday and there was nothing small enough for him to choke on lying around.
He started screaming. His little face was turning red. I frantically started patting his back. “Come on buddy, get it out.”
Drool was pouring out of his mouth, tears from his eyes. He kept gagging, but nothing would come up.
I grabbed the phone. A part of me wondered if I shouldn’t dial 000, making the paramedics come out over possibly nothing. But when it comes to my children, I don’t care if I end up looking like a moron for being paranoid over what turns out to be nothing. They are precious, and it’s better to be safe than sorry.
I dialled straight away.
“000, what is your emergency?” I can’t recall if that’s what they actually said, but in my mind it is.
“I think my baby is choking on something!” I was trying my darndest not to cry with every word that came out of my mouth. I know it’s ok to cry blah blah blah, but Hannah was right next to me and I didn’t want her to get all upset. She didn’t know the seriousness of the situation, and she didn’t need to.
I told them where I live.
“Don’t pat him on the back.” The operator told me. Oops. I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. Turns out that can make the object go further down.
He was still screaming, which the man told me is a good thing. He could breathe. But he was still drooling, gagging, and coughing. The drool looked bloodstained. Oh. My. Gosh.
I felt so helpless, just sitting there, watching my baby choke. “Should I put him in a certain position?” I asked.
He said some medical mumbo jumbo, finally explaining that Danny should be held on his side with his head down.
It seemed like hours, but only minutes later the paramedics arrived.
They sat him up to listen to his breathing. Nothing was lodged in his windpipe, luckily he could breathe just fine. But he was still choking.
He started retching, heaving as much as he could trying to get the foreign object out. They told me to lay him on me on his side, head down again.
Hannah got her doctors kit out and tried to help.
A big wad of saliva came out. With it, the offending object. A frog sticker.
The offending sticker. Just smaller than a 5 cent piece
Immediately he calmed down. His face starting going back to a normal colour. He stopped gagging and coughing. It was over.
It took me a couple of hours to calm down. Until then all my crazy mommy hormones were telling me that I should be crying my eyes out. But I didn’t. I had to be strong for the kids.
I thought Daniel must have found the sticker under the couch, but later I remembered that it was stuck on Hannah’s bucket. The very bucket he’d been playing with when I went to wash my hands.
They didn’t think it was blood in his saliva, but some of the red ink that was on his hands from our craft. Phew.
Back to his usual cheeky self
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Six months ago today my chubby, cheeky little man was born. It’s crazy to think that just six months ago, he was posterior in my belly, kicking up a storm. Seriously, take a look, this was Danny boy kicking at 35 weeks. Watch it, seriously, it’s crazy:
Happy half birthday Danny!! I can’t believe how big you are (born 3.2kgs, now over 8kgs). Well, I guess I can, this was me as a baby:
Fat little me with my brother
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A couple months ago:
I was in the shower, combing the conditioner through my hair. When I finished, I held the comb in front of me to rinse it off before putting it away.
I looked at the comb. I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my system. I nearly screamed in shock. The comb was full of hair. Not just a little bit. Full.
I ran my fingers through my wet hair. Strand upon strand of hair tangled around my fingers, completely free of my head. Oh. My. Gosh. WTFrick?
Then I remembered. It happened after I had Hannah too. Only that time I had no idea having a baby can make your hair fall out. At least this time I knew. Except I seemed to have pushed that horroble memory from my brain.
Now:
My hair is still falling out. It’s slowing down, but it’s still going. My pony tail (if I could make one) is about half the thickness it usually is. And my hair is thin anyway. Most of the time my left ear decides to look ridiculous and poke out through my thin, stick-straight hair. No, never the right ear, only the left, no matter how I part it.
My hairline started to recede. And let me just tell you, I have a rather unfortunate hairline anyway. So much so, that my entire life, I’ve had some form of fringe/bangs. When I was little, it was the straight across, grab some scissors and do it myself bangs. Fine, until I was 17. I was awkward like that. Then and now, it’s varying lenghts of the side swept fringe. All to cover my unfortunate hair line.
In my experience, getting my hair dyed makes it look thicker. So off to the salon I went. To be a blonde again. I got a lot of length off and added layers so it would have some body and make me look not so bald, and cover that obnoxious ear. It looked pretty ok. For a couple weeks.
But after a while all that hair starts to grow back. All at once. Crap. Sure it’s a good thing. Except my natural hair colour is mousey/dirty dishwater brownish-blonde. And right now my hair is dyed blonde.
Through my nicely blonded hair now pokes thousands of dirty dishwater brownish-blonde hairs. Sticking straight up. My hairline is a mass of tiny brownish-blonde hairs beyond the blonded line. Sticking straight down, all in my face and obvious.
They will continue to grow and stick out and up for months until finally they have enough weight to hold them down. It’s like a poorly done I-kind-of-wanted-a-mullet-but-chickened-out-at-the-last-minute type thing. It’s horrible really. Anything even remotely resembling a mullet is.
Last time this happened (after Hannah was born), I just put it in a ponytail and smoothed it all down with hairspray. That seemed to hide it pretty well. Except for the little corner of hairline that shows where the side sweeping starts.
But my wrist is broken. I can’t put my hair up. Or do anything else with it for that matter. So not only is it sticking up everywhere, it’s also all tangly, not washed very well, and pretty much looks as if some birds had a wild all night party in it. And my cast is starting to smell. Sigh.
P.S. Do you like my left-handed drawings? Had to do them on the iPad (which probably made it easier) since the graphics tablet still isn’t working.
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Right before the citizenship ceremony. Too bad I couldn’t find a pink Aussie shirt over a size 10. A KIDS size 10.
Guess What? I’m an Aussie now. A full-blown, official, can-get-a-passport, Australian. At nearly 29 years old, I can vote for the first time in my life. On the 26th of January, Australia Day, I got my citizenship. The Mayor of the town I live in (which will remain anonymous, for our privacy) presented it to me himself. And then he asked me what happened to my arm. Sigh.
“I broke my wrist.” I told him.
“How did you do that?” He asked me.
“Taekwondo.”
“Well, that’s a much better story than falling over.”
I must have looked an interesting site. Everyone else was all dressed up, looking sleek and well presented. Then there was me, thongs, too-short singlet, sparkly belt (because sparkles are clearly awesome) and useless arm in a cast. I was dressed like an Aussie. Come on people, it was AUSTRALIA Day!
Everyone asks me what happened to my arm.
I get some strange looks from people when I push the pram with my left hand and right elbow, my purple cast sticking up in the air like some sort of demented flag. You’d think I could use my fingers at least. They are mostly free of the cast, and my thumb is half free, but I can’t. I broke one of the little bones in my wrist just under my thumb, so using any of my digits hurts. And I’m not supposed to do anything that hurts or it won’t heal.
So as you can imagine, doing pretty much anything is hard. I can only use my left hand and I’m not even remotely left-handed. When the mayor gave me my certificate, I awkwardly held out my right hand (my left was occupied holding Hannah’s hand) and he had to stick the paper between my thumb and first finger. That’s pretty much the limit of function my right hand has right now.
It takes me ages to button my pants. At least I can actually put on my own pants, not like when I broke my leg and had a cast from my toes to the top of my thigh. But that’s another story for another day.
I would love to be wearing my breastfeeding singlets to limit my awkward non-stealthy breast feeding. But they have a bra clasp at the back and I can’t do it up with one hand. I’m not that swift. Instead, I wear a normal maternity bra (which I can fasten in front of me then turn to the back) under a shirt. When feeding time comes, there is no more putting Danny’s head in the general area and then pulling up the shirt, not showing any boob in the process. Nope, now I have one useful hand, so it’s pull shirt up, free the boob for all to see, then position baby at boob. Hello indiscretion!
Have you ever tried to put your hair up with one hand? Hard. Impossible actually. So while my boob is out for all to see and I’m trying to get Daniel in position, he’s grabbing huge clumps of my wild, non-restrained hair, which I can’t pull from his extremely tight baby grasp as I’m holding him with my one good hand and freeing my hair would result in a Daniel floor face plant.
Straight after the citizenship ceremony, we went on holidays to the beach (because it’s summer here…). My new cast (I had to get a water proof cast. After 2 days, the other cast had baby food, spit up, and what very well may have been baby poop on it. I needed something washable…) may be water proof, but it’s not supposed to get sand or salt water in there. If it did, it could irritate the skin under my cast, get infected, and then fester under there. Ick.
Bag arm. Note: someone else put my hair up for me.
And so I donned the plastic bag secured with packing tape. Stylish. It’s hard to make sure a newly sitting and sometimes forgets to hold himself up baby stays sitting up and keeps the sand out of his hungry little mouth with just one hand. Danny boy managed to eat handful after handful of the stuff. Even when I laid him down, he sucked the sand off the towel. His nappieswere full of it.
Brown Medical SEAL-TIGHT Original Cast and Bandage Protector, Adult Long Arm
Daniel the sand monster
Changing a nappy with one hand is hard too. Especially Danny’s.
As soon as those little tabs are unfastened, he thinks it’s kick-like-your-life-depends-on-it time. Usually I hold said kicky feet with one hand and remove the nappy with the other. Can’t do that now. Kicky feet kick up a storm, of course going straight into the poop. But then they still kick. Baby poop is runny….You get my drift here people. It’s not a pretty site.
I’m not allowed to drive with a cast on my arm, so I have to ride the bus everywhere. That’s fine, but when it’s raining I can’t hold an umbrella and push the pram, so I become a little drowned rat or get stranded places. The kids are fine, they have a rain cover.
Oh well, at least it’s an adventure. 2 weeks down, 4 to go. Sigh.
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Mommy Adventures 