A hot New Years day

New Years day was stinking hot.  Ugh, grossly hot.  Turn-on-the-air-conditioner-and-it’s-still-way-too-hot hot.  39.1 degrees celsius (102.3F) hot.  Needless to say, we didn’t really want to stay in the house (or play outside) for fear of melting.  Instead, we went to Bunnings to check out BBQ’s.  They have little trolleys for kids to push around which Hannah loved.  They have an indoor playground, and lots of display cubby houses and slides that you’re not really supposed to play on, but everyone does anyway.  Hannah had lots of fun there, giving me a good excuse to try out my new little pocket digital camera that Aaron bought me for Christmas (that just so happens to be purple).

Hannah hung out with me in the bathroom while I got ready to go.  Unfortunately, she found my stash of tampons and decided it would be a grand idea to take every single one out of the box and open it.  I would have stopped her, but it was hilarious, so instead, I got the camera out.

In the afternoon, Grandma, Hannah, and I went to the club (Penrith RSL club), which isn’t really a toddler place, but it’s big, air conditioned, and has plenty of room for rambunctious toddlers to run.  “Can’t someone make that girl be quiet?”  A rather haggard looking oldish man said to me.  “No.”  I replied. He looked annoyed.  His friend smiled and gave me the thumbs up.  She wasn’t even being loud, she was just running.  Eventually she slipped, hit her lip on a table, and bled a little.  Time to go.

Next stop Kmart.  Again to look at BBQ’s.  Only they ran out and didn’t even have any display models.  We grabbed a large ball and I gave it to Hannah.  Kmart of course, is an awesome place to kick a ball around if you’re a tiny toddler in need of lots of space.  She also enjoyed the pets section, particularly the dog shampoo which had pictures of “dog-dogs” on the front.  People probably thought I was mad letting my little girl kick a ball around Kmart, but whatever, I don’t particularly care, she had a great time.  Plus it was nice and cool in there.

It finally started getting a bit cooler when we got home, so Hannah helped Daddy wash the car.  Give her a task to do and she is in heaven.  Actually, we didn’t ask her to help, she just started helping.  That is Hannah.  She helps me put all the clothes in the washing machine, she washes up any spills she makes, she helps sweep the floor, she tries to clean the bath tub when she is in it.  She just loves to clean.  She gets cranky if I don’t let her help.  Despite the disgusting heat, we had a great day.

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Hannah looks for lizards

One day, not that long ago, Hannah and I were playing in her playroom when I spotted something out of the corner of my eye.  In a moment of terror, I thought I saw a giant, and I mean GIANT, cockroach.  Phew, on second look, this was no cockroach, but some kind of lizard.  It was terrified by my intrusion into it’s life and ran under the couch.  I grabbed a flashlight to find it, hoping to usher it towards the back door, to lizard freedom.

Hannah was very interested in what Mommy was doing.  She too wanted to look for the lizard.  I gave her the flashlight.  “Where’s the lizard?”  I asked her.  She got on her belly used the flashlight and looked under the couch.

Eventually, after about an hour of lizard hunting, the lizard made a break for it, managing to somehow defy the laws of physics and squeeze itself under the closed backdoor.

For weeks afterward, Hannah would ask for the flashlight (“Light?”) get on the ground and check under the couch.  We haven’t seen it since.

Adult diapers?

The bathroom is a fascinating place.  Well, it is if you’re 15 months old  and knee-high to a grasshopper.  There are so many interesting things in the bathroom.  There are cupboards to open, drawers to pinch your chubby little fingers in, a bathtub to throw things you find in the cupboard in, a toilet that seems to want to eat small children, and of course, toilet paper to rip into tiny little pieces and then leave all over the floor, or, even better,  try to eat.

Recently though, Hannah has discovered a new fun toy in the bathroom: my feminine hygiene products.  I like to keep them in a little basket, right at the front of the cupboard, for easy access.  When your uterus feels like it’s trying to punch its way out and you would absolutely love to scream your head off at anything thing that moves, the last thing you want is to be walking around the bathroom, pants around your ankles, playing hide and seek with your pads.

Hannah LOVES to free the pad from its nice little blue package (why is it blue, why can’t it be pink?  Or purple?  Is the pad wrapper taunting women for having to go through menstruation when men don’t have to?) and then…THEN she tries to put it on.  Say what?  SHE TRIES TO PUT IT ON!

Hannah the pad bandit attempts to put one on

“It’s not a nappy sweetie,”  I tell her, giggling at her as she squats down and holds it against her nappy region (babies don’t know that nappies go on the inside of their pants).

“Well, they pretty much are adult nappies.”  Aaron doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.

“Excuse me!!!!!  I DO NOT wear nappies!”

“But they pretty much are.  You put them in your underwear and they catch stuff.  That’s what nappies do.”

Oh snap.

Then there’s the tampons.  I’m not partial to Australian tampons.  I think tampons should always have applicators.  Australian’s don’t seem to see my point of view, making applicator tampons a rare find.  Mine came from the U.S.A.  They are compact, but still have an applicator.  They are encased in a little yellow wrapper.  Now that I’ve scared off every single male reading this, here is the point:  My Tampax Compak tampons bear a striking resemblance  Hannah’s Heinz little kids snack bars.

“Bar!!”  She excitedly chants when she picks up a tampon from my little product basket in

Yum, which one would you rather eat?

the cupboard.  “Bar!!!”  She even tries to open it.  I can see her unwrapping it with her eyes, greedily devouring my tampons, ecstatic that she has found a seemingly secret stash of her precious “bars.” The bathroom looks like a tornado came through.  A tornado that went past a feminine hygiene products factory, picked up its contents, and then dropped them all, half-open, in our bathroom.

P.S. please use the Top Mommy Blog banner on my blog to vote for me.  It’s super silly (well, ridiculous really), but everyone is allowed to vote once every 24 hours and that is how blogs get to the top.  It’s not about how many different people like the blog, but how many votes they get (pretty much how many loyal voters they have).  I am currently number 200-something out of 2000-something, so I’d like to climb higher to get my blog more exposure.  Thank you so so so so much!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

One of those days….

I looked at the clock.  7:30am.  Hannah was stirring, making cute little baby (ok toddler, I’ll try to stop kidding myself) noises, talking to her dollies.  I let her play for a while and then it went quiet.  Not like the “I’ve just fallen back asleep” quiet.  I don’t know how I knew she wasn’t asleep, but I knew.  I guess Moms just know such things.  It was more of a worried (my worry, not hers) quiet.  A something’s happened quiet.  Or maybe an “I’m doing something cheeky” quiet.  I wasn’t sure, but I decided to go in.  Usually I would assume she’d gone back to sleep and let her sleep on.

I slowly opened the door.  I suppose there was a chance that my intuition was chucking a sickie (pretending to be sick and taking the day off for those of you not used to such Aussie lingo).  Or that my intuition is just a little special anyway.  I walked into her room, a big smile on my face and peered into the cot.

My heart dropped.  I nearly wet myself.  I think I lost 2 years off my life.  My eyes continued searching the cot.  She wasn’t there.  The room was silent.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my entire life.

Busted!!!

A tiny movement caught my eye.  My heart was still pounding.  I was still silently freaking out.  But then I saw her.  She was sitting on the floor of her room, clothes and books scattered all around her, like a tornado had recently been through her room.  My bible was on her lap, it’s pages being not so gently turned by a mischevious toddler, excited by the fact that she was now in possession of a book I never let her play with.  It’s pages are so thin and fragile, I didn’t want her to break it.  Silently, she sat there, in awe of the book that Mommy reads to her every day before bed.

“You cheeky little baby!”  She turned and gave me the cheekiest little cute smile that she could possibly muster.  “How did you climb out of your cot?”

Luckily she didn’t hurt herself.  I’ve never had to put the cot rail up before.  Usually she

Surrounding her was a mountain of chaos

wore a sleeping bag to bed.  Not for climb preventing, but because she starts the night at one end of the cot and ends up at the other, losing her blankets in the process.  Last night though, it was really hot, too hot for the sleeping bag.  I put her to bed in light-weight pants and a t-shirt.  Perfect climbing attire, apparently.

Later that morning:

Why is there a raisin floating in the bath?  Did cheeky baby take a raisin with her?

Where did that pea come from? Hannah was squatting.  She momentarily stopped playing.  OH. My. Goodness.  She is POOPING in the bath!  SHE IS POOPING IN THE BATH!  Oh man, what do I do? It kept coming.  When she finished, she started playing again, oblivious to the fact that her pristine bath was now full of excretement, carrots, raisins, peas, and corn casually floating on the surface, looking like that hadn’t ever travelled through an entire digestive system.

“GRANDMA!!!!!!!!!”  I freaked out a little.  A lot, whatever, I won’t lie.  She didn’t hear me, she is a little deaf.  “GRANDMA!!!”  louder this time.  She came in, rather quickly for an 80 year old woman with hip trouble.  The urgent note in my voice must have tipped her off.

She looked at Hannah who was stark naked, standing next to the bath, clearly longing to actually be in the bath.  Grandma gave me a puzzled look.

“There’s been an accident….”  I pointed towards the bath.  Grandma laughed.  This is SO not funny right now!!

It would have been easy to clean up had the offending bodily waste been nuggets.  But no, it wasn’t nuggets.  It would have been easy if it were a log.  No, not that easy either.  No, this poo, this-first-time-she’s-ever-pooed-in-the-bath poo was runny.  It was everywhere.  It was like someone had put a kilo (ok, that is an exaggeration) of that flaky brown fish food in the tub and then threw in some pea, corn and carrot mix just for kicks and giggles.

Well, I wasn’t giggling.  How am I going to clean this up???

“Just drain the bath.”  Grandma told me.  I kept staring in the bath, unable to actually put my hand in to reach the plug.  You want me to put my hand in there?  With the POOP??!!!  My hand is going to be in the same water as the POOP?!

“Do you want me to do it?” Grandma asked.

“No.”  Well, I kinda did, but I had to woman up and do it myself.  I hesitated and then reached in, an “oh my goodness this is disgusting” look plastered all over my face.  The water started draining from the bath but slowed after all the chunky bits settled in the drain.  I can’t look, it’s too disgusting. I grabbed my razor; the only thing handy that was disposable and useful in such a situation.  The handle end proved good at stirring up the chunky bits, allowing the water to go down the drain without my hand having to once again enter the contaminated bath water.

A wipe proved useful in removing the chunky bits (aka peas, corn, carrots and raisins).  Everything was washed, scrubbed, and put back.  The bedraggled baby was put back in the tub, and bath time recommenced.  Please don’t poop, please don’t poop.

It’s gonna be one of those days.

`

There’s paint on my pants

“You’ll regret putting those posters on the wall someday when you have to clean all the blu-tack off and paint the wall!” Grandma told The Jess back in the day when she was a tween, plastering posters of ugly band members on her wall.  And ceiling.

“No I won’t!  I’ll fix it I promise!”

10(ish) years later:

“Um…we need some paint.”

The sales girl with the green fringe looked at us, unimpressed.

“We need some of this colour *holds up paint swatch* and some of this colour, and then this one for the trim.”

Everyone was looking at us.  Maybe we were ordering wrong.  Or maybe it was the fact that we were both wearing cute little sundresses in Bunnings.  Ok, it was probably because we clearly had no idea about painting.

“Do you need acrylic paint?”

“Um….”  Judging by the look The Jess was giving me, she had no idea either.

“Well the trim is shiny, but the walls aren’t.”  We’re so helpful and knowledgable.  “Where do we find painting stuff?”

Quizzical look from Green Fringe.

“Rollers and um…whatever else we’ll need.  Do we use rollers?”

$220 (of The Jess’ money.  It was her room, her walls, her damage, her promise) later, we had everything we needed.

This weekend:

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“You need to put something on the floor to protect it.”

“Grandma, I bought something for it, stop fussing!”

“Have you got all of the rollers and brushes and things you’ll need?”  Grandma means well, but seems to need constant reassurance that you are not going to accidentally kill yourself and/or anyone else/the house/the car/anything really.

“Grandma!  Go away, it’s all under control.”  The Jess was on a mission to prove that contrary to family belief, she is actually an adult.

*Gagging noise (how do you spell that?)* “Ew, this blue tack remover stuff is disgusting.  It’s getting in my mouth!” I said to The Jess.

“Maybe you should stand under it when I spray.” Good point.  But it didn’t remove the icky taste in my mouth.  It was kind of like how your mouth feels after you eat one of those cough drops that make your mouth a little numb.

The painting wasn’t so bad, but cleaning all the walls pretty much sucked.  The Jess sure knows how to ruin walls.  Not that I’m one to talk.  When I was an annoying tween, I put my ribbons (from equestrian events) all over my bedroom walls.  Not

My room growing up. This was before all of the photos on the closet started to overlap. Yeah, I know, I was still in my awkward phase....

with Blu-tack, as would have probably been smarter.  No, I used push pins.  Hundreds of them (I have hundreds of ribbons).  When we first moved into the brand new house (after living in a mobile home, ok, trailer, until I was in 4th grade.  Yes, I am trailer trash), I was specifically told “Don’t put anything on your walls!”  I listened for a while, but the white walls were just so boring.  My room needed a bit of Sheri-fying.  I started slow, one push pin on one side of the wall, another on the other side, a piece of fishing line in between, with some of my best ribbons hung on the line.  This little decoration didn’t get much of a reaction, so I put another line up.  Then another.  Then I found the fishing line arrangement all too hard and started using push pins for each individual ribbon.  It wasn’t long before every square inch of my wall was covered with ribbons (and hundreds or push pin holes).  There was no room left on my walls, so I put all of my photos on my closet doors.  I didn’t have any blu-tack, so I used brace wax (as in, wax that you put in your braces so they don’t cut up your mouth).  It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that my photos have all been removed from my closet door, it’s not such a pretty sight.  With my closet door and walls completely covered, I started on my bedroom door.  I was a little bit naughty as an annoying teenager and used to take funny stickers off of anything and everything.  Yes, steal them.  My favorite was the “Doo Doo Only” sticker from a dumpster like bin at the fairgrounds that was for, well, doo doo.  My bedroom door became my canvas for my unusual sticker collection.

Ok, that was a bit of a tangent, but point of the story is, like The Jess, I too made that promise to my parents: “Don’t worry, I will fix the walls and doors!”  But now I live in a different country, so 10 years later, they are still waiting.  At least The Jess actually came through on her promise.  Plus her walls weren’t half as bad as mine.

“What kind of paint did you use?”  Grandma was fussing again.

“Um….”  I think we’ve established that The Jess and I really had no idea, we just used what Green Fringe gave us as per our request (“it has to be anti-mold, and washable”).

“The rollers are soaking in turps, if it’s water based paint, you don’t soak them in turps.”  I don’t know how Grandma knows things, but she does.

“Um….”  Jess started looking at the can.

“It’s acrylic.  No, it’s oil based.  No, it’s water based.  I don’t know!”

“It says you can wash unused paint down the drain, does that mean it’s water based?”  Seemed logical to me.

“Ummm…”

“See if you can wash it off your hands easily, if you can, then it’s water based.”  Grandma’s fountain of knowledge poured out again.

“I think it’s water based.  No, it’s oil based.  No, it’s water based.”  Yeah, we’re awesome.

It was water based  But if water based paint can be washed with water, then how can you wash the wall if, say, a cheeky little monkey called Hannah draws on it?  I’m skeptical.

We’re not finished yet (I will post some after photos when we are), we still have to do the ceiling and trim/molding (whatever it’s called), but it’s looking quite nice.  Next time, I will make sure I don’t pull out a wedgie (my butt likes to eat my underwear, what can I say?) when I have paint on my hands, and I will wash paint out of my hair before it dries.  You learn something new every day….

Gold Coast – Part 4: Use the lounge

I’m so glad I noticed the little ad for the Jetstar lounge on my e-ticket.  We were so tired from the events of the previous evening.  Not to mention Hannah woke up at 2am screaming for water.  I gave her a cup full of water which she ravenously gulped down in less than a minute (complete with slurping sounds).  We were not in the mood, nor did we have the energy to be chasing Hannah all around a crowded airport.   Plus, I didn’t want to have to carry her around everywhere as I had already carried her 1.2 kms (with one arm, while pushing the pram with the other) from McDonald’s to our accommodation because she was crying in the pram and I felt bad because she was sick.

Hannah in the kids area of the Jetstar lounge

Honestly, I don’t know why anyone wouldn’t want to go to the Jetstar lounge at the Coolangatta (Gold Coast) airport.  It’s not one that you need to be a member of, you don’t have to fly in business class to get in, they have a kids area, food is included in the price, there is wi-fi, showers if you want one, tv, etc.  And, it’s only $15 each (kids under 12 free).  When you compare that to buying a meal each from one of the airport fast food places, it doesn’t seem too bad.  You’d pay at least $10 for some crappy fast food meal, and you don’t get the nice lounges to sit on, nor can you go back for seconds, thirds, or even, if you’re particularly hungry, fourths.  There was sushi, pasta, wraps, bread rolls with fillings to put on if you want, desert, pancakes (made by a really cool machine at the touch of a button), coffee, tea, hot chocolate, beer and/or wine, crackers, and fruit.  What’s not to like??

Hannah asleep on the plane

Another angle of the uncomfortable airplane sleep

Asleep on the train

Poor Hannah was not herself that day.  She fell asleep on the plane with her bum on me, and her head held up by Aaron’s hand, body over the arm rest.  It looked so incredibly uncomfortable!!!

She fell asleep on me on the train, and then nearly fell asleep on the bus too.

That night, Hannah got a fever of 39.3 celsius. I freaked out a little and called the after hours doctor (the hospital said to come back if she started vomiting again, or if she got a fever), who came remarkably fast.  He checked her chest and ears and all of that, said she’d be fine, she had a virus, and told me to give her electrolyte pops the next day.

She was super clingy and lacked energy for a few days, but then she bounced back to her old happy, cheeky, rambunctious self.

Gold Coast – Part 3: Emergency Room

The morning went well enough.  I took Hannah for a walk to go get breakfast (mmm…McDonald’s breakfast is just so good! To all who are gasping in horror, please note, Hannah does not eat Macca’s breakfast.  She gets the healthier stuff).  Aaron, Hannah and I went to the beach and played in the sand.  We went out to lunch.  Hannah played at the park.

We packed the nappy bag and bundled Hannah into the car.  We timed the trip to Byron Bay (to visit Aaron’s Mum) to coincide with Hannah’s nap.  Otherwise, she’d be too bored for the ride.

Squeal, babble, bubble blowing, chattering.  She was full of beans.  Sleep was not yet coming.

Cough, cough.  I turned around in my seat.  The coughing sounded funny.

“You cheeky little monkey, you pulled your pigtails out!”  Hang on, where were the pony tail holders.  Oh, there was one, dripping in spit, hanging out of her mouth.  I quickly grabbed it.

But where was the other one?

Funny coughing continued.  Oh my goodness, was she choking on a pony tail holder????  I freaked out a little bit.  Ok, a lot.  Frantically, I searched her and her seat for the rogue hair tie.

Phew.  I found it.  Right at the bottom of her seat, between her fat little (adorable) baby thighs and the side of the seat.

“Maybe if you take your hand out of your mouth, you wouldn’t be coughing like that….”  She’s cheeky.  Maybe she wanted attention instead of going to sleep.  Well, it was working.

BLAAAA (how do you spell the noise for vomiting??)!!!  A bit of fluid came out of her mouth.  She reached her chubby little baby hand into her mouth and (with an awkward look on her face) and searched for something.  Her chubby little baby hand parted from her mouth, holding between her thumb and forefinger a chunk of pineapple.

She held her arm out to me, leaned forward as far as she could and gave me that “Here Mommy, I found something for you” look.  Gee thanks, just what I always wanted.  I took it from her.  What else could I do?  Ew.

She cried a bit and then went to sleep.

She wasn’t asleep for long when she woke suddenly, screaming.

The coughing started again.

Oh please don’t throw up….

BBBLLLLLAAAAATTTTT!!  Oh goodness, it was everywhere.  It kept coming and coming.  She kept retching and retching.  Where did she keep all of this vomit?  I don’t see how it could possibly fit into her stomach.  She was COVERED in vomit.  The baby seat was covered in vomit.  The floor was covered in vomit.

I freaked out a little.  Okay, a lot.  We all know how I feel about vomit.  Okay, maybe you don’t, so I’ll tell you:  Vomit freaks me out.  I have a phobia of vomit.  The only thing I was concerned about in regards to kids is the vomit.   I had been dreading this moment from the moment Hannah was born.  Even my own vomit freaks me out.  Lucky for me I don’t vomit very much (just saying vomit so much is making me shudder).  I hadn’t thrown up (maybe I’ll feel better if I use a different term) since 7th grade until a couple of years ago when I got food poisoning from day old Pad Thai.  I haven’t mustered up the courage to eat any Pad Thai since that fateful night.  I suppose throwing up so violently that noodles come out your nose has that affect.  Then I got food poisoning again from Chicken Man (I hate you Chicken Man) not so long ago and had to get a shot (did I mention I ALSO hate needles?) to stop the vomiting.  I HATE VOMIT.  I would rather lie completely still for a whole week, nothing to look at, nothing to do, then vomit just once.  Yuck.

Anyway, back to the story….

Freaking out, I told (probably yelled, I don’t know) Aaron to pull over.  Sure, we were on a Freeway going 110Km an hour, but Hannah had what seemed to be 3 days worth of food pouring out of her.

I’m pretty sure she was still going when pulled over.  I don’t know which one of us unbuckled the child seat.  I assume I did.  Maybe I blocked it out of my memory.  It was COVERED in vomit.  I quickly put her over my knees and patted her back.  I wanted to make sure she got it all out and wasn’t choking on anything.  She was screaming blue murder.  I don’t know what passing cars thought as they sailed by us, Me squatting by the side of the road, small child across my knees screaming while I patted her.  Maybe it didn’t look like patting.  Maybe they thought we were pulled over to spank a small child.  Oh goodness. I hope no one calls docs….

Great, now I was covered in vomit also.  I took the vomit drenched dress of the screaming child who held out her outstretched arms in my direction, wanting me to give her a comforting cuddle in spite of the fact the beneath the dress, she also was covered in vomit.  Oh dear, what do I do?  I wiped her off first.  Then I gave her a cuddle.  I’m terrible.

The car seat was soaked, but we were on the side of the freeway in the middle of…well, I’m not sure where we were.  Somewhere between Surfers Paradise and Byron Bay. We had to put her back in the seat.  We exhausted our supply of wipes, trying our darndest to excavate the mountain of vomit on the baby seat.  Shudder.  It was still soaking wet.  At least the chunks were gone.

Speaking of chunks, the incident produced some startling (and unwanted) observations:

1. Judging by the end result, Hannah doesn’t seem to chew.  At all.

2. Raisins/sultanas turn back into grapes after being in the stomach for a while.

3. There are whole corn kernels in the Heinz Lamb and Vegetable 10-15 month baby food.

5. Babies stomachs seem to hold more than most adults.  I wonder where they keep their other internal organs?

6. I handled the “my child is vomiting” situation much better than I ever expected.

We put Hannah back in the car seat and continued on our way, desperate to find a service (gas) station, that hopefully stocks baby wipes and some form of cloths.

Just down the road, we found one.  I went in, reeking of spew, a giant, chunky wet patch on the front of my dress.  Darn it, no baby wipes.  At least they had wet ones.  Humph, they were 6 bucks.  Ripped off….  I hope I was just being paranoid and no one could actually smell me, but I honestly think HOW COULD THEY NOT???!!  We cleaned up some more and continued on our way.

Cough, cough, cry.  Oh goodness, here we go again.  How could she possibly have ANYTHING else left in her tummy????  This time it was mostly water (I got her to drink some after losing that much fluid before), with more chunks.  Never in my life have I seen so much puke.  Ew.

Me in Trish's dress. Aaron thought it was hilarious

I don’t know how Hannah would possibly have any energy after all the puking, but she played rather happily (after we changed her into the only other thing we happened to have in the nappy bag, her swimmers) at YaYa’s.  Aaron and I, on the other hand, set about cleaning up the festy smelling rental car and baby seat.  Despite having a removable cover, then a foam layer, the actual plastic under all of that was full of vomit.  Luckily Trish had a hose.  And a washing machine.  And a dryer.  And a dress for me to borrow.

Hannah had one strawberry, and then the vomiting started.  Again.  All over YaYa’s (sorry, in case you’re wondering, Trish and YaYa are the same person.  Trish is Aaron’s Mum, but we get Hannah to call her YaYa as she already has a Grandma that she sees every day.  And Trish is half greek.) floor.  And her dress.  Booya for us putting her catch all bib on “just in case.”

Maybe I was being over protective, overly freaking out, overly worried, but after losing so much fluid, I was freaking out for her.  We decided to take her to the hospital.  A doctors office was not an option, it was 6 something PM on a Saturday night.

Zoe wasn't allowed in the hospital so she sooked outside

They took her weight, temperature, heart rate, listened to her chest, checked in her ears, etc.  They gave her an electrolyte iceblock.  At first she screwed up her cute little face at it’s random saltiness, but then she liked it.  She ate the whole half that they gave her, plus an actual whole one.  I quietly freaked out, expecting the spew to start again any second.  It didn’t.  Relief.  They told us to come back if she developed a fever, or starting vomiting again.  Fair enough, except that we were driving back to the Gold Coast straight away, then flying to Sydney the next day.

Hannah slept all the way back to the hotel in the nicely cleaned baby seat.  She woke up at 2am screaming her lungs out.  I gave her an entire tommy tippy straw cup of water, which she pretty much inhaled before going back to sleep.  We were quite worried that Hannah and I would not be able to fly back home the next day (Aaron would have to, he would have to go back to work).  What if she starts vomiting again?  We can’t go on the plane if she’s vomiting….

Gold Coast – part 2: Bring your own lunch

I looked around; babies, kids, parents, prams, as far as the eye could see.  I’d never seen so many families/kids in one place before.  Even on a Friday, Sesame Street Beach at SeaWorld was very, very, popular.  The Sesame Street show grandstands were absolutely full of children, delighted at seeing their favourite characters coming to life (I don’t know how the people inside the suits weren’t absolutely scorching.

"Why is everyone looking at me? I'm not at all odd looking."

It was a hot day, and those big furry suits couldn’t have been too cool inside).  Hannah, on the other side, couldn’t care less.  Maybe (ok, probably) because she’s never actually seen Sesame Street (she’s not allowed to watch tv).  Maybe because she’s a doer, not a watcher.  Either way, she was bored, so we made a hasty exit.

Next stop: rides of course!  Kiddie rides.  Hannah LOVED the airplane (Aaron maintains that they were actually submarines) ride.  She got to sit in the front of the plane (strapped in of course) all by herself, with Aaron right behind her in the back seat.  She got to control the plane with a lever that made it go up and down.  The ride was so popular that Aaron and Hannah had to wait about 25 minutes to get on (on a Friday.  Who knew?).

I know, I'm adorable....

As lunch time rolled around, we made our way to the food court.  I wouldn’t really call it that myself except that that is what the sign outside proclaimed.  In reality, the “food court” only had one lunch place and a coffee place.  Hmmm…not very many choices, but I went with the fish and chips (I always have the urge to say fush and chups.  Ok, honestly, I usually do say fush and chups.  For you americans reading this, that is fish and chips in a New Zealand accent).

sighs "just because you like statue molesting, Mommy, doesn't mean I do!"

Twenty minutes later, Aaron was finally back with the food, and Hannah was already finished with hers.  It seems the “fast” food isn’t so fast at Sea World.  The line wasn’t even that long at that stage.  Biting into my fush and chups, I noticed the absence of that wonderful just fried crunch of the batter.  No, I didn’t get that at all.  My batter was chewy.  Chewy.  How did that happen?  Ew….  The fish was fishy.  Yuck.  Oh well, we paid the ridiculous you-can’t-go-anywhere-else-for-lunch-you’re-stuck-here-so-we’ll-charge-you-an-arm-and-a-leg-because-we-can price of $12.95 for said icky fush and chups.  The chips weren’t so crash hot either.  We’ll know for next time – bring our own lunch.  Maybe stop in at Subway before arriving and bring that in.

Anyway, why ramble on about Hannah’s fun at Sea World when I can show you a video instead:

Gold Coast – Part 1: Buy a leash

Hannah and Mommy. See how useless the baby seat belt is? She can turn around in it....

Hannah and her dolly on the plane

Note to self: Do not check in for a flight and go through security with a toddler all by yourself.

Who knew it would be so hard?  Not me.  I thought Hannah would just sit in the pram, giggle at people, squeal at people, and of course, get every single person around hers attention.  But no, that was not to be.  She wouldn’t let me even put her in the pram.  Instead, she made like a wet, slippery, floppy, flailing wiggle worm, rendering my buckle her into the pram efforts useless.  Of course it wouldn’t be so easy.

Sometimes you see a child running wild and you just think “why doesn’t that parent do something?” or “that child needs a leash.”  Well, Hannah is that child, and I am that mom.  We can’t help it really.  She is full of energy, curious about everything, and super smart.  She isn’t content just sitting in the pram all day, looking at things.  She wants to be in the midst of everything.  She wants to run around and inspect everything, and I want to let her.  But not while in line to check in for a flight.  Our check in line went a bit like this: Hannah ducks under the rope and takes off.  I run after her, pick her up, and deposit her next to the pram.  She helps me move the pram forward in line.  Repeat process.  Add stares from everyone around us, probably with thoughts of “Oh my goodness, WHY doesn’t that silly mum just put her in the pram??” or “how embarrassing, I’m glad I’m not her.”

We had to check the pram in at the oversized luggage counter, complete with on the spot x-ray.  Hannah was very interested in the x-ray machine and cheekily ran to the other side and pushed the start button.  Then she ran off.  I know you’re not supposed to leave luggage unattended, but that’s kind of hard when you have a freakishly fast 1 year old who likes to run off on your hands.  Start folding pram.  Run after Hannah.  Continue folding pram.  Run after Hannah.  Put pram on x-ray conveyor belt, run after Hannah.  I didn’t know being at the airport was such a workout.

Getting through security was even harder.  Have you ever tried to put backpacks, bags, watches, etc. off and on while trying to keep a toddler from running away?  Put bag in plastic tub on conveyor belt.  Run after Hannah.  Dodge annoyed stares from everyone in the line behind you.  Put next item in tub.  Run after Hannah.  Dodge stares, don’t make eye contact.  Repeat.  Go through metal detector.  Repeat whole process but putting everything back on this time.

Try to hold a noodley, wiggley, child at the same time while you have a backpack on your back, a camera bag on one shoulder, a nappy bag on the other, a sippy cup in one hand, and Hannah’s purse in the other.  Oh no, which gate was I going to?  I went in search of the info board carrying noodley wiggle worm.  I found it.  Hannah wiggled free.  I knelt down, put my arm around her and looked at the board.  Hannah didn’t want to stay stationary, so she put herself face down on the floor and started crying.  Darn it.  Everyone was staring.  Why was there a child crying face down on the floor while her mother was kneeling down, loaded with bags, hand on child, looking at the info screen?  Ignore everyone, grab child, go straight to parents room, let her run free.  Let out sigh of relief.  Wait for Aaron (who was coming straight from work).

I was never sure about those child leashes, but now, I really think they have their place.  Like airports for example.  That would have solved a lot.

Dear Boobies: I miss you, please come back

“GO Crater!!!!!” my friends yelled from the grandstands.  I’m sure the judges thought they were nuts.  I tuned them out and kept jumping (well, my pony did the actual jumping).  I can’t remember how long I had that nickname, but it was a long time.  It didn’t really bother me, I thought it was funny.  After all, it was true.  Well, ok, I didn’t have craters instead of boobs.  I just didn’t have any boobs.

My friend gave me an “Itty Bitty Titty Club” card once.  I still remember the silly poem on the back:

Itty Bitty soft and pretty, little breasts make better chests.  I carried that little card around in my wallet for years.

But then I came to Australia.  I don’t know if there are steroids or growth hormones or something in the chicken here, but suddenly, I had boobs.  I left an A, came back a C.  Sure, I’d put on a bit of weight while here.  I suppose that’s what happens when you were so fussy that you lived off of cheese pizza, macaroni and cheese and turkey hot dogs. Then you pull the stick of out your bum and start trying new things and realise hey, it’s not too bad.  Plus, this country has Tim Tams.  And cheesy nuggets, and my host mum Linda’s chef class cooking.  I lost my Australia pudge, but lucky for me, my boobs stayed.  I still remember my very first C-cup bra.  White with polka dots and convertible straps.

When I got pregnant, my boobs got even bigger.  Or maybe they just got sore, I don’t know.  They definitely got even bigger when I started breastfeeding.  Especially if Hannah didn’t wake overnight and I woke up in a puddle of milk and they were rock hard.

But now, breastfeeding is over, I’m not pregnant, and the chicken just doesn’t seem to be doing it’s job.  I suppose I thought they’d just go back to their pre-pregnancy size.  That seemed logical.  But no, that was not to be.  Instead, when I wear my bra, no longer is it filled by my boobies.  Now, fabric hangs down below my boobs, with nothing to hold it up, nothing to keep it in place.  I move my arm and my bra pretty much goes up to my neck.  I hunch a little bit and the straps fall down to my elbows.

“What’s going on, your bra is way too big for you?”  Aaron said to me the other day.  That was the straw that broke the camels back.  I was kind of hoping my MIA boobies would suddenly run back to me, happy and excited from their vacation, ecstatic about being reunited with me.

“My boobies shrank,” I said with a sad look on my face.

“Why don’t you get some new bras?”  Hm…good idea.

So that’s what I did today.  I went bra shopping.  I didn’t trust myself to figure out my new, smaller, sadder size.  I went to Bras ‘n things and got fitted.  I am now (sigh, gasp, sad face) an 8B.  Or (because that is nearly impossible to find) I could also go for the 10A.  Ten A?????????!!!!!!!!!!??????  I thought maybe a 10B, only 1 size smaller, that wouldn’t be so bad, but TWO SIZES SMALLER??!  What happens when I have another baby?  Will I turn into an 8AAA?  And then what if I have 2 more babies, or twins?  Then I really will be Crater.

I didn’t mind not having boobs.  But then I got some, and I really liked them.  And now I would really like them back.  They didn’t even stick around for 10 years.  😦

Oh, and I tried on a 10A in the store, and it pains me to say this, but it was a little big. Not around, but in the cup.  That’s just sad.  At least an 8B sounds better (we’ll just pretend the the actual cup size isn’t actually smaller than a 10A.  I know, bra sizes are confusing.).  Before today, I didn’t even know they made size 8 bras.  Sigh….