Buy some poetry, you know you want to.

My friend Kate Middleton is very clever and has just published her first book of poetry, Fire Season

It's real pretty and available at Readings in Carlton.

Go buy it! You'll like it. She's great.

Quoting things makes you feel better

From Kidwrangling:

"For me a baby's sleep routine was when they wanted sleep. The old tired signs of rubbing eyes, yawning and generally getting grumpy work if you can catch them at the right time. But if all else fails be a sucker mum like I was and rock your baby to sleep: you never know, you might like it...If your child needs a cuddle or a story or just someone to be there then so be it. Enjoy that. They will only be little for a small amount of time." - Cherrie, Bligh Park, NSW.

Amen sister.

A word of advice...

So there's a bazillion childcare books out there.

I tend to keep looking until I find one that says what I want to hear, then I point at it if someone questions me.

Swatting aside unsolicited advice, one of the joys of motherhood...

Still, I thought I'd solicit some:

What's the best advice you were ever given as a mother?

And what was the worst?

PS. The photo is Luka, now 5 weeks, with his "after bath" hair and "after feed" stare.

Luka Wilkins Fearne

This is Luka:

He whooshed into our lives at 6:49am on Saturday 17th January, at 3.77kg (8 lb 5) and 53cm, after 14 hours of labour, augmentation by synotocin drip as he changed his mind mid-stream, and finally forceps administered very gently by my lovely obstetrician. Paul didn't pass out and Tracy passed her driving test 6 hours later, despite not having slept since Thursday.

I love epidurals, everyone should have one.

I love the Cabrini Hospital midwives, everyone should have one.

My new claim to fame is that initially my waters broke spectacularly and voluminously all over the floor and then contractions started - just like in the movies. My faith in Hollywood restored.

And look what we have now! A strange little creature that does starfish impressions and stares at me like I'm the most interesting thing in the world.

We think he's pretty nice.

A dearth of blogging will now ensue.

The Poky Little Puppy by Janette Sebring Lowrey

From the favourer: "It's the nostalgia factor really - it's the first book I remember owning. It's about escapism & rebelling against authority & the little guy who stands out from the others! Most importantly it's about using desserts as a threat."

Everyone had a nice stack of chewed-on Little Golden Books as a kid - my favourite was The Color Kittens (I like it best when they make pink). But until recently they seem to have been relegated to the Big W/supermarket kind of shopping venue. Now suddenly there's big twirly stands of them popping up at Borders and Target, which is how I finally found a copy of The Poky Little Puppy.

First published in 1942, it's a harrowing tale of disobedience, the auditory qualities of chocolate custard, and the second meaning of the word 'poky' that I was not aware of.

One morning, "five little puppies dug a hole under the fence and went for a walk in the wide, wide world." They climb a hill, but when they get to the top, one of them is missing. Where's puppy #5 buggered off to? Finally they spot the poky little puppy still at the bottom of the hill, and down they go; "roly-poly, pell-mell, tumble-bumble", to suss out what Master Poky is up to.
He's smelled rice pudding back at home! The four non-poky little puppies race home ahead of him, but get into trouble for the hole under the fence and are sent to bed by their mother with no rice pudding as punishment. Lord Poky, however, comes home after everyone's asleep and snarfs down all the rice pudding for himself. (Apparently Mum's not up for puppy-counting and doesn't notice one of her sons is missing - perhaps once you have more than 4 puppies you get a bit lax about these things.)

The next morning, "someone" has filled in the hole and put up a sign: "Don't ever dig holes under this fence! BUT....The five little puppies dug a hole under the fence, just the same, and went for a walk in the wide, wide world." This time, they get to the top of the hill and His Pokiness is missing again; he's back at the bottom of the hill and this time he's heard something - it's chocolate custard! (I went 'err, what?' too, but apparently he can hear it being spooned into their bowls.) The four less-than-poky little puppies tear home, only to be scolded again by Mum for the hole under the fence, and sent to bed with no custard. Senor Poky, however, sneaks in after bedtime again, gutses down the noisy custard and sleeps the sleep of the just.

You're getting the idea here - each day they go out in the same fashion, see different creatures on the hill, go down the hill in the same way, etc. - lots of nice repetition for the kiddies (although parents might have a different reaction - I love how HarrangueMan tires of the repeated phrases pretty quickly and, in the grand tradition of parents altering picture books when reading aloud, he starts "to paraphrase, skipping entire chunks of text with the words 'they went back to the place they were at the previous day, looked for Poky, found him and went to see what he was up to.'" Tee hee.)

But in the final trip up the hill *spoiler alert*, when the four dessertless-and-pokyless little puppies miss out on strawberry shortcake, they get back in Mum's good books by filling in the hole. Mum is won over by this act of earthmoving, so the four get dessert after all. By the time the Pokster makes his usual delayed homecoming, he's out of luck: "'Dear me!' said his mother. 'What a pity you're so poky! Now the strawberry shortcake is all gone!'"

This is where I got a bit confused (after the audible custard incident I was already somewhat befuddled), because I thought 'poky' just meant 'small', and so I considered Mum's comment a bit insensitive. But a quick dictionary check informs me that 'poky' has a second meaning of 'dawdling, slow'.

Oh right then.

Things now make a bit more sense in a 'moral of the story' way - he's not at the bottom of the hill because he's too little to go fast, he's just somewhat of a slackarse. He is punished for his pokiness and goes to bed without any dessert feeling "very sorry for himself".

And in the morning, there's a final sign that "someone" has erected - though it's a bit confusing as well in a 'there are known knowns' kind of way: "No desserts ever unless puppies never dig holes under this fence again!"

Gosh. These are the desserts we know that we know. It's all rather scary, really. Not helped by the fact that the Poky-in-the-second-sense-of-the-word Little Puppy also has what Paul and I refer to as 'Sartre eyes':

If that's not creepy enough for you, there's also a wonderful Sinister Reading of the Poky Little Puppy by Rob Beschizza that you can listen to - as one of the commenters says: "I've never been so terrified of rice pudding."

So the moral of the story is: watch out for your brothers. If you hear custard in the distance, don't say a word, just get home quick and say that the other puppies dug the hole and what's for dessert?

Perfectly happy

So I’m trying (belatedly) to read the new Siri Hustvedt novel, but the baby book on the table is so much more suited to my bite-size concentration span at the moment. The section on Post-natal depression (always a cheerful breakfast read) in Kidwrangling mentions that “expecting things to be perfect” is a personality trait that can predispose you towards developing PND. There are a million other factors too, of course. The main one is having a baby.

Those of you who have seen my house will understand that I am already okay with things not being perfect. But what about expecting your children to be perfect?

There’s a short story that I’ve always loved, though I can’t remember for the life of me who wrote it or what it was called. It was about a perfect little girl who never misbehaved and never lost her temper. This level of perfection naturally caught the attention of and annoyed the devil, who became determined to make her crack it (I can’t remember if there was some deal where he got her soul if she lost her rag, or if it was a slow week in hell and he just needed a new project). He made everything go wrong for her. I especially remember he made her dolls fall in the mud and get stepped on by horses. But every time this little girl pulled a Pollyanna on him and didn’t lose her temper. Eventually the devil hit upon a long-term plan, which worked a treat and made this little-girl-now-woman absolutely furious.

He gave her a perfect husband.

He gave her a perfect house.

……..And he gave her a “fair-to-middling” child.

I love it. It’s such an evil little story. And I love the idea that the best way to piss off a perfect person is to give them something that everyone else would be quite happy with.

Although maybe not, as according to the tv, most parents these days require their children to become Prime Minister. These little tackers are either going to have to share the role or become leaders of different countries, because there just isn’t enough Prime Ministership to go round that many kids. Paul and I recently watched “Life at One”, a production about child development that follows a bunch of kids and their parents from birth (they’re up to “Life at Three” now). When the parents were asked what they wanted for their children, a scary amount of them said they wanted their child to be “healthy”, “confident” and “leaders”.

Paul and I look at each other in horror. “I don’t want to be a confident leader,” I said. “Neither do I,” says Paul. Is anyone going to mention that they’d like their child to be “happy”? Nope. Or maybe “happy” is supposed to be an exclusive result of combining those other three terms.

I want most for my child to be happy. Healthy is good too. If being a confident leader makes him happy, I can deal with that. But if we all give birth to confident leaders, the amount of public speaking competitions in high school will soon reach critical mass, and might distract from the importance of sporting events.

So:

Here’s to shy children.

Here’s to children who quietly hold their own opinions.

Here’s to children who quietly hold no opinions at all.

Here’s to children who say “I don’t know” in answer to every question they’re asked, because it’s easier or they’re embarrassed or they can’t be bothered.

Here’s to children who, to quote Tripod, aren’t ahead of the pack. They’re just with the pack. Towards the back.

Here’s to children who don’t know what they want to be when they grow up, and still don’t know when they are grown up.

Here’s to easy-going children.

Here’s to children who do what they think they want to do (which may even involve enrolling in a course that doesn’t take full advantage of their VCE score).

Here’s to them changing their minds and doing something completely different.

And here’s to fair-to-middling children. May they piss off perfectionists and give the devil his due.

"Oh, Jo, how could you? Your one beauty." - How to sell your hair

"...and she came walking in with a very queer expression of countenance, for there was a mixture of fun and fear, satisfaction and regret in it, which puzzled the family as much as did the roll of bills she laid before her mother, saying with a little choke in her voice, 'That's my contribution toward making Father comfortable and bringing him home!'

'My dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Jo, I hope you haven't done anything rash?'

'No, it's mine honestly. I didn't beg, borrow or steal it. I earned it, and I don't think you'll blame me, for I only sold what was my own.

As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for all her abundant hair was cut short.

'Your hair! Your beautiful hair!' 'Oh, Jo, how could you? Your one beauty.'"

- Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

Given that I am a) lazy and b) tight, I only have a haircut every 3 or 4 years, and when I do I sell it to a wigmaker. I'm a hair farm. Pretty much everyone brings up Little Women when I say I sell my hair, so that's the tenuous bookish link for this blog entry.

Since I'm supposedly giving birth in about 2 weeks, it seemed a good time for a haircut. Firstly, I wanted to take advantage of 'pregnancy hair' (thicker and more of it), and secondly, it's one less thing to wash baby spew out of. Also, after 3.5 years of growing it from here:

To here:


I was a bit sick of it. When I turned over in bed at night it practically strangled me.

So how do you sell your hair?

Firstly, you can't sell loose hair (otherwise hairdressers would make a fortune from what they sweep off the floor). The hair shaft has a direction, and wigmakers need all your hairs pointing in the same direction to use them. Also, loose hair turns into a matted furball within about 20 seconds.

So when you go to get your hair cut, first get the hairdresser to put it into four tight ponytails and cut them off above the rubber band, leaving a fair bit of hair (at least 5cm) sticking out past the top of the bands so they don't slide off.

It's bizarre how much resistance you can get from hairdressers at this point. Seriously, what do they care how many ponytails it's put into? I had to bargain to get mine put into two ponytails (he had his heart set on one - this is how you end up with the rubber band slipping off and all your hair landing on the floor, which is how I lost about a quarter of my hair last time). They're also a bit slapdash with the rubber band fastening, so you might need to carefully adjust the ponytails a bit when you get home. Here is my product, after I'd tidied things up a bit:


Then you take it to a wigmaker. There's quite a few around, I rang around the ones in the Yellow Pages about 4 years ago, asked if they buy hair and roughly what they pay and picked the one who gave the best price. Since then I've been selling mine each time to:

C. Harms - A Better Wigmaker
Suite 512 (Level 5)
125 Swanston Street
Melbourne (next to the HiFi Bar)
Ph. 9650 4484

She's open Tues-Thurs 8am-4pm, and makes wigs solely for cancer patients, which is kind of nice.

So what do you get? It depends on the length, weight, colour and quality of your hair. The ponytails generally need to be at least 25cm to be of use to a wigmaker. I've got what is hilariously termed 'virgin hair', which means it's never been dyed or heat-treated (straightened or permed or other such things that damage hair). You get more money for virgin hair, though you can still sell dyed/treated hair to some wigmakers. The wigmaker will weigh and measure your hair and make you an offer (C. Harms writes you out a cheque to cash then you go round the corner to the ANZ and cash it in).

I got $100 for those two ponytails above, I think they were about 40cm long. So I don't exactly get enough to bring Father home from the war with, but it pays for my haircut and it's better than letting it go to waste on the cutting room floor. Apparently you can also sell your hair online at places like The Hair Trader, but they're generally American, are advertisement-based (eBay-style), boast curiously high prices and I've got no idea if they're legit. I prefer just handing it over to a person.

And now I start again from here!