There are countless snap-worthy moments on any given day in my household. Rascal is always doing something adorable or hilarious or sneaky or interesting. All of these deserve a quick pic to record in the Facebook brag book.

I remember when Rascal was only about 9 months old that something quite important dawned on me, an epiphany you might say. I had been busy when I turned around to see Rascal doing something absolutely adorable. I instantly thought to myself ‘Quick! Where’s the camera?!’ followed by a mad search of the immediate area. That located no phone so I leapt up and dashed into the kitchen. Nothing. The bedroom. Nothing. I finally located it in the spare bathroom (who knows why) and ran back to the living area. Rascal had long since moved on to something less adorable and I sighed in exasperation and sat back down. Not only had I missed the photo opportunity but I had also missed the moment myself. Missed. The. Moment.

Never again would she do that exact thing in that exact space of time at that exact age. And I had missed it because I wanted a photo. I began to think: is it possible that our obsession with posting pictures on some form of social media is preventing us from enjoying life to the full? It’s fine if we have the camera there and ready and can just snap it, but leaping around the house looking for it or being so disappointed that we don’t have the camera, prevents enjoying the moment for what it is. Something that can never be repeated again. 

And another thought came to me. I actually don’t have to share every cute little moment with any one else! Some moments are best savoured alone and in my own memory. Some moments are just for me. It was ok if I missed recording it. It didn't mean it hadn't happened. So I began to be more content in the moment. If I missed the photo it didn’t matter. I would remember it and comment on it myself!

As Rascal has been growing up and providing exponentially more snap-worthy moments, I have tried to remember that epiphany. I must admit I occasionally have a desperate moment where I wonder where the camera is but I have learnt to not miss the moment myself. If I catch it on camera, great. If not, I make sure I at least catch it myself!

Libby :)

In the last month, Rascal (now 17.5 months) has been going through several fazes with different favourite words. The one I want to tell you about is "stuck." It all started on a Sunday when she was riding her trike at the social cricket game Daddy was playing in. There was a lovely concrete area and then a grassy area.  She had just worked out the word "stuck" a few days before but it hadn't yet become an obsession. She would ride off the concrete onto the grass and call out "stuck!" to me sitting in my camping chair. I would call back "just push a bit harder" and she would, with all her might and then become "stuck!" again. I got up numerous times that afternoon to get her un"stuck" and didn't think much of it. 

Little did I know that "stuck" would haunt me for a week or more! We started the week with everything being "stuck." She couldn't open a book so it was "stuck." She couldn't move her foot because there was a teddy in the way (a teddy that weighed less than 200 grams...) so she was "stuck." She would come to a cord that crosses our hallway (temporarily) and couldn't walk over it (although she'd been walking over it for weeks) and so she was "stuck." Everything, and I mean everything, made her "stuck!" 

Thankfully in the days and weeks that have followed that faze, there have been others. We are currently in an "up" faze, which includes getting up (and down - though today I did hear her say "dow" when she wanted to get down so maybe we are about to enter a "down" faze...), the garage door going "up, up, up" and many other "up"s!  There has been the "trees" faze which involved yelling "trees" every time she saw the little collection of trees in pots on our alfresco waiting to be planted. It was accompanied by intense swaying which indicated that she wanted me to sing "The Trees are Gently Swaying" on repeat for at least an hour. There was, and still partially is, a "gone" faze going on where if she doesn't want something, especially in the food department, it is miraculously "gone" although it sits in front of us. There is also currently a "star" faze because all she can see is the star on the Christmas Tree not the actual tree itself. That always must be accompanied by "Twinkle, Twinkle" also on repeat. 

It is wonderful watching Rascal's language develop. She is going to be a chatterbox just like her mummy, I can tell. Looking forward to what other fazes we may have coming up. Hopefully none of them involve being stuck!

Libby :)

We are rapidly approaching Christmas and the whole world is excited. They want to buy presents, get presents, set up the tree. I must admit to never being a crazy Christmas person. I enjoy setting up the tree because it's pretty and it's a tradition and I enjoy the Christmas story and some of the carols being sung. But I struggle with the commercialism that surrounds Christmas have become a little cynical when I see Christmas decorations in shopping centres as early as September. I grew up, thankfully, never believing in Santa or any of the other untrue things relating to Christmas. The question has to be asked, what kind of Christmas do I want Rascal and her little brother or sister to believe in? 

I know I want them to have truth but have fun with it, like I did as a kid. As a Christian, I want them to understand the true meaning of Christmas, even if it isn't at the right time, and focus on giving, not receiving. I recently saw on Facebook an excellent idea for Christmas treasure hunt to find Baby Jesus. I think that is a beautiful thing to do with little kids. It somehow needs to be not about how much the kids can get at Christmas, but how much they can give and what they can be thankful for. 

Lots of people call me a grinch for ignoring Santa and all his traditions, but I don't believe in lying to children about things like that. I believe you can have a lovely Christmas with giving and receiving gifts and being reminded of the ultimate gift that God gave to us in the form of Jesus, His Son. I don't think it all has to be about spending loads of money, which, quite frankly, I don't have, and dressing up in red suits. 

I have also heard a fantastic idea for older children where they focus on making a gift box for someone specific. They make cookies, cards and other lovely things in the gift box in the weeks before Christmas and deliver it on Christmas morning. It might be for a lonely person, or a struggling person or family. Or it might be a hidden present where you put it on the doorstep and run away. I can't wait to try some of these things as the kids grow up. 

I hope that, somehow, my husband and I can instil in our kids some of the core values of life through our celebration of Christmas. It can be a time of giving, sharing and family without being about what we want and whether or not we got it. I hope to be able to post many a story of successful Christmas activities in the years to come. 

Libby :)

Rascal is 16 months old now. About 16 and a half if you want to be finicky. She has always been extremely cautious about everything, but lately this seems to have gone out the window as far as going 'up' is concerned. She has just discovered climbing. Now I know that many children discover this very early on, but remember that Rascal has always been extremely cautious. Just recently, she decided that the footstool of my rocking chair, which also rocks, was an interesting place to climb. She climbs up on it and rocks dangerously, and Mummy, who isn't used to such stunts of daredevil level, holds her breath most of the time! One time, she rocked a bit to ferociously and off she came, head-first into the cot, which is a lovely soft landing spot, NOT! There were tears and Mummy admits to saying "I told you so." She still goes on it though, so apparently not fazed!

This morning, Daddy was sitting on the bed, tying his shoelaces. Rascal was sitting in an empty suitcase that has been there since I returned from a trip over a month ago. She loves this thing and sits in there to read her books. Anyway, the next second he knows, Rascal is sitting on the bed next to him. She now climbs onto the bed. 

All this climbing is great and I am gradually adjusting to it, but the problem is, no matter how hard and how long I have been trying to teach her to turn around to go down, it just doesn't seem to be getting through. For months I have been reminding her to turn around, turning her around physically and helping her to learn how to do it. She was on the bed a few weeks ago and refused to turn around when Daddy was telling her to, so I said 'just let her go so she knows what happens when she doesn't turn around.' (Note that our bed isn't high, but a lower design). So he let her go. She dove off head-first. And kept crawling in the direction she wanted to go. No hesitation. No injury. Great lesson learning!  So whereas climbing is one thing, I am waiting for the day that she head-dives off something too tall and seriously injures herself.... though I hope it never happens. 

It's funny how, as a mother, you have to readjust your mindset every few weeks or months. Once they start rolling, you can't leave them somewhere they could roll off. Once they crawl, you have to move everything dangerous away on the floor. Then they stand and you have to move everything the next level up and so on. It is a constant readjustment of attitude and thought. But I guess that's the challenge! And most of us rise to it with very little injury to ourselves. And, amazingly, very little injury to the babies!

Libby :)

I just read a post by one of the pages I ‘like’ on Facebook. It was a picture of the gorgeous Princess Kate holding the new Prince George, with Wills and dog posing beside her. They both look very happy. The person posting the picture made a comment about how they secretly hope life is as chaotic behind the scenes as theirs were with a newborn. This reopened an old ‘wound’ of mine from early parenthood.

As I approached the end of my pregnancy, I would constantly get comments (and I’m sure every pregnant woman does) about how I need to enjoy the last few moments of freedom, enjoy the last few weeks of unbroken sleep, of sleep at all for that matter, the last few weeks of organization – before utter chaos, sleep deprivation and horror descends on your comfortable life. This would frustrate me to no end. This poor child isn’t even born and people are trying to conform her to a certain type of evil child who causes her parents no end of grief.

I had a different approach to parenthood. It was: assume the best and be prepared for the worst. I did not go into the process assuming that I would get no sleep, be completely messy and disorganised and live in my pajamas. I made a pact with myself before bub was born that, every morning, I would get up and have a shower and get dressed, no matter the amount of sleep gotten. Obviously sickness would be the only exception here. I assumed that life would go on very nicely with a beautiful little addition to the family. I had a very positive outlook on the whole thing and it angered me when everyone tried to pin horror and insane screaming on a small, yet unborn, creature.

Anyway, bub was born. She was perfect as all babies are to their parents. She came home. I got up every morning after about 8 hours of sleep, not unbroken, but excellent sleep. Had a shower every morning. My house stayed organised. I had a happy, content baby who fed every four hours happily. She was in the 98th percentile for weight, so all the critics that told me I had to demand feed could go jump for all I cared. Anyone who saw her would consider her a happy, balanced, content and secure baby. 

At about the 6 week mark, when she hadn’t turned into a horror child as everyone had predicted, the same people who had wished evil on me earlier were now jealous and angry. They said things like ‘wait til 12 weeks.’ Or ‘don’t worry, you haven’t escaped this easily.’ It would drive me insane. Why did they have to wish the worst on their friend, because these were ‘friends’ of mine saying this. Why was everyone out to make her horrible when she clearly wasn’t? And by the way I believe every baby is beautiful and good, just sometimes their circumstances make them unsettled for whatever reason. 

We reached the 12 week mark and she still wasn’t awful. They all gave up wishing ill on this child and said things like ‘I hope your second child is the most ratty, awful, screaming child.’ Why? Why do you wish that? Why would ANYONE wish that? And these were friends of mine. 

I believe that a large percent of a baby’s temperament comes from the mother and father’s reactions to things. Their attitude, expectations and beliefs. I was always confident and positive. She fed off that. I didn’t like it when people wanted to make her unsettled and unhappy all the time. Now don’t get me wrong, I understand that there are many situations that are out of the parents control that can make babies unsettled and unhappy. I am not saying that this is the only factor. And I am not saying that if your baby is unsettled or unhappy that you are not a confident or positive mother. Not at all. All I am saying is I wish people would allow babies to be non-screaming, non-disruptive joys! And I wish they would stop wishing them otherwise when they are content and happy.

My Rascal is now a 14 month little lady. And still a joy. Occasionally when she’s teething she might whinge (see The West Ausralian Whinge) but in general she has remained a happy, content baby and sleeps beautifully at night with about 5 exceptions over the course of her life. I have no idea what will happen when I have another child but I am certainly going into it with the same attitude. And I sincerely hope Kate and Wills are having a wonderful, calm, contented time with their little bundle of joy. There’s no reason why they can’t!

Libby :) 

The definition of ‘whinge,’ according to the Google dictionary, is: to complain persistently and in a peevish or irritating way.  I have experienced this first hand in the last few weeks.  Here is how it happened....

It all began when Rascal was sick. And don’t get me wrong, I have no issue with a sick baby whinging. It is a natural thing and I do it myself when I am sick. The poor little thing had a temperature, stomach bug which included vomiting, cough and stuffy nose. And all this whilst travelling to W.A. from the eastern side of the country. So, she really had reason to be unhappy. She would whinge quite persistently throughout the course of the day. When playing, when eating, when going to sleep, whenever I moved more than 1 mm away from her. It was quite draining, but once again I didn’t mind as she was sick.

Rascal was sick for about a week and all the members of her travelling party were infinitely happy when she started to improve.  We couldn’t wait to see the end of this incredibly annoying whinge! So we waited for signs of its disappearance. We waited... and waited... and waited. And it didn’t go. In fact it increased in volume the more well she felt. The habit had been locked in. She had developed a West Australian Whinge.

Even if she was happy about something, she would whinge before smiling. She would whinge when put in her highchair even if she had been reaching up to it for the past few minutes because she was hungry. She would whinge if you picked her up, even if she had been reaching to be picked up. She would whinge when she got in the bath even though she loves the bath and always wants to go in there. It was really getting too much. I and my family, who were travelling with me, were all on tender hooks. We were so tired of this whinging sound and close to losing our minds!

One morning I woke up. Rascal had slept all night without a peep, as she usually does when not sick or teething. She was happy and cheerful. Apart from the whinge. Anyway, I had had enough. I knew she was practically fully better. I knew it had just become a habit. So I decided swift action was necessary. Each time she whinged, I would say firmly “No.” This usually resulted in Rascal bursting into tears (refer to "A Delicate Soul"). At first she cried a lot after I said ‘No.’ Well not really a lot, but a lot for her. About one minute. Then she would cry less until she didn’t cry when I said ‘No’ to the whinge. Eventually, over the course of the day, the whinge started becoming less and less. She wouldn’t leap to whinge at the first opportunity. Instead she might smile or laugh, as she had before, in response to something. It was refreshing! We were all excited to see the real Rascal back again! Especially my brother and sis-in-law who hadn’t seen much of Rascal so far and had a very non-typical introduction to her while she was sick and whinging. We were all happy to see the smiley, laughing girl back. 

We have lovingly named the whinge the West Australian Whinge as she developed it whilst on holiday there. Every time she whinges about anything since returning from our holiday, we comment and say “Not that West Australian Whinge back again!!!”  It will be forever in our memories!

Libby :)

It's never nice to have a sick child. I have been blessed in that it has hardly ever happened. Recently, though, I experienced a combination of sick child and really bad timing. It went something like this. 

Several days before our scheduled trip to visit my new nephew (as mentioned in "The Possessive Vibe" blog earlier), Rascal had a temperature. She was quite miserable and clingy with about 39.1 temp. She only wanted me, not Nanna or Papa who were there to come on the trip too. She had never been this ill, so it was sad in itself but in the back of my mind, I was hoping it was nothing serious that could impact our trip. I had been looking forward to this trip for months. Ever since my sister-in-law had told us she was pregnant, I knew I just had to trek over to the other side of Australia to see this little addition to our family. And when he was born, well it was a given! I had to go and see them! So I was horrified that this may turn out to be something that would stop us from travelling. One of my friend's little children had just come down with Chicken Pox so I knew it was a possibility Rascal could have it too. So we played the waiting game. 

The next day Rascal had little or no temperature. She was still not herself but was a bit better. We decided to draw a line in the sand and if we woke up on the day of travel and she had spots, we wouldn't go. If she didn't, we would. The day arrived. She woke up. I peeked under her singlet. No spots anywhere. Good. Ok. Trip's on. But she still wasn't 100%. So we left. Took the first flight (of three), a short 45 minute flight. She slept the whole way and was fine. We landed at our destination and about 20 minutes later, she vomited on Nanna. Luckily it was mostly all over herself. We cleaned that up and changed her clothes and went to wait for our second flight. She had a small amount of lunch. At this stage we couldn't tell if she was simply air-sick or if she was vomiting in relation to her temperature and an illness of some kind. 

The second flight was about 4 hours. She slept for over half of it. Then went to sit with Nanna while I got some space (she'd been sitting/sleeping on me for the whole day by this stage). About 5 minutes later she was sooky and wanted to come back to my knee. So I snuggled her in. This is where the day got more interesting. She sat up on my lap and looked at me. I knew something was wrong but nothing prepared me for what happened next. She started to be sick. Vomit was billowing up out of her. She cried after the first bout and then vomited again. Everything she had eaten in the last 24 hours came up in one incredible food fountain. 
It was everywhere. It was all over her. It was all over me. It was all over Nanna. It was all over the plane seat and down in between the seats. For one stunned second after it had finished, my mum and I looked at each other. Thoughts surged through my head. "I will never recover from this! It is not possible to clean this up!" Then we switched into gear and started wiping and stripping clothes off. We called for assistance from the air hostesses and they brought us wet towels and wipes and dry paper towels. We wiped and wiped and washed until all was as good as it could get. But it didn't take away the cloud of funk hanging around us. It stunk! Poor little Rascal was so upset. She almost looked apologetic. It was as if she understood that it was a real hassle for everyone else. I had to remove the outer layer of my clothing. (For the sake of the other passengers in the plane, I didn't remove any more, though they too were fountain-affected). We put a comfortable onesie on Rascal and she laid down and slept again. 

We counted the seconds until we could get off the stinky plane. Finally it was over and we were able to get to our hotel and clean everyone up. Rascal travelled well the next day on the final flight. She was off her food for several days but is almost back to normal now. I am relieved that I somehow survived a food fountain at 32,000 feet! It's not an experience I hope to ever repeat though, so I'm hoping for a settled stomach on the trip home! 

Meanwhile I am enjoying my gorgeous nephew and might just have to pay some excess luggage to sneak him home with me!

Libby :)

Lately, as I watch Rascal grow up, I have been thinking. Dangerous I know. But I do it anyway! I’m a rebel like that. Anyway, moving on. I’ve been thinking about how she is the most important thing in life, the reason I do things I would never have previously considered doing.

For example, I don’t mind getting up early every morning and waking up if she is upset in the night. I don’t mind wiping a pooey bottom and getting splashed on in the bath. I don’t mind getting a food-sneeze when she’s eating and wiping her runny nose. I might not particularly enjoy some of those things but I wouldn't have it any other way. One thing for sure, I would usually have not done any of these things for another person.

I was also thinking about how there was a moment in time when she didn’t exist. And then she did. The concept of her not existing seems so foreign to me now. I don’t remember what life was like before she came along and I don’t remember what the point of life was. I got up every day and lived solely for myself, husband and job. As important as some of these things are, they pale in comparison to what I do now. Not that my husband isn't important, he is! But you know what I mean! It's a different type of importance. Responsibility for a whole person from the start of their life. 

I also think that, if the circumstances had have been different, she may not have been her! I mean it would have been our child and we wouldn’t have known any different, but it wouldn’t have been the exact child we have now if timing had have been different! That blows my small mind slightly. Maybe thinking really is too dangerous for me. 

As I watch her become a little person with individual thoughts and desires, I am amazed at the creation I have been given the privilege of participating in. I can’t wait to see the person she becomes as she grows up as a 2 year old, 5 year old, 10 year old, 15 year old. It will be an amazing rollercoaster ride. And I can’t wait!


Libby :)

My daughter has always had a big head. Ever since she was born she has had a head in the 98th percentile, though her height and weight have not followed suit. Having said this, though, her head does not look bigger than any other head I've seen on babies throughout my years. So I'm not particularly worried about it. 

I am, though, worried about another type of big head. Everywhere we go, and I'm sure other mums have this "problem," people tell her how gorgeous and beautiful she is. Don't get me wrong, I 100% agree with them but I can almost see Rascal's head growing before my very eyes. She grins appreciatively back at them and giggles knowingly. And I really do think she knows what they are saying. I can almost hear her replying, "I know! Aren't I?! Thank you for noticing!"  


Now, once again, don't get me wrong. I tell her she is gorgeous and beautiful all the time, constantly. I genuinely think she is and, as her mother, I should think that! But it is also a fine line between one knowing they are beautiful in their own right and being confident about it, and letting it get to one's head. 

So, as parents, how do we ensure that this line is not crossed? It is important for our daughters to have confidence in how they look and the way they were created. As a Christian, I hope I can convey to Rascal that she is beautiful because she was created beautifully by a powerful Creator. And in that she can have confidence. 

Beauty is a fickle thing and in the eye of the beholder. One day we all get old and our beauty fades and changes. It is important for Rascal to believe in beauty beyond the cosmetic. So when people tell her how gorgeous and beautiful she is, I will teach her to thank her Creator for making her that way. 

Libby :)

We were about 15 minutes into the swimming lesson when my nose detected that familiar waft of stench. I grimaced. Rascal had done a poo in her swimming nappy. This was the third time she had done it and I didn’t enjoy the experience. At the end of the lesson, I dashed out of the pool, instead of chatting pleasantly with the other mums and leisurely exiting the pool as I usually did. I made a bee line to the pram, wrapped her in a spare towel and put her in.

As I powerwalked (you can’t run at the pool…) toward the family change rooms, I pondered the options. In the previous two occasions that she had done this, I had used alternate methods to solve the problem. One was to lay her down on a change table and, using about four thousand wipes, slowly take off the nappy whilst wiping constantly. On the other occasion the method was to hold her over my arm and carefully peel off the nappy. Not much was still on her bottom so I simply rinsed it under the running shower. The second option had been much easier so I headed for the shower room when I got to the change room. I peeled off her yellow polka-dot swimming costume while I got the shower to a pleasant temperature. Her nappy wafted at me and I scrunched up my nose. Then I took a deep, slow breath and headed toward the water stream. 

I began to peel off the nappy, slowly and cautiously. I peered at her bottom, watching to see if anything was staying on it. Everything looked good so I proceeded with the plan. I eased the nappy smoothly down her legs, the contents staying safely within. Rascal sang to herself, as she hung there, draped on my arm. I held my breath and gave one final tug on the nappy. 

That’s when things stopped following the plan. Rascal, in her innocent way, gave a gleeful kick in the middle of her song. The nappy and its contents, which had, thus far, survived the removal process, were suddenly suspended in the air. It happened in slow motion. I managed to keep a hold of the nappy, but I was not so fortunate with the contents. Poo sprayed out of the nappy and down the wall of the change room, also flicking onto my leg.  It was the worst possible outcome!

I screamed silently in horror and stuck my leg under the shower stream. I picked up the nappy and put it in a plastic bag, then began rinsing the wall with the hand held shower head. I rinsed Rascal off, wrapped her up in the towel and began to rinse the floor and myself again. It was extremely disgusting. I dressed Rascal warmly, then dressed myself and left the pool, sincerely hoping that I never have to deal with a pooey swimming nappy ever again! 

Libby :)