Happy birthday, my love.

At 4.30am this morning Frankie woke up distressed and I decided to take her into my bed. I lay her down, coaxing her back to sleep with a rhythmic, gentle shushing. But this time,  I wasn't able to join her in a state of blissful slumber. Instead, I remained awake and positioned myself so that her dream-breath kissed my face. I love the smell of her breath; it sticks to my skin like laundry powder on fresh linen.

Frankie is turning one this week. Time is never truly measurable until you have a child and witness the change that a day can make. It can mean the difference between a stumble, and a stride.  A gurgle, and a word.

The bad days pass agonisingly slowly, and yet by the time dawn breaks the child you put to bed is not the child you now hold in your arms. She is bigger. Wiser. Stronger. And always, eternally, surprising. The good days are the ones you brag about. The ones that you simply can't hold the pride inside, and must share it with the world or you will burst. They're the days that you bombard Facebook with videos, or call your cousins just to say 'hello' (but secretly, to brag a little bit that your baby is now crawling!)

Frankie - Frances - because of you I now live on a wide, flat plain of love. There is air, there is earth, and there is you.

Happy birthday, my love.

Mumma Anxiety: Stress Less Jess

I take a deep gulp and feel the blush creep up my cheek, hot with shame. Invisible pins prink my eyes so I close them, knowing that the embarrassment will be worse if I cry.

"I'm not coping", I whisper. My stomach heaves with the effort of the words. "It's taking over my life".

I open my eyes and see compassion in the face of the doctor opposite me. She sees my child writhing about in my arms, and a look of sympathy washes over her. Instantly my shame dissipates - I know she doesn't think I'm a failure. She just recognises that I have a problem.

Before I had my child, I was an anxious sort of person. Since having Frankie, I've become a mess. I knew things were getting bad when even the thought of doing 'ordinary' things started to paralyse me. I long-ago gave up taking Frankie shopping; it was simply too difficult to have her in the pram for such a long stretch of time. And here I was thinking it was her....restless, active, energetic Frankie. No, quite simply, it was me. And my issues. It's never been about her. The truth is, she feeds off my anxiety - not vice-versa. She sees me panic, and has a field day.

Last weekend I knew it was serious when Andy and I went for a hiking trip in the Blue Mountains. We hadn't done our planning in advance, and I was in a state of full-blown-panic. I screamed at Andy that we couldn't go. How could we possibly expect her to sit still in the backpack for a few hours in a row. We hadn't prepared her food. Where would we change her nappy? She would need to be in the car for 1.5hrs......IMPOSSIBLE!!! The fear welled up inside me and manifested itself into rage, poor Andy bearing the worst of my attack.

Gently, Andy insisted I get help.

This is killing us. This is killing me. And I'm sure, soon enough, I'll be the one to blame for all of Frankie's insecurities too.

It's tough to admit when you're not coping. That the slightest of tasks leaves you feeling weak at the knees. I look at other mums who manage to work, bake, exercise, and wax and I wonder HOW they do it. It's too steep a mountain for me to climb. And I need to stop using my overly energetic child as an excuse and look at the real problem source. Me.

I feel like a spectacular failure, and I wonder why the Universe doesn't hand out points for how much you love your child and the higher the score, the easier the motherhood experience. If that was the case, than I'd be the most chilled out mum in the world, because I love Frankie more than I love breathing. I never cease to wonder why I find things so.........difficult. And not just difficult...........frightening. 

Next week I have an appointment with a psychologist to help me get things back on track. I hope that the adage "Happy Mum, Happy Bub" rings true, and soon enough I'll be calmer in myself and have a calmer child as a result. Wish me luck. I feel I need it.

Poor little possum

The dreaded first illness has finally descended upon us. It's taken a full 10months to unleash it's wrath, but it has struck with violent force in the guise of an ear infection.

I should have realised something was up when Frankie's started to tilt a little to the left. She was walking in circles, like a stunned possum who had recently fallen out of a tree and couldn't quite get her bearings. I found it funny at first -- 'oh, look at Frankie, she's doing a silly little dance', but I soon realised something was up when she couldn't walk in a straight line without tumbling over.

Things got progressively worse and I finally clocked that something was wrong when Frankie's temperature registered above 38degrees, and her cheeks were burning like a shamed Aussie rower on a night out after a medal-less final.

My partner and I rushed her to the local GP (PS. if you live in Coogee, don't go to the Bream Street Practice) who wasn't exactly lavishing attention upon our child. She barely took her eyes off her computer screen long enough to assess Frankie's condition; perhaps we interrupted a good game of Grand Theft Auto or something, who knows?

Anyhoo, a barely-there doctor took one look at her and advised us that Frankie had 'Slap Cheek'. What now? I looked nervously about me, wondering whether today was the day that the social workers would peer out from behind the curtain and take my daughter away from me. Dr. Disinterested started to explain it was a type of viral infection, but midway through her monotone diagnosis-delivery, she saw Frankie pulling on her ear and decided to give it a quick looksy. Well, what do you know, it wasn't Slapped Cheek after all (what a name, I tell you!). A routine ear infection, and wham-bam-thank-you-maam, here are the Antibiotics.

5 nights later (2 of which, shock horror, Frankie slept for a whopping 12hrs in a row) and she's not an awful lot better. So displeased with our GP's prognosis were we, that today we sought a second opinion. Turns out Dr. Disinterested was right enough, it was/is an ear infection, but quite a serious one, requiring a fair bit more patience on my behalf to ride out the infection and wait for better days ahead.

Poor, poor bubba has never been so sooky. But I've soaked up the extra cuddles and put up with the backpain inflicted upon me by carrying a red-cheeked baby around 24/7. And, somewhat selfishly, I'm kind of OK with her delayed return to health. It means I clock up a few more hours sleep at night than my daughter would normally afford me!

OK - quick one. A little round of applause must go to Kathmandu and their child carrier. This hero of a product keeps Frankie calm and content for hours. Literally, hours. Anyone who knows my child knows how much of a feat this is.

It's obviously good for what it was intended for; long walks and treks in the great outdoors. But it is perfect for shopping (forget about steering your pram one-handed  down narrow supermarket aisles with your plastic shopping basket precariously balanced  in the other), nipping out to hang up the laundry, or even just freeing you up during the witching hour to get some cooking done while bubbalugs enjoys herself watching you go about your business.

Thank you Kathmandu. You rock my world.

More metrestone than milestone for Frankie's first steps.

Well, HELLO walking baby! This is a nice surprise for your mum. (OK, not so much of a surprise; Let's be honest, you've been threatening this for months now. So long in fact that I started to wonder whether you'd just lost your bottle? Ha, get it?)

So anyway - it is official - Frankie took her first proper steps just after she turned 8months. Since then, she's barely managed more than a couple - 4 steps max - without face planting into the carpet, or (ooops) concrete. Yes, my sporty child is now sporting battle scars for her efforts. I couldn't be prouder.

I wouldn't exactly call it 'proper' walking so much as I would call it a very fine impersonation of a drunk zombie. She starts by crawling along an item of furniture until she literally has nowhere else to go. She then turns her body around, takes one cautious hand after another off the sofa/coffee table and propels herself forward - both arms extended - stumbling towards what she hope will catch her and break her fall. Ceeeute.

I had no idea how very difficult a concept it actually is for our children to lift their feet up off the floor. If you watch them trying, it seems as though their feet are super-glued down, with any slight movement upwards shifting their whole center of gravity. It's incredible how one day, poof, this superglue dissolves and away they go...

I've yet to train Frances to do the walking gig on command I'm afraid, hence the lack of video footage for overseas Frankie enthusiasts. Soon enough, I hope.

Thought I'd keep you all in the loop. I guess this move to Coogee has been a winner all round... despite the initial teething and moving woes, Frankie has finally started to properly sleep for 11hours straight, AND she looks set to take to the stage in the next Step Up movie. Atta girl, Frank Frank. Mumma loves ya.

No friends on Ramsey Street

It's 4am and I hear yet another blood-curdling scream. The thick walls of my 1920's apartment provide little defense against the wails of my 8 month old baby. I throw back the covers with a sigh that gives way to a small gasp, as the chill of the winter dawn assaults me. All I can think is, my neighbours must hate me.

We have finally made the move from my parents' home into a place of our own. With our new found independence comes the sudden removal of some of the creature comforts that living with my parents has afforded us. A full home to ourselves, for example, on its own plot of land, detatched from the innocent ears of our neighbours. A home where our baby could cry to her heart's content without the associated stress of waking up the neighbours. Sure, I had to worry about Frankie's effect on my own parents, but it's a lot less of a worry when you factor in the unconditional love that grandparents have for her.

Our new home is - in a word -  petit. It's far smaller by comparison to Frankie's last residence, and there aren't two whole floors of space for her to call her own. Gone is Frankie's entertainment space, her backyard, her front yard, her bedroom and her own private bathroom. Gone is the bath, for that matter! Suddenly Frankie finds herself 'stuck' - easily bored within the confines of our art deco abode.

I'm freaking out that the neighbours are one screaming-fit away from banging down our door and forcefully removing us with the aid of flaming torches and oversized pitchforks. If the relocation of our 8 month old wasn't a traumatic enough an experience on its own, try adding teething to the equation. She's now sporting 3 shiny new teeth, which certainly make her look cuter, but unfortunately doesn't win her any friends on Ramsey Street.

Having learned much over the last few weeks, here are my Top Tips for moving house with a baby

1) Paracetamol can be a lifesavour:
Only you will be able to judge whether your baby is traumatised emotionally by sleeping in a new house, or whether those screams are ones of pain. We tried good old-fashioned comforting to help ease any fears of a scary new house, but after a few hours of getting nowhere, we found paracetamol did the trick. Obviously, make sure it's baby paracetamol and your doctor ok's it first!
2) Stay with them for a while:
If your baby was sleeping reasonably well before the move, you can at least hope they'll return to the good-old-days eventually. Whilst you will tread the line of creating a bad habit for yourself in the future, show your baby you aren't deserting them in this new environment. That just like always, you're here for them. We found the whole "stay in the room with your hand on her tummy" thing worked for us with Frankie. But we have now gotten into the bad habit of bringing her into bed with us at 4am to get her to sleep longer until 6am. Our mistake, I know, but it's better than having her persistantly wake the neighbours at that ungodly hour.
3) Be nice to your neighbours
We didn't have the guts to knock on our neighbours' doors individually and introduce ourselves and our bubba girl, but by now everyone knows we are here. Kind of hard to ignore the pram in the entrance way.... We have, however, gone out of our way to talk to every neighbour we run into when we see them in the communal halls, and offer our apologies for the baby's fitful slumber. Luckily, everyone has been very kind and whilst they have certainly admitted to hearing her through the night, they seem to sympathise with our plight and get on with their own lives. Still, doesn't hurt to be uber nice, and offer them a cup of sugar when they need it in the future!

Wish me luck, as we continue on our mission to getting Frankie settled and secure in her new home.

A poem for my daughter, Frances Leigh.

I tasted the salt of your tears before you did. I would kiss them away before they fell down your cheek.

I knew every groove, curve and bump of your head before it was dressed with its amber red locks. 

I gifted you music through my lullabies. Sent you to sleep on the wave of my melody.

My body, your first source of food. My naked skin against yours, your first source of heat.

I knew you before you knew yourself. And I loved you before you were real.

You are my daughter, my blessing, my life.

Bit behind the eight ball. Say it with me now. "Ball".

On the day that Frankie was born, entering the world via the 'sunroof' option and being held up to me over the plastic screen, she has held her head high. Three minutes after her birth the midwife said to my partner and I that she had impressive head control for a newborn. And from that first day onwards, she's just gotten stronger and stronger.

Often this is to my personal detriment. How I wish for a baby I could have cuddled up with, rather than one who pushed off me to explore the world at the ripe old age of 4 months. Or how sweet it must be to have a child that you don't have to pull off the furniture she's climbed up onto at seven months of age. But there are perks too, and it is nice to see your little girl get progressively quicker and stronger in front of your eyes.

All this emphasis that she's placed on moving around has meant that she's not had the focus or energy for other stuff. Like speaking. And I wonder - what is this mad race she's embarked upon cost her in terms of her mental development? Or should I just be sitting back and chanting the mantra, everything in good time?

Frankie has only started babbling this last month. We got "dada" repeatedly for a very long time, which made her father all puffed up with pride, despite the fact that it was indiscriminantly voiced. Now we're getting a plethora of sounds; delicious in their melody and often interspersed with giggles. But as other babies are connecting their words to things and uttering some very impressive statements such as "dog, here", Frankie is still speaking jibberish.

I'm now experiencing for the first time what it feels like to be on the later side of developmental milestones. It's never been a factor before, because our wee athlete's been streaming ahead physically. And it's not as though I haven't been trying with her. I throw her a ball and say "Ball. Ball. Ball" She throws it back to me and I say "Mummy's ball. Mummy throws ball back to Frankie". And she's staring so intently at the ball, waiting for it to be thrown back to her that she literally drowns out my words. She plain old doesn't care. Frankie looks up at me with furrowed eyebrows and, whilst no words escape her lips, I know what she's thinking "hurry up and throw the damn ball, mum, or I'm gonna come right over there and get it myself."

Well, I'm happy with her however she develops. She's beautiful, and healthy, and delicious. So what if she is no great orator at 8months of age. Perhaps she's a writer in the making; more of a listener, less of a talker. Whatever the reason, she just isn't interested in words right now which is a good thing to some degree. It'll be a lot longer before I hear her say "NO" to me. And that's not such a bad thing....

How to raise a leader.

Sheryl Sandberg (COO Facebook and mother of two) has left me questioning what kind of a daughter am I going to raise? And how will I explain to her that despite living in a 'lucky' country, where women have the same rights and liberties as men and are equally educated, women hold only 15% of the nation's leadership positions? Julia Gillard presents a promising role model for the next generation of young women, however she is the exception to the rule and the numbers of women in such leadership positions are dwindling.

Why is it that women and men may be equally competent, but men are liked for their achievements and women, on average, are not? Why is it that in families where both parents are in full-time employment that the mother will be doing twice the amount of housework and three times the amount of childcare? Why is it that women shy away from taking on more responsibility at work the moment they decide to have children? And why is it that women are so afraid to champion themselves in the workplace and demand a payrise, a promotion, or at the very least, credit for their achievements?

In Sandberg's video, she addresses these points and suggests ways that we ladies can change the statistics without necessarily having to make sacrifices. It's inspiring stuff. My favourite take-out is that women must be prepared to "Sit at the table" - have an opinion, share it, and show everyone that you believe yourself to be a valuable contributor. In my own experience, this is something I know to be difficult and have on many occasions sat back and let others make decisions for fear of appearing unintelligent and unworthy.

I hope that in years to come Frankie understands that whatever work she does - whether she is a homemaker, astronaut, or Prime Minister - that she is respected for her contribution and can adopt a leadership role if she so chooses. I hope that the person that offers her the most amount of respect is herself, and that she realises that having a child can be the end of her professional career but it will be her decision - no-one elses - and that she is responsible for her own fulfillment.