bottoms up

So today we walked into the lounge room to find Devilboy dragging his bare bottom across the carpet in a manner not too dissimilar to the  way our senile cat used to.

After pinching myself to see if I was actually conscious and this little episode not a figment of my imagination I asked what I thought a reasonable enough question.


“I just wanted to see what it felt like” he offered, as if it were completely normal behaviour.

“And?” we asked, bemused.

“It feels exactly like rubbing your bottom on carpet”

No shit, Sherlock!

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Sleeping beauty

On the 426th day, the people awoke to find that the one they call Devilette had at last slept through an entire night.

And the people danced and sang as they feasted on vegemite toast, for it was still far too early and a tad undignified, to be slaughtering a sacrificial beast of the field whilst still clad in one’s PJ’s.

And there was much rejoicing. Yay verily.



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The Devilboy is in the detail.

363 days before his 4th birthday party, Devilboy decided on its theme. Vikings & Dragons. I figured that, like any other normal child, he’d change his mind a hundred times between then and his actual party. Foolish really, given that Devilboy and normal are two words very rarely used in the same sentence.

In fact as eachmonth passed, instead of changing his mind his resolve deepened. Dreading the thought of actually making a Viking Dragon party happen I even tried giving him subtle hints to send him in a simpler direction. Epic fail.

Over the next twelve very long months Devilboy regailed me with the details of his party. Where it would be, who would come, what they’d wear (it took quite some talking to convince him that fur, full beards and boots  weren’t really appropriate attire for the beach!) and what they’d do.

There would be shield making and bubble swords for fighting (and blowing bubbles) on the beach. There would be pin-the-tail on the dragon and a treasure hunt to find dragon eggs and Viking treasure. There would be some swimming. Then we’d eat. Right. Clearly he’d thought this all through. At length.

What would we eat? I’m so glad I asked. “Chicken on bones and dragon flavoured sausages, because that’s what real Vikings eat, mama!” I decided not to spoil his fun by telling him they’d have been more likely to eat some pickled herring.

And then came the icing on the cake… literally. “A dragon cake, mama. It has to be green with spikes and red wings and fire coming out of its nose!”

Holy shit! “Do you want to actually fly as well?” I asked facetiously. “Yes, please, mama!”

Note to self: Sarcasm is lost on small boys. Avoid in future so as not to dig deeper holes.


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And then he was four.

Darling Devilboy,

You’re 4!

How did that happen?

I mean, the birthday business is no great shock given you had one on the same day last year but seriously, how can you be four already?

It seems like just yesterday that you burst into our lives will all the sparkle and energy of a chorus dancer in a glitzy Broadway show but it has been four whole years since that extraordinary moment that changed our lives forever.

You are more special, more delightful, more inspiring, more clever, more caring, more funny and far more eccentric than we could have ever imagined. And we are, quite simply, more crazy in love with you than you’ll ever know.

Thank you for another all-singing, all-dancing, all-wonderful year of you.

Happy birthday beautiful boy.

I love you.

Mummy xx

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Divine intervention.

Dear Pope,

You’ve been at it again, you cheeky thing.

You know, I’ve  been thinking about your theory and if you want to make a stronger point about how medical intervention undoes what “God has planned”, perhaps you should think about losing the team of medico’s that keeps you going! Alternatively, and as I may have suggested before here , you could just shut up! It’s a shame really that a little Divine intervention doesn’t occur before you open your trap.

I’d share a few of my other thoughts about your latest medieval monologue on how IVF will cause the downfall of humanity but let’s be honest, it’d mostly be a bunch of swearing and I’m far too busy looking after my own genetic replicants to waste any more perfectly good profanities on your archaic drivel.



PS. I’m confused. If sex between a man and his wife is the only way in you humble opinion to conceive a human life, can you please explain the Virgin Mary to me? Couldn’t that be considered a kind of Divine IVF?

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An epistle to a one-year-old Sugar-Puff

Dearest baby girl,

It’s 6.00 am and I am extremely awake. You, sweetness, are not. For once! I can’t sleep because my head is so full of you, precious girl, at this sweetly significant time. You see, one year ago at this exact same time I was also awake. Only on that occasion I was being raced to the hospital due to an impatient little girl who was in rather a hurry to be born.

It’s been one year since your burst screaming into the world, all pink and squishy and so gloriously alive. One year since I first held you in my arms, amazed that your daddy and I, with the assistance of a cast of thousands and the wonders of modern science, were clever enough to make perfect little you.

It’s been a year of holding your warm little body close in the dark of night, all night, given that you are nocturnal. Soothing you and feeding you, tired but buoyed by the the physical and emotional connection that time affords us. (But don’t tell your dad or he may not let me sleep in on Sundays). I must admit though, that one year in to this whole you business, the party-all-night thing is getting a bit ‘tired’ and I’d love you to consider giving the sleeping-all-night thing a bit of a try instead. Just saying. No pressure! Think it over and get back to me – preferably between 6am and 7pm.

It’s been one year of watching you weaving your spell over your daddy (or “Dee Dee” as you squeal when you see him) with every flutter of your lovely long lashes. No matter how tired and cranky after a night of your nocturnal naughtiness, one glance into those beautiful big brown eyes as they peer from your perfect little face and he is molten mush.

It’s been one year of watching your big brother become ever more besotted with you. From that first, perfectly peculiar (and let’s be honest, fairly disgusting) lick he gave you at the hospital, he’s been dedicated to doing whatever he can to make you smile, which you seem to do pretty much all the time. There’s been no jealousy, no rivalry and no drama – just a sweet little boy thrilled to share his life and his things with “the most beautifulist and laughiest baby sister ever”.

It’s been one year in which my life has been changed forever, in ways too wonderful for me to ever have imagined. As a professional cynic and card carrying member of the basic black brigade, never could I have foreseen a life filled with so much colour or so many flounces, ruffles and bows. And never could I have imagined how whole-heartedly I would embrace my long buried girly side.

It’s been one year of your infectious happiness and, of watching you grow and thrive and become quite possibly the most endearing baby in the whole history of babies. One year of nurturing and protecting you and trying to be the very best mummy you could want. One year of worrying about the things I could and can and should do better. Worrying that is until, sweet girl, you smile at me with such trust that I realise the best thing I can do is simply love you.

It’s been one year since you joined our little family. A family that, during those long, long years your dad and I spent trying to conceive you and your brother, I feared we would never have. But here you both are, and you are precious gifts that your dad and I are thankful for every single day.

It’s been one year of you. And, when all is said and done, that is all that really matters.

Happy first birthday baby girl.

I love you.



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After much pleading, obsessing and carrying-on from a determined Devilboy, we recently purchased him a dodgy and dirt cheap digital camera. It is, in fact, the most craptastic camera I’ve ever seen. I worried not about its sad lack of pixels and shoddy screen as I figured that, like most of his little fixations, this one would be quickly forgotten and relegated to the bottom of his toy box to collect dust.

What I didn’t realise was that we have been harbouring a pre-school photog in the house or that he would embrace snapping with a real passion.

This was his first ever photograph on his new camera.







To many this is simply an out of focus blob, to his proudly biased parents it is Monet does Sydney Harbour. To Devilboy it is simply, “my art, mama”.  This single snap had him hooked.

Like a half-size Henri Cartier-Bresson , he embarked on a quest to photograph every object – still or wriggling – that he came across until eventually he ran out of things to snap. So he became a gun-for-hire, asking us what we would like him to take pictures of next. Being the uninspired and lazy sods his dad and I are, we suggested that he just take pictures of something red. And so he did. For a week. Obsessively. Everything single red thing that took his fancy, from a pile of lychees in the kitchen to a swathe of red fabric on a random restaurant wall. He even started setting up shots by placing things in different spots. By himself! Because, “It looks better this way mama”.

When he felt he was all redded out, we were told that he was moving on and that his next “project” would be blue, then there was black and white, and just this morning he announced that he is moving on to his green phase.

This is very much Devilboys own thing and I am trying my hardest not to interfere with or stifle his creativity or his vision but together he & I downloaded them all onto my laptop and under his dictatorial guidance together placed his favourite shots into collages.

These are the results.



















I’m not claiming that these should be hung in the National Gallery, but I would like to point out that Devilboy is still only THREE YEARS OLD! These are all his own shots, uncorrected but occasionally cropped to fit under his very firm direction. And I, with absolute parental bias, think they are really quite good.

In awe of my creative little man and his desire to make and record beautiful things, I will, however, claim to be one very, very proud Mama!


February 16, 2012 · 12:46 am