Our house isn't messy... A baby lives here

Walk into our home and it is obvious that it is no longer a home just for two. A baby themed tornado has ripped through our house, it is no longer neat and orderly, chaos moved in about eight months ago.

I won't completely blame the baby, he can't possibly put away the piles of washing stacked against the steps leading into the dining room, he just creates 80% of it. The clothes horse hasn't been put back to its usual spot in weeks. It stays loaded with a rotating assortment of clothes, slowly making their way to the next stage of their post wash life, the folded piles on the steps. They will get put away within the next day or so, either when I get a spare five minutes or get sick of rummaging through them for a clean bib, whichever comes first, most likely the latter. 

Our dining table, a beautiful long timber slab which we bought as a statement piece, can hardly be seen under all the 'pram ready' objects on it. The nappy bag, fully packed ready to go, blankets, jumpers and toys all waiting to be picked up on our way out the door. 

Make your way past the dining room and you will find yourself in the kitchen, a room which I used to consider as my own, has now been converted into an obstacle course. Tupperware containers filled with pasta and plastic utensils, items of distraction, line the floor randomly as I now have a little helper whenever I decide to cook something.

There is a trail of blocks from the kitchen to the lounge, hidden perfectly for unsuspecting parents to discover their evil and pointy edges with their feet. Then, once you reach the lounge you see it, the toysplosion, soft toys are sprawled all over the carpet looking like a vicious crime scene. Books that I have stacked, restacked and stacked again are spread over my son's play mat. And everything that usually lives on the couch is now on the floor as they needed to be investigated by my son. Somewhere amongst all this will be my son, moving from toy to toy with short breaks of furniture climbing. 

He is a happy, inquisitive little boy and the state of our lounge room shows it. Every night after I put him to bed in his ironically tidy room I pick up the toys and stack the books. I straighten his play mat and the room looks tidy for the first time since 7am, ready for another day of adventurous demolition tomorrow. 

Our house is clean, don't get me wrong, there is a definite difference between dirty and baby themed chaos. If you came to visit us I would probably pick up all the toys or at least have his bookshelf stacked, but as I become a more experienced mother I am becoming less phased by the little messes and more concerned with the big ones.

I used to worry what people would think if they came over and my house was out of order, now I know it's all a normal part of having an extremely busy and active baby. I know the worst is yet to come, I know with boys, mess turns to dirt and toys turn to balls that break things. I know it will be years before I tidy my home at the start of the day and it stays like that all day, that's ok by me, our old clean and tidy home was boring anyway.

Sleeping Beauty

There is something so beautiful about a sleeping baby.

Maybe the beauty comes from the faces they pull, the little smiles, the concerned little grimaces. Or maybe the beauty comes from being able to really see your baby. Perfect, still and calm. Sometimes the chances that you get to inspect your baby are few and far between. Their flawless, perfectly soft skin, their never ending eyelashes, the rise and fall of their tiny chest, all so precious and all so engaging to watch. 

   

As a parent I know that the true beauty comes from the triumph of getting your baby to sleep. Sometimes it feels like it will never come, a real marathon effort. 

Your standards and expectations of sleep change the moment you have a baby. Functioning on minimal hours is the newfound norm and the seldom night of sleeping through is a glorious gift sent from above.

As an adult it is hard to imagine that you were ever so opposed to going to sleep. Fighting the overwhelming fatigue with every last bit of crazy, grumpy energy that you have. As any parent knows there is a window between tired and overtired. When you get to the 'over tired' stage a new child breaks out, we get a grumpy little man with a slight hysteria about him. Life is a whole lot easier if you can get through the window before we get to this stage.

The method of getting a child to sleep is a delicate art form. 

Our method, delicate in its own way, is a tedious and sometimes frustrating process. It is an exhausting cycle, that can go on for what feels like hours, feed, sleep, cot, wake, cry, rock, feed, sleep, cot, wake, cry, rock, repeat. 
We know our method will probably get us into trouble, when he is too heavy to rock or I am not breastfeeding anymore. I am sure all the sleeping experts out there would tell us that the method we are using is detrimental.We have read all about self soothing and settling techniques, we know about them, we have tried them, Leo got so worked up he was physically sick, it was awful, hence we are not self settlers. We are rockers. Our way works for us and if there is one thing I have learnt as a parent it is that you need to do what works for you, not what a book or someone else tells you to do. 

                             

When we became parents we had expectations of how sleepless our nights would be and on the whole we have been pleasantly surprised. We have been extremely lucky and we are well aware of that. We have our tired days but we know that it will not last forever, one day I'll be nagging my teenage son to get out of bed, annoyed that he is making us late for the sake of his sleep in. So for now I cherish every afternoon nap that I get, my little bear clinging to my chest.

The Witching Hour

There is an hour known well amongst new parents, the hour when it feels like time stops and nothing you do is right. The hour where you ask yourself 'What am I doing?' and come to the realisation that you are somebodies parent. Where you ask your baby 'Why are you crying?!' in a frustrated and tired voice, you'll look at them with such despair, their quivering lip and their little tears making you forget that it is completely normal for a baby to cry for three hours a day. 

This hour is known as 'witching hour'. It is the hour where you learn that there is a very fine and fragile line between a happy baby and a devastatingly sad baby. The hour where all hell breaks loose and the only way to describe your baby is feral. Some days it won't come, some days it lasts for the whole afternoon or god forbid the whole day. Those days are rough to say the least. 

                                  

Leo's witching hour usually comes around about the time when I decide to prepare dinner, mostly on nights when my husband is working and we are home alone. After eight months I am less fazed by the cries of protest as I walk away, I almost smile when I see his sad little face as he crawls toward the kitchen. Don't get me wrong we still have our moments, I still ask him why he is crying and look at him hoping that by some miracle he would've learnt how to speak and be able to tell me what is going on. Some days, we still teeter on that fine line between happy and devastation, I must admit the thought of split personality disorders have crossed my mind.

Overall we have been lucky with Leo, he was never really a crier, his witching hour consists of a grumpy clingy child who only wants mum. Sometimes I think I would prefer the crying. Trying to calm an eleven kilo baby who wants to be cuddled but wants to be free at the same time is extremely difficult, usually we go with the distraction technique. 

                          

One of the wonderful things about babies is their short attention span (remember that fine line?), Leo could be crabby one minute and then read him a book or show him a soft toy and he will smile his gorgeous smile. So this is the way we go, distract, distract, distract. Generally it means that Mum and Dad don't get their dinner until late but that's OK. When you are a new parent your need for sanity overrides your need for food. 

Witching hour always makes me appreciate my husband.  On those days when Leo is beyond feral, when I have fed him, changed him, burped him, tried playing with him, sung to him, done everything all the books say to do and nothing is working I know my husband will be home soon and it will all be OK. He is the calm that I need in moments of stress and I am so grateful. I don't know how single parents do it. I think that all the time, I have a new found respect and I take my hat off to them.

Although some days it may be the hardest and longest part of your day it does end. You know they aren't sad tears, they are mostly overtired, frustrated tears and the distraction part is actually really fun. 

                            

And at the end of a long, exhausting day making my boy smile or laugh when he was so upset only just a minute ago makes me feel like I am doing a good job as his Mum, even if I am just making it up as I go.

Grandparents

My Oma and Opa's kitchen was always so warm and inviting, Oma always had a soup bubbling away on the stove, the kettle forever ready for a cuppa, there were always dutch biscuits in the cupboard above the fridge. 

My Oma was a wonderful cook and she loved seeing us eat, to her a 'little bit' was still twice as much as what we were used to, but we were all too timid to not eat it all so we always ate beyond our need. Oma had a great laugh, I have a recording on my phone of her laughing, sometimes when we are having a rough day or sometimes I just miss her, I play it, I know the story she is telling off by heart but it never gets old. 

My Oma was sweet, she loved my husband. She told me once that he was a good man because he had kind eyes. I loved that she loved him, when she would see us together she would give me this look, eyebrows raised, twinkle in her eye and a small knowing smile as if to say 'he is the right one'. By the time we got married she was too sick to come to the wedding, but we knew we had her blessing which was enough. 



 My Opa was stubborn, not in a bad way, but in the way most European men are, he was hard but gentle at the same time. He was cheeky and he had this dry sense of humour that I didn't really appreciate till after he died. Opa was a fisherman, he loved fishing, he tried taking us once, we were told off for being too loud for the fish and, needless to say, we were never taken fishing again. 
Opa had the most amazing vegetable garden, which he was proud of (I would be too if I had a garden like that), rows upon rows of veggies that we would help him pick for us to take home or for Oma to use in that night's dinner. He would let us check on the chickens and hunt for eggs even when he knew there would be no eggs he just knew we loved to do it. 
Opa used to take us on what would feel like really long walks telling us stories of my Mum and her siblings and when they were growing up, he always had a story, some of them sounded too ridiculous to be true but he told them with such conviction we never questioned him. He was a proud father.

Visits to my Nana and Pa's house were always so much fun. We would spend the days going to the park, playing on Nan's organ and then our cousins would come over. We spent hours in the tree out the back or playing made up games in the end bedroom, then Pa would call us all to the lounge to play the 'lolly game'; a game that in hindsight was totally rigged and worked out perfectly even every single time. 

My Pa died when I was only 13 but I have such fond memories of him, I remember him being so tall and he was so kind. He could whistle a tune better than anyone I have ever heard and he had the most beautiful rose garden, there were always fresh roses in the house, maybe that's why I remember their house being so friendly and colourful.

My Nana is amazing. That is the only way to describe her. Everyone that I introduce her to says the same thing. 
My Nana is full of life, one of those people that you hope to be like when you are older. She still makes the best lemon slice I have ever had and she still accessorises perfectly. She has a great sense of humour and I am told, a fantastic ability on Words with Friends.  She is the most tech savvy 80 year old I know and has better skills on an iPad than I do. 
When I was pregnant I rang my Nana to tell her the news, it was one of the best phone calls I have ever made. My Nana was so excited, she told me she wanted to run down the street yelling out the news, telling all her friends she was going to be a Great Nana. 

My Nana loves Leo and Leo loves her. I joke with my cousins that Leo is now the favourite grandchild, which I am pretty sure is not that untrue. 
I love that my child will get to know my Nana and his Great Nan. 

I am lucky that I got to know all my Grandparents, some people never get the chance to make memories like I have. 

Leo is lucky too. The past week we have had more days spent with Grandparents than without, Leo will have so many chances to get to know his Grandparents as he grows, hopefully when he is older he will have many great memories like I do.