Moses is SEVEN!

At Mo’s new school, they celebrate each child’s birthday with a “birthday walk,” which is a little ritual involving songs and stories that pay tribute to each year the child’s been around. Mo’s was last week, and his teacher, Tracey, asked Moses to lay out strips of cardboard naming the months of the year in a circle around a yellow candle, representing the sun, and to grab the class’s model of earth, which he held onto. She then started the ceremony by asking Mo’s birth date, and then saying, “On the 28th of August, 2010, a little baby boy was born, and his name was…” and then Moses said his full name. Then he walked around the candle a couple of times while the class sang a song about the earth going around the sun, and Tracey asked him what he was like at age one (I had to help a bit with that one and the next), and then he repeated the walking and reporting for all his years until he reached seven and we all sang Happy Birthday to him. I found it beautiful, and I was touched by the interest and respect the class showed Mo, who’d only been among them for five-or-so weeks at that point (the whole thing made me teary, of course).

It was fun reflecting on Moses at each age from newborn to now. While watching family videos recently, I was amazed to see how little (and how much) he’s changed over these years, especially since he’s been able to talk. He still says “DAD!” in exactly the same way he did at three years old, when noticing that Alan’s attention’s drifted. His intonation still has the same quirks, although he pronounces his words better with every passing year. He still makes the same silly faces whenever I point a camera at him. He still sucks his fingers when he’s sick or tired. 

I can’t believe seven years have now passed since this boy came along and turned me into a mother.

This year has included encounters with significantly sad life events – his great-grandfather died in January, and he started at a new school in July – but he’s coped with far more maturity and resilience than I’d expected after the bumpiness of previous years. He’s become more rational and accepting of the way things are, although he’s still a raging pessimist and master whinger (he reminds me so much of me). There were times when he was four (and five. And six), when I was sure there was no way this demon-child could turn into the kind and considerate person I’d been hoping to raise, but these days I’m feeling waaaaay more optimistic about the chances that I’ll enjoy hanging out with him after he leaves home. This year was Hazel’s turn for a birthday party, and he happily helped with preparation and present-opening without a single mention of how much it sucked that he’d received nothing. He’s growing up.

(When Moses was only five days old, my grandad called up to wish Alan and me a happy third wedding anniversary. I was cranky during that conversation; I’d just laid down for a much-needed nap and had completely forgotten the date, and Grandad was keen to chat and offer bizarre tips about parenting and breastfeeding that I completely disagreed with. At the time I wished I’d remembered to turn my phone to silent. Now, Alan and I are days away from celebrating 10 years of marriage, and Grandad is gone; I’d love to be able to have one more conversation with him, even if it meant rolling my eyes repeatedly at unwanted advice.)

Moses was devastated to leave his friends at his old school. As I announced our decision to move in the weeks leading up to the end of term, I was told by a few different parents that their child would be sad to hear that news, as Mo was their favourite friend at school. At the end of his last day, he shook the teacher’s hand, as he did every afternoon, and was about to walk to me when a boy ran up, calling “BYE, MOSES!”, and pulled him into a hug. Another friend then appeared and wrapped his arms around Mo and his backpack, then two more boys joined in so that Moses was being squeezed by friends from every angle. He looked at me and giggled a little bit, and then, as soon as they’d let him go and he’d waved a final time, he burst into tears and bawled the whole way home, then took himself to his room and cried some more (thinking about that afternoon still breaks my heart). He’s still settling in to the new school, but I’ve spied on him a couple of times and seen him laughing with new buddies. He makes friends easily.

He’s also influenced by his friends. At his old school, his good friend Rom was a vegetarian and Moses was so taken by Rom’s passion for it that he ended up converting. He spent months going meat-free, but since moving has become lax about his meat intake. He still calls himself a vegetarian, apparently not realising that you’re not actually one if you enjoy eating minced beef and bacon. He nearly converted to Islam, too, when he realised that a couple of his friends had received gifts for Eid; that afternoon he asked who he had to believe in to get presents like Ayman had, and I told him the deity in question was Allah. “Okay then,” he announced, “I believe in Allah. Now buy me Lego.”

He’s thoughtful about how he’s influenced, though; earlier in the year I saw him playing with a group of kids who he obviously wanted to impress, and they each jumped off a rock into some water. I was standing nearby, and asked him if he wanted me to hold his t-shirt, assuming he’d follow them, but he told me he didn’t really want to jump so he’d decided not to. We’ve made a big deal about listening to our bodies, and doing what feels right; moments like this make me incredibly proud of the boy he is, and the man he’ll become.

Mo’s lost four teeth since January (eight all up since the end of 2015, including a supernumerary), which means most of this year has been spent with a gap somewhere in his mouth. Mo still loves making people laugh, he still processes things carefully, he still loves spending time with Henry, he still loves Lego (I’m pretty sure he’s received Lego for every birthday and Christmas since he was four years old). He’s happiest when building Lego or exploring outside. He loves climbing trees and looking for shells.

He played soccer again this year, although didn’t seem as keen on the game as last year. He’s also discovered chess in recent months; he found the board among our games and asked Alan to teach him. He’s pretty good! He often moves too quickly, not thinking enough about strategies, but, despite being told by the chess club coordinator that he should expect to lose his first 100 games there, he beat a year six boy the other day and managed to finish his second game with a draw. At the moment Mo and I are fairly evenly matched, although with his level of enthusiasm for improving far outweighing mine, it won’t be long before he wins every game against me.

He loves Harry Potter (also thanks to Rom), and was desperate to dress up as Harry for book week. He’s up to the fourth book, which is the first we’ve read to him (Stephen Fry’s read the last three on CD [thanks, Stephen!]), and he’s seen two of the movies so far. His reading has significantly improved this year, and he’s started mastering cursive writing and his three times tables. His favourite subject at school is maths. His favourite songs are Blackbird by The Beatles and NO CD by Loyle Carner. For his birthday dinner he’s requested fish and chips.

Moses, my beautiful boy: you are a delight. I love spending time with just the two of us. (I’ve focused on the positives in this post, but I think we do the negatives pretty well, too; we talk together about the hard things, we yell at each other a lot, we say sorry to each other a lot.) 

I love you, buddy. Happy birthday!

Change

from here

I don’t deal well with change, and dealing at all – let alone well – is far more difficult with family around. Mo and Hazel respond to disruptions to our normal routine with clinginess and crankiness and demands for connection. Alan seems to respond by tuning out. Given the choice, I’d respond with time alone and/or no sensory input (especially sound or touch) that I haven’t initiated.

The kids’ needs usually win. I find myself trying to be their everything, trying to cushion the blows for them, doing what I can to help them feel calm and settled, and ignoring my own need for attention and cushions and calm. It feels impossible, and yet I’ve watched myself doing it over the last month, both impressed and depressed by my ability to work miracles by offering anything at all to them from what feels like utter emptiness.

Despite the fact I’ve been saying it for years, I still find it hard to admit out loud that I find mothering and marriage difficult. I seem to have scored a bunch of characteristics that make these relationships particularly tough: I’m an introvert with sensory processing sensitivity, as well as depression and anxiety. I have an insatiable appetite for people-free time, sleep, control, and space (both mental and physical). I hate being jumped on by rowdy four-year-olds, yelled at by frustrated six-year-olds, and/or approached for hugs by affectionate husbands. I hate change.

I daydream about hermit life. I dream about focussing on my own needs and desires, living my life from a place of fullness rather than depletion. I dream about having a nook that’s entirely mine, free from children’s books and toys and odd socks and interruptions. I dream about writing and reflecting and listening to my body, giving myself the same time and presence I try (so. hard.) to offer daily to my children. I dream about being important. I dream about being mothered instead of being mother.

I wonder what it would be like to live without the guilt of these daydreams. I wonder if my children sense my wandering mind, and whether it damages them. I wonder if letting Alan go find someone more phlegmatic and easy would be the kindest thing to do.

I’m not doing well at the moment. (I wonder, can I blame this on wellness, or am I just awful?)

Hazel is four (and a few days)

This is the first time I’ve ever started writing a child’s birthday post on their actual birthday, and then finished and posted it days later. Things have been the extreme opposite of settled here (“unsettled” isn’t strong enough a word for what I’m feeling); it’s been three weeks since we moved to Wollongong and we still have no internet, I had an awful assignment due a week ago that seemed like it was designed to try to kill me, and then promptly got sick the day I submitted and have since (somewhat ironically) spent my time wanting to die. And again: WE STILL HAVE NO INTERNET. (Optus have sent us two modems now, despite the fact that we ended up cancelling our account with them due to rage-inducing incompetence.)

My tardiness in making this post happen is the latest item on a long list of parenting-Hazel-related things I feel guilty about. I’ve desperately wanted her to have exactly the same opportunities and experiences as Moses in the hope that any comparisons she makes with him won't leave her feeling second-child-ish (i.e., gypped). But then we moved so that Mo could go to a school down here, which meant pulling Hazel out of her preschool – where we’d decided, late last year, to not buy her school photo (because they cost $40, and, as far as we knew, she’d be there for another two lots of photos we could then refuse to buy) – and placing her in a new school where the expectation is that children attend five days per week from the age of four (I’m hoping another round of pleading will mean she’ll be able to start full weeks next year instead of next term...). Hazel currently lives for her two days at home, one with me and one with Alan, and I hate the thought of her missing out on an extra year of this time with us; what if one day, when she’s leading a gang in prison, we think through everything leading to that point and realise it can all be traced back to this very decision to uproot her from her beloved preschool and rob her of one-on-one time with parents?! THAT COULD TOTALLY HAPPEN.

Anyway. During the unpacking Mo and Hazel found a scrapbook of photos and notes made for Mo by Kerry at family day care, and then another scrapbook filled with his preschool memories, along with a preschool group photo of him and his friends looking tiny and cute. Moses asked me, “Does Hazel have a school photo?” to which I said no, while furtively making cut-throat motions at him (turns out he has no idea what that even means). Then Hazel asked me, “Do I have any books like Mo’s?” I said no again, but quickly grabbed my phone to show her the app her preschool had started using in place of sticking actual photos onto actual pages. She scrolled through a few pictures, then turned back to Mo’s books and flicked through the many pages documenting his childhood.

She looked (to me, at least) totally gypped.

Being a second child is hard work. (It seems, at least; I spent my earliest years as the eldest – HA!)

Ahem.

Hazel at four: She’s a lot like she was at three, but more articulate, stronger, a tad more stubborn, and far more obsessed with random Disney princesses (Moana was the first, then she dabbled with Jasmine for a bit before moving on to Belle) and mermaids. She told me she wanted her birthday party this year to be mermaid-themed, and then, after I’d sent out invitations, she decided she wanted it to be Halloween-themed instead. A friend suggested a Halloween-mermaid theme, which Hazel was completely sold on, especially after seeing this picture. She's now telling everyone there’ll be mermaid skeleton cupcakes at her party. (She also told me she wants to play ‘What’s the Time, Mr Wolf?’ and ‘Pass the Parcel’ at her party. She has the whole shebang arranged in her mind, apparently; our job is simply to bring the thing to life. No pressure.)

Hazel’s easy-going, but also clear about what she does and doesn’t want. She’s patient and cuddly and forgiving and generous and fun-loving. She dotes on her big brother. She’s told me she wants her ears pierced, a tattoo, glasses, and earrings on her teeth (we eventually figured out that she meant braces). She’s also asked if she can live at home with us forever until we die.

Hazel loves: being read to, having her nails painted, looking through books on her own, being carried everywhere, being read to again (the same book, from the start, immediately after finishing), being in cahoots with Moses, playing chase with a parent at soccer, flying foxes at parks, ordering banana bread and babycinos at cafes, having sand piled on her legs to turn her into a mermaid at the beach, having the same book read to her for a third time, singing along to songs from Moana or Sing, and dancing (her routines have a strong contemporary flavour). She has an amazing ability to memorise lyrics after only one listen (the sounds of them, at least; most of the time she has no idea what she’s actually saying. I discovered this after hearing her belting out the Samoan parts of Moana songs). She loves finding my phone and taking selfies…

swinging with Dad…

and burping.

Hazel loves swimming. This time last year she hated the idea of getting her face wet; now she’s completely comfortable in the water, trying out different moves and spending as much time as possible under the surface. Even by January this year, before she could swim well enough to reach the edge herself, she’d throw herself into pools knowing someone would quickly rescue her, and she’s still convinced that Uncle Chris and Aunty Elyse’s place is the coolest in the world because there’s a pool in the backyard (she shares this fact with strangers occasionally).

She also started gymnastics this year – she was desperate to do dancing; this was the compromise – and quickly developed some amazing skillz, balancing on the beams, pushing herself up from bars and hanging-down-ring-thingies, and bringing her legs to make an L (these are official gymnastic terms, obvs). Her teachers were also impressed by her balance, strength and willingness to try new things; I promise it’s not just the maternal pride speaking.

Hazel hates: having her hair washed, having her hair brushed, having anyone suggest she wash and/or brush her hair, having someone suggest she get her hair cut so that it’s not always so knotty and therefore difficult to brush/wash, and any meal that’s not spinach and ricotta pastizzis.

She can write her name and has started figuring out the fundamentals of reading (“‘b’ starts with ball!” she tells us). She’s also a very careful colour-in-er and draw-er – this is a picture she copied a couple of months ago, which I adore:

This is her portrait of Alan and me:

 

And these are butterflies:

Hazel loves colourful things, which she regularly notices and points out; she’s especially keen on flowers, and used to pick every one that caught her eye until I convinced her that taking photos would be a kinder way of appreciating their beauty and sharing it with others. She notices when things are out of place, too - she likes cupboards closed after use and things being put where they belong; I appreciate so many things about her, but this is high on that particular list.

Hazel, my darling: I’m sorry you arrived after Moses and therefore have had to spend the past month listening to your brother whinge about how unfair it is that your birthday comes before his. I plan to buy a scrapbook and print out the preschool photos from the app, so you have a collection just like Mo’s (although I'll quietly remind you that I only recently got around to printing labels for the CD cases, five years after buying them). I’ve also contacted the preschool photographer and been told he’d be happy to print off an extra one, 10 months after taking orders, just for us. Basically, I'm doing my very best to make life feel as un-gyppy for you as I possibly, possibly can.

I love you to pieces, gorgeous girl.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY. x