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

Flowers

I love taking photos of flowers, but I never know what to do with them after uploading them to my computer. They sit in a folder called “Nature Anthem” (named after this song by Grandaddy) which I only ever open to add more photos of flowers or trees or animals that have caught my eye; even as I’m taking the photo I wonder why I’m taking the photo. I find nature photos irresistible when I’m behind the camera, but far more boring than pictures of people when I’m looking at photos. My friend lent me his macro lens, though, which was all the excuse I needed to head outside and capture the various blooms we’ve joyfully watched springing up throughout our gardens over the last few weeks.

Other minor updates since the last one/s

MOVING

All moving plans have been postponed until next year. This is a good thing (it’s too close to Christmas to think about it) and a bad thing (it’d be nice to start 2016 in a new place. I’ve no idea why, it just would).

THE PSYCHOPATH TEST by JON RONSON

I really enjoyed this book.

HAZEL

So Hazel’s toilet trained. I mentioned in October that I was planning to put it off until next year, but she was having none of it (my suspicion that this will be a recurring theme in our lives is growing). There was one afternoon where we needed to rush to preschool to pick up Moses and she r.e.f.u.s.e.d to put a nappy on, and I realised that my argument against her going out wearing undies boiled down to, “Please refrain from becoming more independent because I can’t be bothered thinking about packing a special bag or doing more laundry than usual,” which sounded bad when I put it like that. Apart from an incident involving the Maritime Museum, a fair amount of poo, and approximately one bazillion baby wipes, she’s been accident-free for weeks, and is now at the point where I don’t even remember to take her to the loo before we head out. We’ve packed away the change mat for good, and while I’m not at all sad to see it go (it was an unattractive and space-consuming addition to their bedroom), it has made me wonder what will be next: The pram? The cot? I feel far more attached to both of these symbols of babyhood.

(I realise your care-factor regarding Hazel’s toileting habits is (/should be) nil, but a couple of times now I’ve found myself failing to remember when Moses reached a particular milestone, and wished I’d written it down somewhere. This is going to help me be a nicer old person; instead of assuming that my children did everything perfectly by the time they were 10 months old, I’ll read back over my blog and realise they actually weren’t the wunderkinds I’d remembered them as. You’re welcome, distant-future parents.)

CAMERA

My camera is dying now. I’m pretty sure it’s my camera that’s the problem; I used to be able to get sharp, crispy shots, but now they often range from the-teensiest-bit-out-of-focus to seriously-blurry, which is really annoying and a little heartbreaking; the camera’s beeps have always let me know it’s finished focussing, but now those beeps feel like lies. LIES. Beeps of DECEPTION. I switched it over to manual focus for a while and spent a merry evening with my camera trained on this protea (“We chose this for you, Mum, because it’s your favourite colour: PINK!” Pink is not my favourite colour, but I really did love having this flower around).

Manual focus doesn’t work so well with energetic children as the subjects, though.

STUDY

On Monday night I finished my sixth subject for the year. I was running very low on motivation and very high on whinginess; it was an extraordinarily satisfying feeling to finally submit the report and begin my month-long break (the longest I’ve had since starting my course) with a glass of red wine and a game of cards with Alan. I now have four subjects left. Alan deserves a massive shout out, for allowing me to hide away for four days in order to research and write my assignment. It was clear that hanging out with the kids for that long was chipping away at his sane-feelings, but he didn’t mention it (at least explicitly) because he’s lovely (and passive-aggressive). (It reminded me that I totally know what that insanity feels like; it’s what drove me to study in the first place.)

FOOT

My foot is not broken. I ended up having an x-ray, just to see. My doctor was happy with the unbrokenness of it, and the news did mean I wasn’t required to wear a giant boot in this 35-degree heat, but I was still a tad disappointed. A small fracture would have allowed me to yell “IN YOUR FACE!” to my under-reacting body, and how often does one get a chance to do that? Not very often. My foot still feels quite bruised (even shower water falling on it registers on my pain scale), but I’m not protecting it quite as obsessively as I was before, and I can rest it on the bed when lying on my tummy now, both of which are improvements.