I am not talking about the usual sex/death/meaning of life suspects. Although of course I dread those, it is the following two questions I fear the most:

“Mummy, why are there so many baby photos of miss A and not me?”
“Why don’t you have a record of all of my milestones?”

And of course if they are particularly savvy:
“Why didn’t you blog about me?”

Ugh.

You used to be able to explain away the lack of photos pre the digital age with the whole limited film excuse and if pressed the truthful albeit pissweak lack of time.

(And when it comes to not having a three day old professional pic of E, the lack of a photographer at the hospital on the day).

So what is it then?

When it comes to the milestones business, I have a baby book with miss A’s milestones carfeully recorded therein. Miss E’s milestones were detailed in my blog.

And when it comes to miss I…well let’s just say that we only found out that she had started rolling front to back when miss A casually told us that she’d been doing it for a few days. She often plays with her sister on the gymini mat as I undertake dog knows what other chores I am forever dealing with right now (probably the never ending freaking washing).  Even now I can only hazily tell you that that was about two or three weeks ago.

Yes there is a lack of time factor.  Looking after three kidlets is surprisingly time consuming and resource intensive, especially during periods of illness like Immyjim’s resolving bout of bronchiolitis last week (see I just proved my point, reasonably serious illness and two hospital visits and no detailed blog post!).

Yes it is because I am seriously knackered, said illnesses, frequent night feeding and miss E’s inability to sleep through ever are taking their toll (and you think you have it hard first time around- HA!!)

However…sometimes I wonder if part of the reason is that the whole babyhood gig is not novel anymore, and that you take it a little more for granted.  And that freaks me big time.  The ungratefulness of it all, the future regret at not being able to confidently tell each daughter exactly when she crawled, uttered her first words, nor what her favourite foods or storybooks were.

You know what though?  I’m not sure it’s really that either.  By releasing myself from the pressure of having to record each milestone I have been able to experience the joy of sometimes being fully present in the moment, able to savour the individuality of my girls and simply go with the flow of their emergence as the unique little people that they are.

When I am not being a grumpy tired naggy mc nag nag chore whore that is (curse you, evil bitch, I won’t let you win!).

I am blessed with three beautiful, intelligent and mostly healthy kidlets.  So if you don’t hear from me as often I hope it’s because I am too busy appreciating that fact.  And not just when one is at school, one is at daycare and the other is asleep.

(Oh yeah, and drag myself away from cuddling my wee gorgeous bub and her two delightful big sisters. Bless hormones-for now-and school).

A two and a half year old who has completely toilet trained herself and starts Physie classes next week.

A five week old who already rolls from her back to her side for sleep and who smiled at me for the first time today.

Who needs amphetamines when life is speeding by this quickly even in the midst of a sleep deprived stupor?

(Oh that’s right, husband having gallbladder surgery and older children not sleeping in addition to meeting newborn 24 hour needs.  Pathetic really).

Sometime after midnight on December 30 I awoke in a wet bed.  After crying like a big scaredy cat at what was ahead ringing the hospital we decided to head down the hill and see if the 40 minute drive would bring on some action.

Upon arrival it was confirmed that I was leaking amniotic fluid and having a show, however thirty minutes hooked up to the monitor revealed that nothing of substance was happening contraction wise and bubs was in a blasted posterior position.  So the husband and I settled in for some rest.

Sunrise….nothing.  The next six hours or so saw us walking around a lot, trying to get the show on the road.  All we had were some irregular pissweak contractions, with little miss merely descending enough to block off the leak.

And so it came to pass that a midwife entered the room at around midday with a syntocinon drip and I promptly burst into tears.  I simply couldn’t believe that I was facing what I dreaded most, an induction.  I’d been there and done that with miss Abi, and the ineveitable cascade of intervention and lack of control was what I feared the most.

I started signing the permission paperwork for an epidural…and then stopped. I wasn’t about to let history repeat itself.  I demanded to see my obstetrician.

An hour or so later, after much tearful discussion with mr hissychick (who simply stated tha he would support my decisions, bless him) and Dr J arrived.  Here I will shamefacedly admit that at first I begged him for a caesar, to which he calmly responded that with bubs so well descended and everything looking OK it would be a bit frivolous to perform unnecessary surgery when an epidural was an option when the time came.

And then he examined me.  I cried like the big sook that I am was found to be 3cm dilated, and so a stretch and sweep was performed (did someone saw owwww?).  My doctor boldly declared that there was no leak as he could feel the forewaters bulging, and told me to go home until something started.  Bubs was still posterior.

My midwife, her face a passing storm of thunderclouds during the examination spoke up as soon as my doctor had left the room.  “You were definitely leaking amniotic fluid.  Do you have someone you can visit locally, because if I were you I wouldn’t go too far from the hospital…”.

Those sage words of advice saved me from a motorway birth peoples.

The husband and I headed off to my parent’s place at around 1:30 pm, a ten minute drive from the hospital.  Already I was starting to get the type of crampy pains that signal the start of something, and the snappy attitude that precedes and remains when labour is inevitable.

Upon arriving at my parents place, my sister, her husband and my niece who had been visiting for a swim took one look at me and hastily bade their farewells.

A cup of tea later, and I started to get to my feet when the contractions started, marching back and forth as I rode each wave.  These pains were localised in my back.

Rapidly they stepped up a gear, and I started to add the chant of “left right left right”.

And then out came my new BFF, my mr happy stress bell.  Here he is:

I started out by squooshing him around, using the noise to distract myself.  This quickly progressed to tapping him against the wall in time with my march/chant, and the  tapping rapidly became thudding as the pain intensified.

Within the space of an hour the pain had moved from my back to both my lower abdomen and back, and then suddenly it was all in my abdomen.  Contractions were still irregular, but starting to get closer.

At around 3:15 pm I could see my mother starting to get concerned, and she called mr hissychick who had just popped out to a local shop to grab some supplies.  By three thirty she had ushered us both into the car, as I had had four contractions within the space of fifteen minutes.  And all the while I kept telling anyone who would listen that my contractions weren’t regular and that the epidural was going in no matter how little I had dilated.

Again a woman’s intuition saved me from a road/home birth.

The seven minutes it took us to return to the hospital are among the longest of my life.  Contraction started slamming into contraction…and we kept hitting red lights.  At one intersection I found myself in tears and slamming mr happy against my window, much to the horror of the people in the car next to us who I swear must have thought I was being kidnapped.

At long last we arrived, with mr hissychick driving the wrong way into the underground carpark to spare me the agony of speed humps.  As I dealt as best I could with a contraction that hit me upon clambering out of the car a nearby mother wheeling a pram apparently grinned and told mr hissychick that it would all be worth it.  The carpark security guard heard the commotion, and as I stamped my feet, chanted and slammed my stress ball against a column timidly suggested a wheelchair, to which my response was a very impolite “NO!”.

By the time I was engulfed with another excruciating contraction in the lift I no longer gave a flying one what passersby thought, I just wanted something for the pain.

And why is it that you are greeted with grins and a calm “So something is happening, come in” as you bellow chant and stamp and stomp your way back into the birthing suite you left a mere couple of hours earlier?

Somehow I found myself standing at the wall adjacent to the door to the bathroom, where I stamped my feet, chanted and slammed mr happy against the wall.  I have no idea why that spot suited me at the time, all I knew was that I was not budging.

One midwife told me I needed to go to the bathroom to provide a urine sample.  I ignored her.

And then my angel midwife arrived, surveyed the scene and promptly took over.  I am not sure how she convinced me to leave my spot and walk the three steps to the bed for an exam, but she did.

When she pronounced me 8cm dilated and that it was a bit late for an epidural, she did it in such a way that I found myself trusting her that I could get through this (although having said that she did step back as she announced this to me).

She promptly got on the phone to my obstetrician and it vaguely occurred to me that he was not going to make it in time.  Strangely enough this did not concern me, as I implicitly trusted my midwife, even though we had never met before.

As I went back to my spot at the wall and immediately entered transition, it was her calm and supportive voice that I listened to, telling me that I could do this, but perhaps I might like to just try and lean over the bed before I felt the urge to push.

I made it back to the bed in the nick of time, and as mr hissychick rubbed a heat pack hard against my back the urge to push hit me.

“I can’t do thi….GRUNT!” as my body overtook proceedings.  “Yes you can!” said angel midwife in my ear. “You’re a warrior woman!”.

And so I made it through a very rapid pushing phase by visualising that my diaphragm was a coffee plunger and I simply went with it, bearing down when I could, alternating with a combination of a type of birth roar, pounding my fists on the pillows in front of me…and on a couple of occasions even biting them (spare me the jokes people).

Not once did my midwife tell me when to push, nor did she try and force the wretched gas on me.  As a rapid birther with no resting phase to speak of she kept me calm. In fact, I was dimly aware that as I pushed she was organising a caesarian for another patient and the fact that she was doing this as I birthed reassured me that everything was going OK for me.

And then suddenly there was the burn of crowning, a futile attempt at panting to slow down while my midwife tried to stop my newest daughter’s hand from coming out alongside her head.

With a final heroic push (I wanted the pain over NOW!) and Imogen was here, passed between my legs for me to catch.  It is a most incredible way to focus a mother, scooping up her slippery newborn and gently cradling her without pulling too much on the cord still connecting us.

As Imogen and I both howled with the enormity of what had happened, and mr hissychick clamped and cut the cord, the syntocinon shot was put in my leg and I clambered up onto the bed and promptly delivered the placenta (and they initially wanted to induce me?!).

My third daughter, our miracle child was here, all 3.6 kilograms and 50 cm of her.  It was 5:04 pm, no more than an hour after I had arrived back at the hospital.

The flood of endorphins and oxytocin was, and still is overwhelming.

About an hour after she was born, my littlest miss finally stopped crying enough to lie down with me for a feed. She latched beautifully, and I am blessed to say that we have had no troubles with feeding ever since.

What an amazing birth experience.  I am truly in awe at what my body is capable of in spite of my control freak mind. And I owe it in large part to Juju Sundin’s Birth Skills.

(I should also add here that my obstetrician did turn up after I had delivered the placenta and in time to do the necessary stitching that is the legacy of yet another rapid birth.  He was rather sheepish about it all but when I asked for a discount told me only if I go for number 4!).

Imogen Emily. She’s here and I cannot imagine life without her.  I am so deliciously in love with her, as are her devoted sisters and father.  I am truly blessed.

* How miss E pronounces miss I’s name…so gorgeous.

The one who is currently enjoying your 6am starts to the day, nap fighting and insistence that I lie next to your de-sided cot big girl bed while you fall asleep, never mind that that can take an hour and a wierd form of cuddling that will become rather difficult as my belly expands.  And that’s before you join us in bed before the night is out.

Happy belated birthday my darling one, my five word sentence speaking, colour recognising, counting to ten-ing,  velcroed to Mummy cuddle adoring, fully fledged “I don’t want it don’t like it” tantrum throwing, ownership obsessed, almost weaned, sister adoring, pretty dress and garbage truck/digger loving and newly minted owner of lower jaw two year old molars little big girl.

Our lives are so much the richer for you being here.  Love you to the moon and back.

And of course the obligatory photos..in colour for a change..

Blowing out the candles on Mummy’s slack preggo chick cake effort number one:

And a week later, A’s carefully decorated lolly cake for our mother’s group party:

And a silly shot.  Just because:

(Should have thought to get you some Spiderman accoutrement just like your big sister. Instead you’ve settled for  a Wiggles wiggly guitar amd the world’s most freakishly realistic baby doll. You’re a funny one.)

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you who are already blessed with these moments that make life make so much sense.

Happy Mother’s Day to those of you awaiting the arrival of a little one and imagining similar special times in the near future.

And an extra special Mother’s Day greeting to those of you who find this to be a day tinged with sadness and longing. It is my fervent wish that the next one brings with it hope of the realisation of your dreams.

(Pausing to take a gulp of wine)

My four year old…she….oh…she….

(Another swig of sweet alcoholic relief)

…ok let me brace myself and paint the scene for you.

My stubborn little miss was determined to wear a singlet dress while shopping today, even though it was rather chilly and rather than entering into yet another argument I simply popped a long sleeved top into my handbag before we left home, knowing full well it would be requested at some stage during our outing.

(Yet another slug from my refilled glass).

Sure enough, a decidedly cold young miss determined that she needed an additional layer of warmth, just as I was heading back to pick up a bottle of forgotten juice while mr hissychick and little miss E started unloading groceries at the checkout.

(Shiraz cab me baby).

Big deal I hear you say.  Ummm no.  Or rather, I mean yes.

A decided that said top had to go under her dress, and proceeded to pull her dress down to her ankles in the middle of the damn aisle, revealing a bare chest and loads of bum crack peeking out from the decidedly too small undies that she had insisted on wearing.  She then calmly redressed herself, totally unselfconsciously and oblivious to the somewhat horrified mummy bemused shoppers nearby

(Surely I can’t be halfway through a bottle of red already?).

Oh come off it hissychick you snort, kids do that kind of thing all the time, surely you just gave her a quiet talk about keeping nudity to the privacy of one’s own home and went on your merry way?

(May as well finish it off, it’s quite a nice drop)

Well that’s what I started to do, until I was interrupted by miss A, who loudly reminded me

“DON’T FORGET TO GET THE SPECIAL CHOCOLATE MEDICINE BEFORE WE GO HOME MUMMY TO KILL THE WORMS THAT ARE MAKING MY BOTTOM ITCHY”

You may never hear from me again.

Thank you my darling girl.

For the giggles and milky snuggles that we enjoy first thing in the morning and last thing at night, inching ever closer to the amazing goal of two whole years of breastfeeding.

For the love you have for your big sister and the way you sing her name in invitation to play and make mischief together.

For your monkey like acrobatics and the way in which you make my heart leap into my mouth even as I proudly watch your show your older sister how to navigate play equipment that should be well beyond your size and abilities.

For the adorable way in which you play baby, crawling and gaaing and demanding a bottle of water as we cuddle on the couch just like the little babies at daycare, and especially the way you have no idea how to suck on a teat.

For the delight you have for your Daddy and the joyous way you announce “Daddy’s home!!” before propelling yourself headfirst into his arms at the end of a long and tiring work day.

For your burgeoning and fierce independence, demanding “pretty dresses” to wear no matter how inconvenient and how poorly colour coordinated your selection may be.

For the way in which you must always point out when and where you are “sore“.  Especially the fact that you will give fair warning that you have a “sore tummy“, allowing me the chance to prepare for the nappy or spew from hell. Or at the very least a chance to publicly deny that the sound of flatulence certainly isn’t emananting from me.

For your stunning vocabulary for one so small, singing all of the words for many a popular nursery rhyme and happily engaing friends and family in your running commentary of the day.  It is simply gorgeous to ask you about your day at daycare and to be told who gave you a cuddle and that “E do drawing…see?” as you thurst a masterpiece of colourful squiggles in my face.

For your sense of humour and comedic timing, and the way you will end a large belly laugh with a procalmation of “Funny!”, when it most certainly is.

For your quirky obessional toddler behavour, announcing “I want Dorothy!” the nanosecond your early morning boobie is “all fishy-ed Mummy” as you race to the telly, leaving your bleary eyed Mama in your wake.

For your love (and mine) of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, eagerly pointing out the egg, moon, sun and attempting to count the fruits.  Your delight when the butterfly emerges, even when it is the seventh time we have read this classic story in a row.

For your love of twirling, especially in a butterfly print dress, and the uninhibited way in which you will dance wherever and whenever the mood takes you, much to the amusement of all and sundry in the supermarket this morning.

My darling girl, my whirling dervish, my butterfly beauty, my little sunlight soul who makes me pause and delight in all the hithero ignored little things that make this life the joyous mystery that it is.

My heart is full.

Today you are four years and one week old, testament to the fact that time flies so quickly.  Somehow I blinked, and you went from this:

To this:

What a beautiful, thoughtful and intelligent wonder you’ve become. A magic switch was flicked last Friday (“Mummy, I was lying in my bed and I changed numbers!!“) and the threenager was gone. In her place is an increasingly patient and quietly confident little big girl, taking your first day of preschool on your actual birthday, a large party the following day, Mummy’s return to work and some necessary changes to your social and schooling arrangements all in your stride in a mere seven days.

It is so delightful to have your cooperation and growing sense of reasonableness when it comes to waiting your turn (“I’ll get the iceblocks Mummy, E first, then you Mummy, and now my turn”) and transitioning between activities on our increasingly hectic paced weekdays.  I laugh when you tell me- and rightly so- to “you need to stop stressing Mummy, everything’s fine“. I am so proud to see you starting to forge new friendships again, happy to take turns as both follower and leader in your increasingly sophisticated and imaginative games. I adore your loving and protective nature towards your little sister, giving her cuddles when she is sad at daycare and quietly admonishing her to be gentle and not to hit, only alerting me when it is serious but never ever hitting back.

It is also with a sense of pride born out of sheer frustration that I will admit to respecting your determined side, and how you will always negotiate a solution and never back down (“A it’s time to brush your teeth”. “But I don’t like brushing my teeth”. “A remember what Dr Dentist said, we need to keep our teeth healthy by brushing twice a day”. “Ok Mummy I will brush my teeth once Evie has had her turn“. And she does (!!))

And most of all I love our quiet snuggles at bedtime, where we talk about the day, and I gain new insights into the fascinating way your bright and burgeoning mind works (“When I’m sixteen I’ll be a grown up and then I can wear earring in my ears Mummy”, “It’s OK if you feel a bit sad when you are in lonely in your bed, because you’re not really alone, Mummy and Daddy are just doing boring things, you’re not really having a party are you?”), and the way you love me as intensely as I love you (“No Mummy I am not your daughter I am your wife, I want to marry you and it’s OK Daddy can share“).

When we count together to one hundred as I rhythmically scratch your back I can’t help but stare in wonder at your heavy lidded eyes, precious remnants of the baby you once were so evident at the same time as hints of the beautiful woman you will become all too soon.

My darling girl, my beloved firstborn, thank you. For the past four years, and for those to come.

(and yes that is a shameless show off pic of the latest birthday cake)

**********

ETA: I have just picked you up from preschool, and I can’t say I was surprised when you teacher pulled me aside to talk to me about your incredible flair for puzzles, you having today solved one that even your teachers have difficulty with.  We started to talk about nurturing your giftedness in this area and with numbers.   My hope is that this is the just the start of a lifelong love of learning without unnecessary pressure. My clever girl.