Happy anniversary: Here’s to you, Mr Pobjoy!

Two years ago today it was ridiculously sweltering hot – a forecast top of 39 degrees celcius (thank goodness it only reached 38.9). It was the hottest day in December that year. My house was jam packed with family from afar, joking and teasing one another and doing whatever they could to be useful. (My brother proudly told me last month that he hasn’t ironed a shirt since my wedding.)

My three beautiful bridesmaids and I were primping and preening, aided by a lovely make up artist and hairdresser, and taking it in turns to stand in front of the fan and air conditioner. One of them, one of my closest friends, had brought over a posh bottle of champagne to share (and take the edge off any nerves). We snacked on cheese, pastries and fruit. I squeezed in a quick meditation while everyone seemed to be otherwise distracted. The photographers did their thing. The cats hid downstairs under the beds.

I sent my family ahead early to make sure the flowers and decorations were set up properly. I got dressed, made dad put on one of my boy’s nice ties (just for the ceremony and photos), and hopped into the car (sans air conditioning – whose idea was that?).

We were late (I’m always late). And later still, as the girls and I dried off in the toilets before hitting the aisle (there's nothing worse than a bride or bridesmaid dripping in sweat). Thankfully my boy was there, still waiting for me at the end of the path, under the arch in the peaceful cottage garden, smiling broadly (in relief that he could soon take off his coat and vest, and get out of the sun, I imagine).

He said I do. I said I do. We signed some papers, as you do. Our sisters read some poems. The bees swarmed around the flowers in my bouquet (I’m told this is good luck). Our friends sang a couple of our favourite songs. Then we walked back up the aisle together, holding hands as we stepped over the broomstick, and headed straight for the Pimms and lemonade. There were speeches and cocktail drinks and food. There were some gallant attempts at dancing, but it was really too hot, so most people chatted in the garden.

There were also a myriad imperfections: a waiter lost his tray of drinks rather spectacularly (poor guy); the venue ran out of toilet paper(!); the DJ refused to play some of the songs we specifically requested when we hired him; the taxis took hours to show; specially ordered meals weren't prepared, and more. But despite this, people seemed to have a good time. As we left, our friends and family stood together to form a long arch, cheering us as we ran under their arms and out the door.

My favourite part of the day? The last song. Just before we went back to the hotel in our old neighbourhood, the DJ played our informal farewell song. My boy and I let loose, dancing to Belinda Carlisle’s Leave a light on – a joke song for us. During the four or so minutes this song played, I was the most relaxed I’d felt all day and night, singing off key (well, I never sing in key) as we swung each other around. 

We are lucky that the first two years have been quite easy on us. They have flown by with renovations, holidays, study, work, a pregnancy and a baby. I don’t think that marriage has changed our relationship, although I secretly quite like saying ‘my husband’ now when I talk to strangers. It rolls off my tongue much more easily than I thought it would. And I think it’s a nice salute to the man who loved me enough to ask me to spend the rest of our lives together, despite knowing I wasn’t that into the whole commitment thing.

I’m lucky that I’ve found someone who accepts and loves me for me. Someone who compliments me often, even when I’ve had three hours sleep, am wearing my daggiest, food-stained clothes and no makeup, haven’t brushed my hair, and am cranky, feeling unfit and in tears.

I love that my boy cares so deeply and feels so responsible for his family, friends and pets, and complete strangers. Even though his protectiveness drives me crazy sometimes (and will be sure to do the same to Little Red when she’s older).

I especially love how much he adores Little Red. That for the first two weeks after Little Red was born and he was home, he changed almost all of her nappies, no matter what time of the day or night it was. When he’s home, he still changes her, and baths her, dresses her, feeds her, plays, dances and sings with her, and takes her to visit his parents so I can have some me time.

I love his gentleness. That he catches spiders and insects (and lizards that the cats bring in) and releases them safely outside instead of reaching for the Mortein. (Even if he does squeal like a girl when I sneak up behind him and poke him when he’s catching spiders.) When we go walking, he picks snails up off the path and moves them to the grass, so they don’t get stepped on. He finds the owners of stray dogs. He buys food to feed stray cats when we’re on holiday.

I love how thoughtful he is. That I can mention a book or CD or movie in passing, and he’ll get it for me as a birthday, Christmas or ‘just because’ present.

I love how unconditionally supportive he is. That although he doesn’t believe in most of the ‘hippy’ medicine I study and use, or many of my alternative ideas, he still brings me cups of tea and treats late in the night and early in the morning when I’ve got assignments due, and encourages me to follow my passions. (I’m yet to convert him to green smoothies though.)

I love his kindness. That when I’ve had a bad day and run out of my high-maintenance chocolate, he’s come home from his own bad day at work bearing three different blocks of my chocolate. All for me. And he doesn’t even complain that much when I’ve eaten his chocolate when I’ve been desperate. Around 99% of the time, he’s the first to apologise after we argue. Even on the very, very rare occasion when I’ve been at fault.

I love how considerate he is. That he puts the toilet seat down. I can probably count the number of times he hasn’t on one hand. And while I agree it’s no big deal if he doesn’t, I think it’s lovely that he does. At night, he’ll go outside to water the garden for me, so I don’t get eaten by mosquitos. When we’re out and I think he’s perving on girls in skimpy clothes, he tells me that he’s actually questioning how sensible their outfits are in the winter weather and wondering if they are too cold. (Or so he says…)

I love his respect. He knows who I am and doesn't try to change me (although I sometimes think he would like me to be just a little more wifey, motherly and settled). He knows I need my freedom and independence, like being able to travel at will, have alone time, and keep my name even though we're married. He doesn't even seem to mind all that much when he's called Mr Pobjoy at hotels I've booked for our holidays. 

Here’s to at least another two years, my boy. I hope I can at least equal, if not exceed, the love that you show and give me every day.

Taking stock: December 2014.

I know. I know. It’s been a while since I checked in. My best intentions of fortnightly posts were way laid by lovely family visitors from overseas, catching up with things around the garden and house, and sleep deprivation. So, so, so much sleep deprivation. As a result, all of my inspiration has gone MIA, along with my ability to string together a sentence that remotely makes sense. You know, ones with words in the right order and ideas that link together and aren’t too abstract or random. It’s been so bad that my boy keeps accusing me of smoking pot.

So, to ease back into it, I’m borrowing this idea from Katie180 and Vegie Mama, who borrowed it from Meet Me at Mike’s. Feel free to borrow it too. I don’t think they’d mind.

It’s called ‘taking stock’ and it might make a regular appearance here. It involves thinking about things like where you are, what you’re feeling and thinking, and what you’ve been doing. It’s nice to do from time to time, and especially nice to do at the end of a year. Here’s mine. 

• Making: Green smoothies again. Actually, my smoothies are more brown than green, because of all of the cacao I add to them, but there’s plenty of greens in there.
• Cooking: Lots of veggies and fruit to freeze for Little Red’s meals. Not much else because it’s getting too hot to cook.
• Drinking: Fizzy water. Herbal tea. Irish whiskey. Hot chocolate. Sometimes in that order. Sometimes I mix it up a little.
• Reading: My reading pile is so high and ever increasing. It taunts me every day. I thought that my maternity leave would be spent gardening, reading, writing, studying and drinking lots of tea. Ah, no. Surprisingly, babies take up A LOT of time. When I get a chance to read, I’m usually reading baby books. At the moment, Buddhism for mothers.
• Wanting: Sleep first. Tea second. Please and thank you.
• Looking: For a recipe for a nice Christmas cake to make for my vegan neighbours. That or I’ll just buy them wine.
• Playing: Peek-a-boo and the ‘rah’ game, which are essentially the same thing. I used to play them with the cats. Now I play them with Little Red.
• Deciding: Whether to have a nap in the few minutes more that Little Red will be asleep or finish this blog.
• Wishing: People could just be nice to each other, regardless of religion or race or nationality or skin tone or shape or size. I’m really feeling for Sydney siders and the hostages’ families. Why do some people feel the need to hurt others? It makes no sense to me. I really want to slap some sense into them. I mean, sit down sensibly and quietly discuss it with them over a nice pot of chamomile tea.
• Enjoying: The cool breeze on my skin. The sound of the wind in the trees. Blue skies with white clouds. A bliss ball and green(y brown) smoothie.
• Waiting: For Christmas, so Little Red and my boy can open the pressies I got them, which are pretty cool, even if I say so myself.
• Liking: Paleo bars. My new addiction. I heart the Brazillian and Ginger ones. I just wish they weren’t so crumbly (or expensive). 
• Wondering: How I can convince my boy to come on holiday with me in June next year to celebrate me finishing uni. He wants to go away in February to chill in Byron Bay, and we’re going to Europe in December for Christmas with my brother and his family. Is three holidays a year too much? I say no. Our bank account and his boss might argue otherwise. But where there’s a will, there’s a way… Right?
• Loving: The sleep guru who has been helping us with Little Red – Anita from Sleep Gems. I highly recommend her. Anita’s tips and training are helping Little Red to sleep better at night and during the day. Which means I’ve started to get more time out and rest in the past few days. Last night was the closest thing we’ve come to her sleeping through the night in almost five months. I’m still exhausted, mind you, but I’ll catch up on sleep soon enough if this continues.
• Pondering: Whether or not to put up our Christmas decorations.
• Considering: Making myself a cup of tea. But to do that, I need to go into the kitchen. Little Red’s bedroom is right off the kitchen. Making tea will make noise. You see where I’m going with this.
• Watching: So exciting – Downton Abbey season 5. Hot off the UK presses and delivered to my door. Death comes to Pemberly is also getting screen time.
• Hoping: The Feliway diffuser arrives soon and helps to chill out the cats a bit. I dislike cleaning up cat wee and having foil on the couch to stop them scratching it.
• Marvelling: At how Little Red holds my hand. Her little, pudgy, soft, warm fingers wrap around mine and her thumb strokes them. I can feel the tiny lines and wrinkles in the palm of her hand and on the joints of her fingers. She holds my hand so tight and trustingly. It melts my heart. Every. Single. Time. I still can’t believe we made her. And she’s growing up SO FAST.
• Needing: See ‘Wanting’ above. Sleep. Tea. Oh, and more time.
• Smelling: Summer – warmth and grass and trees and flowers.
• Wearing: What I call my happy pants. You know, big, baggy bohemian pants with elastic at the waist and ankles. Not too dissimilar to MC Hammer pants but in better colours and with hippy patterns. Them and a singlet top are pretty much my summer maternity leave uniform. (Add a hoodie and slippers and you have my winter maternity leave uniform too.) I’m super stylish.
• Following: The lives and loves of the people of Downton Abbey. Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong era and should be living in a castle, with dashing, wealthy, well-suited men courting me over luncheon, despite me being married to my boy (who would be an Earl or something similar, of course). I’d have plenty of time to prune my roses while wearing a long flouncy dress and jewels that my maid helped me put on, sipping brandy-spiked tea. Then I realize I would have probably been married off at 18 and had multiple children in quick succession (goodbye pelvic floor), and quite possibly be dead at my age. So it’s not all bad in the here and now really.
• Noticing: The little things. Like how soft Little Red’s skin and hair are, the colour and shape of her eyes, the patterns in the clouds, the colour of the sky, new flowers in the garden, the scent of roses, how good herby tea tastes.   
• Knowing: How blessed I am, with my friends and family, home, community, lifestyle, education, employment and freely available chocolate and tea.
• Thinking: Of visiting my colleagues and taking them some festive cheer in the form of a box of chocolates or cookies. Or both.
• Admiring: My garden. It’s flourishing at the moment – full of green leaves and flowers, birds, bees, fruits and vegetables. I can’t keep up with it. I just hope I didn’t plant my summer veggies too late and still get some produce.
• Sorting: Resources and reference material for my return to uni in two months. I have a lot to prepare, it’s a little scary. (Actually, I haven’t really started – but I will start sorting them out soon…)
• Buying: Nada. I’ve spent up big the past few weeks on Christmas presents and bits and pieces. Now I’m taking a break.
• Getting: Excited about going back to uni to complete the final subject in my course. It’s been six years in the making and I love learning stuff. I’m such a nerd. Also a little scared about what I’ll do once I’m finished it...
• Bookmarking: Healthy chocolate brownie recipes. Sleep tips for babies.
• Disliking: Violence and anger and negativity. It’s not nice.
• Opening: A letter from Laxmi that arrived. She wrote it in pink and drew a picture of a house and water pump. It’s so sweet.
• Giggling: At Little Red’s dance moves. She bops away to anything and nothing, her entire body bouncing up and down while seated, breastfeeding, eating, lying down... Then she claps and shakes her head manically. Sometimes we think she’s possessed.
• Feeling: Tired, kinda hungry and in need of tea.
• Snacking: On nuts and dark chocolate, and hundreds of beautiful raspberries that are falling off the bushes in my garden. Home-grown berries taste COMPLETELY different to shop-bought ones. In the time I’ve been writing this, I’ve eaten about two punnets of berries. (Definitely not snacking on spoons of the organic unsalted peanut butter I bought from the farmers’ market with honey on top. That would be uncouth.)
• Coveting: The idea of sleep and having time to do me things (or just things).
• Wishing: For sleep. And more peace and love and understanding in the world. Actually, maybe love isn't all you need. Maybe sleep is all you need. I know how cranky I am when I don't get enough of it. Maybe if world leaders and war mongers got more shut eye, they'd be a bit more tolerant and the world would be a better place.
• Helping: A friend in need. I gave her a box of goodies including wine, chocolate, tea and rescue remedy. Do you actually need anything else in life?
• Hearing: The wind in the trees. Birds chirping. Cars driving in the distance. My neighbour’s door slamming. Someone doing renovations. Dogs barking. It’s so peaceful in the ‘burbs.

Thank goodness for morning people.

I’m not a morning person. 

Let me reiterate: mornings and I are not on speaking terms. In fact, I really don’t like to speak to or with anyone in the morning. My boy soon learned not to expect anything more than a grumpy grunt or groan from me if he asked me a question within two hours of my waking. Not that much later he learned that it was better not to ask me any questions at all during that time.

Thankfully, not everyone shares my aversion to mornings. Or if they do, they hide it well. These people make it a lot easier for people like me to begin our days.

Each morning that I drive my boy to the station to go to work, we drive across a school crossing manned by such a morning person.

Geoff the crossing man is a local celebrity. Rain, hail or shine, during school terms he is out there, waving enthusiastically at each passing car and giving drivers a wide toothy grin. Geoff exudes such light, warmth, joy and fun that no matter which side of the bed you climbed out of that morning, you can’t help but smile and wave right back at him. When he sees you smiling and waving back at him, he becomes even more animated. And if you dare pop your arm out the window to wave at Geoff, he will likely yell out “hello!” and excitedly jump up and down a little on the spot. Geoff is so well liked that someone created a mosaic bench with his image on it right near his crossing. It must be a little weird to sit next to a likeness of yourself on a bench.

Not far from Geoff is another crossing man who also has a penchant for improving your morning, albeit a little more sedately. He mans a crossing on a particularly awkward bend where it’s hard to see any vehicles coming or their speed. I imagine he’s seen one too many close calls at this bend. As a result, he has taken it upon himself to not only guide children and their carers safely across the street, but also direct drivers of vehicles turning onto the street near the nasty bend.

On my way to work, I am one of these drivers. I can confirm that when you’re running late to work, his hurried waves to go while it’s clear, or steady ‘stop’ hand when it’s not, are rather helpful in avoiding any close calls. He takes on this role with such seriousness and sincerity, but also with a smile.

These men have creatively turned their potentially tedious jobs into ones in which they brighten and improve the day of literally hundreds of people every day. What they do seems simple enough, but when it’s rainy, cold and windy, or 30 degrees celcius plus, or when you’re under the weather, tired and grumpy, or have things on your mind, it’s not always easy to stay positive and engaged and shine your light for other people. But these crossing men choose to do this, every day, rain, hail or shine.

Actually, how we interact with our families, friends, colleagues and strangers is a choice each of us makes every day – rain, hail or shine. How we interact with others really can make all the difference to their day. Smiles, hellos, laughter and kindnesses are contagious and for best effect, should be shared freely and widely, without reservation or expectation (although if you need an incentive, these things usually make you feel pretty good, too). 

So, thank goodness for these crossing men, and all of the other people who offer a warm smile or "Good morning", who make our mornings more sunny and welcoming. Their gestures also make the rest of the day a little brighter. They drag morning-phobics like me out of my gloom and help me to better face the day ahead, armed with a more positive, lighter and brighter outlook. 

(And in the afternoons, perhaps when these morning people are feeling a little flat and I’m firing on all cylinders, I like to think I can repay the favour.) 

Gratitude. (Introducing Laxmi.)

Being a mum has made me soft.

I don’t mean in the physical sense – although I don’t think you can escape pregnancy without rounding and softening a little physically. Unless you are a supermodel with freakish genes, a personal trainer and a personal chef, and even then it’s a lot of work. I mean more personality-wise.

Although I was never really that ‘hard’ before Little Red, I liked to think of myself as quite tough – strong, independent and extremely capable. But since I became a mum, I feel softer and more vulnerable emotionally and mentally, much more disorganized in general, and a little lost.

The other night I was up late feeding Little Red. She looked so peaceful and trusting as she sucked away at my boob, snuggled in, all cosy, hand squeezing my chest to try to get more out. She clearly felt content, warm, loved and safe.

That’s the thing that gets me the most. Babies so completely and utterly, horrifyingly, trust and love – and rely on – you. For. Everything. And they know no different to what you give, be it good or bad. A baby’s innocence and need is heart aching and heart breaking. It is also completely endearing and triggers a protective instinct that I never before thought possible in someone as self oriented as me.

It got me thinking about all I want Little Red to have. Peace. Security. Safety. Love. Curiosity. Adventure. Travel. Fun. Confidence. Perseverance. Independence. Good health. Kindness. Humour. Strength. Empathy. To not want for food and drinks. A good education. A happy home. Lots of cats. Love, respect and appreciation for nature. Faith. And the freedom to choose what to believe in.

That got me thinking about all the other mums in the world, and what they want for their children. Mums in Syria and Iraq. Mums in refugee camps and on refugee boats. Mums in drought-stricken and impoverished developing countries. Mums in developed countries who are struggling to give their child what they dream for them – from basic needs to more. Sitting there, late at night, looking at Little Red, my heart broke for these women and their babies. And for how they may feel when they look at their babies, hearts full with adoration, awe, worries, fears, longing and hope. My heart broke for the possibility that their hopes may never be achieved.

We have a healthy, happy and loving family. We have a nice home, with a beautiful garden and killer views, in a safe neighbourhood, in a safe city, in a safe country. We don’t fear bombs falling on us. We don’t lack food. We don’t have to search for clean, fresh water or carry it in buckets up hills (like my host family in India does). Our air is relatively clean. We have access to a range of high-quality healthcare. We have access to a range of education, and opportunities to study and work (or not). We have pretty safe jobs with reliable incomes. We have these things and more for which to be grateful.

Consequently, Little Red’s chances of having all of the things I wish for her are pretty high. But what are the chances for the babies born in environments that aren’t as safe, comfortable or healthy? For whatever reason – a Sliding Doors-style twist of fate, or choice or chance – Little Red has ended up with us. For whatever reason, we’ve ended up with her. But it might not have worked out that way. And for many families it doesn’t always turn out so well. We have more than we need, but there are other mums and babies who are not as lucky.

Lately, these thoughts hit me at random moments, square in the chest, winding me and leaving me a little teary. They remind me of how incredibly blessed I am with all I am and have, including material things, safety, opportunities, freedom, and loving family and friends. This makes me want to work hard to be worthy of such blessings, to do more to help people who aren’t as lucky. To share the love.

After contemplating this for a day or so, I told my big-hearted boy what I’d been thinking about. Before I’d even finished telling him what I’d been thinking about, he suggested that we sponsor a child. It’s something we originally talked about a few years ago, after our trip to Cambodia and Vietnam, when we saw the malnourished street children begging. But for many reasons, and for none, we hadn't got around to it. 

I know I said this blog would focus on happy, positive, nice things, and this post is a wee bit depressing. But the positive, nice thing is that despite all the crappiness and inequality in the world, we can do something, no matter how little, to try to help someone (human or animal) who isn’t as lucky as we are.

I know that no sponsor program is perfect, and they won’t solve global poverty or feed all of the hungry in the world. They won’t put an end to wars or help to balance international politics. But sponsoring a child will make a difference to that child and their family, and even their community. And I reckon that’s pretty nice.

So, I’d like to introduce Laxmi. She’s a nine-year-old girl from Nepal and the newest member of our family. That's all we know about her so far, but my boy thinks she's probably got attitude, based on her wonky tie, nose ring and hippy beads.

One day I’ll drag him over there to visit her. I know of a nice little café bookshop in Kathmandu we can stop by. It does a mean thukpa and momos.

Spring.

We're roughly half-way through Spring in the Southern Hemisphere and my garden is a veritable smorgasbord for bees. It’s stunning. And with the future for bees so uncertain (see here and here), it’s nice to know that I’m doing my little bit to help their (and our) survival.

At the front of my house, lavender bushes are covered in purple blooms that kids walking by pick every day. Daisies bounce in the breeze. Wisteria cascades over the walkway above our front door in delicate lilac waves, its musky scent almost overpowering every time you walk past. When I open the windows in the front lounge room, the sweet jasmine perfume rushes in with the warm air. The jasmine outside the windows is smothered in fragile pink and white stars that only last a couple of days before browning and being replaced by new ones. Roses seem to grow another inch of glossy green leaves every day and their new buds are pushing through the foliage. And my boy’s pride and joy, his weeping cherry, has a dozen or so new white blossoms on the ends of its otherwise still-bare branches.

In my backyard, the rosemary hedges have sprouted groups of tiny pinky purple petals that look a little like orchids. These flowers always surprise me and make me smile, because I never equate rosemary with flowers, but more its tough, sticky leaves that go so well with roast potatoes and pumpkin. Herbs that went dormant over winter, like horseradish, echinacea, bergamot and burdock, have started poking up through the mulch. This also makes me happy – I hate the thought of losing any plant.

Calendula offers sunshine with its bobbing bright yellow and orange flowers. Lemon balm – a weed in my garden, but my favourite herb – promises long stems of tiny white flowers of which bees are particularly fond. Thymes and savouries are topped with layers of tiny pink and purple flowers.

My garden is plagued with violets. Some are tiny seedlings with leaves smaller than the nail on my pinky finger, and others are almost knee-high, their roots and shoots thick and strangling nearby plants. Parsley, borage and mullein have self-seeded in the most unfortunate places, like the crack between the path and shed. I’m not sure how their roots will take hold enough to support them. After-dinner mint has burst its rocky boundary and taken up residence in the grass. Pineapple sage, covered in bright red, cylindrical flowers, continues spreading through the ground next to the shed, no matter how often I uproot its feelers. And this year, cat nip has successfully taken on cat mint, no longer struggling in its shadow, but growing strong with thick foliage of tiny leaves and long stems of blue flowers falling over the path and ledge. Despite this gallant effort, our cat Indi has taken to lying in the middle of it, sleeping off her post-cat mint high, leaving the poor cat nip deflated in the middle and bushy around the edges.

I’m not quite sure where I’ll plant my summer vegetable crops, with the winter and spring crops still going strong and little space left in the garden. Silverbeet, kale and salad greens have filled two temporary veggie plots to bursting – a feast for the lucky snails. Snow peas and broad beans are in full bloom, with baby peas and beans already starting to weigh down their stems. Beetroot, radish, leeks and onions persist despite my lack of watering. The garlic will soon be ready for harvesting, its shoots starting to wither.

Some of the raspberry canes are already showing signs of another bumper crop, with white flowers peeping between the leaves. Raspberry and loganberry runners have again spread through the garden, and I’ll have to pull them out before they take over again. The neglected lemon and lime trees are budding nicely – and in need of a trim and fertilliser.

The lawn and its weeds are flourishing. It is thick and green and scattered with daisies and dandelions and ribwort. It now needs fortnightly haircuts – although this won’t last long once the warmer weather hits and it dries brown again.

And it’s not just bees that love my blossoming garden. Magpies, minah birds and blackbirds perch on the edge of my hanging baskets and pull out threads from their coconut fibre lining to use to make their nests. These birds also snack on the leftover cat food and bread I leave out for them (and the neighbours’ cat). Kookaburras are the only birds who stand up to the minahs, laughing raucously as the minahs try to chase them out of the neighbours’ trees every afternoon. Brightly coloured grass parrots, king parrots and rosellas have returned, flitting between native trees and our deck. Doves, corellas and cockatoos perch awkwardly on the edge of our bird feeder – meant for smaller birds – flicking seed into the garden and pot plants below, where it grows into unusual grasses and corn. We also have new visitors this year, a pair of ducks, who snack on snails and slugs, giving my herbs and veggies some respite from the onslaught of these slimey residents, and the cats new entertainment.

At night, we hear possums running laps across the roof, giving new meaning to the pitter patter of little feet. They nest in the wisteria, balancing on the arch over the door. Tawny frogmouth owls sit on the power lines or trees, quietly watching passersby below and calling out to each other when they think no one is listening. Actually, I hear all the birds at night when I’m up feeding Little Red. No matter what time it is. I don’t think they’re familiar with the concept of sleepy time (but then, neither is Little Red).

Last week, Bella brought in her first presents for us for the season. Geckos sans tails. When I’m in the garden, I see geckos scurry to hide in the violets or rocks. Despite the size of her belly, Bella is pretty strong and fast – faster than Indi and clearly the better hunter of the two. My boy and I do our best to rescue the geckos and release them outside somewhere she won’t find them again (hopefully at least until they regrow their tails). Bella is most unimpressed when we do this, and will search for hours for them under the couch or behind the blinds, ignoring their still-squirming tails beside her. I don’t mind it so much when she catches flies in the window inside though – and we’ve got plenty of them at the moment. But hearing the loud crunch as she eats them makes me gag. Every. Single. Time.

No sleep (til Brooklyn).

When Little Red hasn’t slept well overnight or at all during the day, this Beastie Boys classic pops into my head. This usually happens around the time I start speaking like an Italian immigrant, asking her ‘Why you no sleep? Whyyyyyy?’

I’m not sure why this song has started featuring in my head so much lately. It’s probably purely because the chorus starts off with the same two words that form a large proportion of my conversations at the moment. Or because it reminds me of the times I used to go out clubbing and watching bands, having reckless, baby- and responsibility-free fun. Or my days of reckless, baby- and responsibility-free travel that included a couple of trips to New York. Or maybe it’s because it amuses me to think of the time I was most into the Beastie Boys, when I fancied myself a bit street and wore Sketches and cargo pants, and tried to walk with a swagger (can girls walk with a swagger?). All to impress a boy. Thankfully, that phase ended when my friend’s boyfriend borrowed said pants and never returned them.

Whatever the reason, it’s not a bad theme song for parenthood. And it’s slightly less annoying than having This old man or Old MacDonald on repeat in your head. (Although, they also feature strongly in my current musical repertoire - just ask my neighbours.)

And while we're reminiscing, here's a photo of me and my boy on the Brooklyn Bridge in June 2011.

Seven survival tips for soon-to-be or new mums.

I became a mum almost five months ago, after around eight straight hours of what felt to me to be ridiculously intense discomfort more than pain, absolute abandonment of any modesty I once had, and unprecedented screaming (try calm birthing, they said… breathe your baby out, they said…). This was quickly followed by complete awe and shock at the gorgeous blob of a human that we’d made, who emerged from my vagina in what my boy said looked like a gush of vomit. She poohed a thick black tar substance all over my arm and belly, and stared at me with perfect brown eyes from below my boobs. She quickly latched onto my nipple, and pretty much hasn’t let go since.

I’m lucky that I haven’t received an influx of information from my family and friends about conception, pregnancy, labour and parenthood. Even my mum (an ex army nurse and mother of four), mother-in-law (mother of three) and sister-in-law (a midwife and mother of one and a bump) have respected my right to their silence unless I asked them something – which I frequently do because they are a lot more clued into this baby business than I am. I have read (and am reading) baby books and pregnancy/baby/mummy blogs. They all have tips on coping with pregnancy and parenthood. So I thought I’d share some of the key things that have worked, and are still working, for me.

But please remember that these are just things that worked for me. Everyone is different. Our bodies, babies, experiences and needs are different. For example, you might LOVE daytime TV (in which case, we probably can’t be friends).

The main thing is to do whatever works for you and your family. It might be breast or bottle feeding or both. It might be cloth or disposable nappies or both. It might be working up to your due date or going on maternity leave two months before D Day. Or it might be ‘play, feed, sleep’ instead of ‘feed, play, sleep’. Do whatever you think is right for you and gives you peace (as long as it’s safe, of course). Trust your instinct. No one knows you (or your baby) better than you.

And if you make a decision to do something one way, remember that you don’t have to do it that way forever. You can change your mind. It’s a woman’s prerogative to do so, after all!

1. Get thee a fit ball.

Fit balls were a God send during my pregnancy, and continue to be in parenthood.  They saved my mobility, sanity and possibly marriage. They would make a great baby shower gift.

At my chiropractor’s advice, I picked up two fit balls for me to sit and move on at work and home. They helped relieve the pain in my wobbly pelvis and improved its movement. Apparently sitting on couches and slouching (as I do) can reduce the flexibility, and affect the alignment, of your coccyx and pelvis. Fit balls do the opposite. My labour was pretty uneventful, so maybe sitting on one helped.

My pregnancy yoga teacher and midwife also recommended I use a fit ball to move about and lean forward on in the weeks leading up to labour to get the baby in an optimal position. And they recommended I use one during labour to ease pain and aid movement during contractions. Little Red was in a good position, and leaning on one right at the start of labour seemed to ease Little Red into place and help relieve pain, so maybe the fit ball worked here too.

When Little Red hit three weeks, all she would do from 6–11pm each night was eat or cry. It was heartbreaking and frustrating, and led us (me) to tears and snappiness. I read every website, blog and book I could find for tips on how to settle babies and not lose my mind. I also asked everyone I knew what tricks they’d tried in the same situation. What ended up working for us? Holding her upright against us, snuggling her into our shoulder and neck, and sitting on the fit ball and bouncing. And bouncing. And bouncing. And bouncing. After anywhere from five to 60 minutes, she’d go to sleep and we’d sigh in relief. (Until she woke up when we tried to put her in her bassinette and we had to start all over again.)

Thankfully Little Red outgrew the witching hour at around eight weeks of age, but bouncing is still the only thing that works when she’s having a crying fit. And rightly or wrongly, we still use it daily to help her fall asleep. That and my boobs.

2. Swim.

My dodgy pelvis brought my gym and running days to an unceremonious halt around 20 weeks into my pregnancy. When this happened, I cried a little inside.

I used to hate exercising when I was younger (I may hold the record for the number of times in a row that I forgot my school sports uniform in year 8), but the Heathrow Injection in my 20s, and ageing overall, instilled in me a new love for exercise and health. I started exercising. A lot. I still try to. It makes me feel free, happy, independent and in control. It gives me space to breathe and think (or not think). I’m also one of those annoying people who read on the cross trainer, treadmill, step machine and bike. I love reading.

So when I could no longer visit the gym or run, I needed a new outlet for stress and way to manage my weight without having to give up chocolate entirely. We were also in the middle of summer and it was more than 40 degrees outside for days on end. Awesome when you’re the size of a mini whale. Swimming is low impact and supportive, and enabled me to move relatively pain free. Swimming, or just floating, in the water belly down also helps babies get into the optimal position for birth.

For all of these reasons, me swimming was a no brainer. In fact, along with the fit ball, swimming probably saved my mobility, sanity and marriage.

With my pelvic floor and body still recovering, low-impact exercise – like swimming – remains the best option for me.

Swimming is proper me time. It is the only time I get to myself where I can’t be immediately interrupted by someone wanting or needing me. It is relaxing and soothing on all levels, and lifts my spirits and clears my head like meditation does. We also get hours of entertainment from watching Indi get high from sniffing and licking the chlorine smell from my hair, arms and legs.

Disclaimer: be smart and ask your health professional if it’s safe for you to swim. It probably will be if you don’t do frog leg kicking, but I don’t want to be held responsible for any health problems.

3. Invest in eye make up.

I know some people don’t dig make up, and that’s a-ok, but it works for me.

My family has a predisposition to dark circles around their eyes. When I changed my diet to remove many allergens, my dark eye circles diminished. But sleep also significantly contributes to these circles, and sadly, sleep is something you have to get used to not having a huge amount of as a mum.

Before I was pregnant, I rarely used make up to hide dark eye circles. But in the final weeks of my pregnancy, when sleep and I weren’t entirely on speaking terms and my diet went out the window (see point 4), I embraced eye make up, especially concealers like this one.

My diet is now much the same as it was pre-pregnancy, but good sleep often still eludes me thanks to Little Red. So when I’m out and about, or just feeling a little flat at home, I’ll slip into something a little less comfortable, brush my hair, and trowel on some war paint. I immediately feel more confident, capable and human.

4. Embrace your vice (in moderation).

There’s an old saying that a little bit of what you fancy does you good. I am not known for my self control when faced with treats, so find this one a little tricky. But the point is that, within reason, it’s ok to indulge yourself.

You carry and create another human being for nearly 10 months (all going well). Then you are at the beck and call of said human being, who needs you to protect and care for them, to help them survive. You might be producing their sustenance too. Your life and time is no longer your own, but you still need to fit in every day life stuff, like showering and feeding yourself. You also need to rest and recover from what is essentially a marathon – no matter what path your birth took.

With this in mind, I think it’s ok for you to eat that cake, brownie, chocolate, ice cream or cheese if you feel like it. Sit down with a nice cup of tea and enjoy every bite without guilt or regret. You deserve it. Plus there might be something in it that you need – like extra calcium or magnesium – which is making you crave it. Nature is pretty amazing in directing you to what you need (albeit not always in the best form!).

The caveat here (sorry!) is to remember that to help you be as healthy and energetic as possible, to help you grow a healthy baby, and to help you recover and best care for your new baby and yourself, you need to eat mainly healthy, natural foods and drink mainly water. Unfortunately, we cannot survive on brownies alone (although there are some great recipes for delicious wholefood brownies out there). If you’re not sure what foods are best for you – because everyone has different needs – ask a qualified nutritionist or naturopath for advice.

5. Avoid daytime TV.

Oh. My. Lord. Have you actually watched daytime TV? And I’m not just talking about D-grade movies from the 1980s, which take mullets and shoulder pads to new heights (geddit?). I’m talking about the morning shows that are hours-long onslaughts of ads for weight loss and beauty products; health, pet, life and funeral insurances; household equipment – mops, vacuums, blenders, frying pans, pots and knives; and suck-me-in pants, leggings, bras, tops and other clothing. If you’re feeling even the slightest bit self conscious or hormonal (which you probably are if you are pregnant or a new mum), these ads may leave you feeling inadequate, insecure and unattractive. (Here’s a quick tip: any well-fitted bra won’t leave unsightly back fat ridges. Or just don’t wear a bra for a while – problem solved!)

And let’s not forget the entertainment news clips and celebrity interviews. The endless, repetitive news programmes detailing the latest shootings, stabbings and bashings – with the odd good news cat or kiddy cancer recovery story thrown in. The sensationalist talk shows featuring adulterers, kiddy fiddlers, domestic violence victims and perpetrators, shoddy salesmen, and health and fitness gurus.

Anytime I watch even a few minutes of daytime TV, I feel my intelligence depleting, my self confidence fading, and a sense of hopelessness creeping in.

Switch it off. Now. No matter how much you think you need a Nutribullet or a Shark mop or the miracle eye gel. If you can, go for a walk outside instead. You’ll feel better inside and out (and will start reducing any need for suck-me-in garments and must-have gym equipment).

6. Watch good TV series or films.

Interesting TV series or films will help you pass the hours you’ll spend feeding your baby, bouncing him/her to sleep, resting and just hanging out feeling knackered. And there will be a lot of time doing that, especially at the start.

Ideally, choose something that doesn’t involve too much brain power and lifts your spirits. For me, it was Downton Abbey, some Jane Austin classics and Spooks (OK, the latter involves thinking and isn’t really that feel good, but I’d seen a lot of the episodes before and always fancied myself as a spy-in-the-making). I’m currently obsessed with Friends reruns, and am looking for another series to stop me buying said Nutribullet, Shark mop or miracle eye gel at a weak moment.

Good books and magazines may be substituted here. Although, honestly, I’m usually too tired to read much these days – it’s easier to watch a good TV show than read. I’m hoping this changes soon though, because my reading pile is ginormous.

7. Relax.

As beautiful and beneficial as meditation can be, I won’t title this ‘Meditate’, because some people get freaked out by the thought of meditating. The whole emptying your mind, focusing on your breath, chanting or enlightenment seems too hard and unattainable.

You don’t need to meditate to relax. But meditation is a great way to do it, and can be as easy as just sitting quietly and focusing on breathing in and out slowly 10 times. There are loads of aps and online videos that can teach you meditations. I prefer guided meditations and use Meditation Oasis and Deepak Chopra’s recordings. I’ve also heard Smiling Mind and UCLA are great.

If meditation isn’t your favourite way to relax, try to spend a few minutes most days doing something that reenergizes you and helps to calm your breath, mind and spirit. Relaxing for you might mean simply sitting on the couch for five minutes and enjoying a cup of tea that is still warm, a bath, a walk or run (once your pelvic floor is up to it), pottering in the garden, a nap, a DVD of your choice, a coffee and conversation with a good friend, cooking, knitting, journaling, painting, reading a book or trashy magazine, a trip to the shop, spending time in nature, expressing gratitude, or listening to music. Everyone has their own release. Find and use yours.

Being a soon-to-be or new mum, you’ll probably be pretty tired and craving a time when you still had some semblance of independence. So it’s important to take some time out to rest and reenergize yourself in whatever way works for you. If, like me, this is a new concept to you, stick with it. Trust me. You need it. And it may help to stop you losing your mind.

If music is your thing, here’s a song to get you started.

Bonus tip: Onesies with zippers, and only zippers.

From now on, I am only ever going to give a soon-to-be mum and dad a onesie that zips up. They are quick and easy to assemble. Especially on a screaming, kicking infant at 2am.

Plus, each time I zip one up on Little Red, I get to sing this song to her and she laughs.

Need I say more?

Driving in sixth gear.

I’m not what you would really call a car person, and am certainly no car expert. My dad and one of my brothers quite like cars, and are very handy at fixing what goes wrong under the bonnet. They’re always talking about what cars they want to test drive or buy next, and they’ve owned a good range of cars between them. Growing up with them means I’ve had to learn to hold my own in a car-related conversation (and how to check and change tyres, oil, water, batteries and lights). I have also developed a list of cars I’d like to own before I die. It includes:

•  an old MG in British racing green (from the 1960s or 1970s)
• an old Jaguar (again, from the 1960s or 1970s, not the ugly new ones)
• an old VW Beetle (a proper solid one from the 1960s, not a new one with a lame vase attached to the dashboard)
• a red Ford Laser KE GL hatch circa 1989–1990 (I like the shape of its boot).

Generally though, I don’t really care too much for cars, their colour, number of cylinders, rims or bodywork (although, the television programme “Pimp my ride” can be surprisingly addictive, especially when it’s the only English language programme, other than the news, on TV in a foreign country). To me, cars are just a means to an end. They are vehicles that transport you to where you need and want to be safely, comfortably, fairly quickly, and ideally with a good soundtrack. Of course, for your car to do this, you need to take care of it, including by regularly servicing it, giving it good fuel, and not pushing it beyond its means.

I’ve not always been the most responsible car owner or driver. I blew more than one head gasket in my old four-speed Corolla by driving it faster than the speed it was comfortable doing (i.e. more than 70 kilometres an hour), and had to get the radiator repaired as a result of it. Soon after I got my license, I braked too late, too hard, in the wet, and hit the back of another car. Twice within a few months. I don’t always (ever) check the spare tyre pressure, which caught me out when a nail pierced a front tyre recently. And I’ve had a couple of speeding tickets… a couple of times. But I like to think I’m a somewhat better driver than I was when I first started driving.

Not that long ago, I was driving somewhere, late again. I was on a main road, coasting along downhill, approaching the speed limit and already in fifth gear. I put my foot on the clutch and reached for the gear stick. I moved the gear stick out of fifth gear and tried to put my little Nissan Pulsar into sixth gear.

Yep.

Now, even I know that Pulsars only have five gears, not including reverse. There was nowhere for the gear stick to go, so I quickly put it back into fifth and kept driving. Then took a deep breath and asked myself what I was doing.

Looking for a non-existent gear in my car wasn’t something I’d normally do. But it made me slow down and think.

Some people believe that cars represent your body or life. At the time, I was working full time, studying almost full time, arranging renovations at home and planning a wedding, plus doing the other day-to-day stuff everyone has to do. I was more than a little busy (and stressed). I was constantly rushing to get as much done as possible, to free up time to do more. I was always late, tired and irritable. I wasn’t much fun. I was pushing my body and mind as far as I could, and clearly it still wasn’t enough for me. I wanted more. I wanted to do more, have more time to do more, and do it all faster. I wanted a sixth gear.

Some cars, like racing cars and fancy, expensive German autos that drive on European highways without speed limits, do have a sixth – or higher – gear. These cars are designed for speed. They have high-quality engines that demand high-quality fuel. They need to be kept in tip top condition to cope with the strain such high speeds place on their systems. And I imagine that despite this special care, they still wear out more quickly than my little Pulsar because of this strain.

Similarly, elite athletes are amazing creatures who either through nature or nuture or both are designed for speed and performance. They maintain their bodies with good food, exercise and rest. But there is only so much a body and mind can take when they are under intense strain. Eventually most elite athletes’ bodies start to wear out – often at a much younger age than less athletic, though still fit, bodies.

My bingo wings attest to the fact that I am no elite athlete, but we all have periods in our lives when we are under immense physical, mental and emotional stress. Times when we could use a sixth gear. Even with good food, exercise and medicinal support, our bodies will eventually tire and get sick if they are pushed too far for too long. And the more pressure we put ourselves and our bodies under, the longer it takes to recover – presuming no permanent damage has been done. Stress is not a sustainable state for the long-term, and it contributes to many diseases, including diabetes, cardiovascular disease, mental illness and infertility.

Like my little five-speed Pulsar, I respond well to, and will hopefully last, with good care, good fuel, movement and rest. I try to eat well, meditate, exercise, practice gratitude, rest and spend time with family, friends and myself – though not always successfully and certainly not enough. If my life is out of balance, if I push myself too hard, I get tired and worn out, and then sick or sad. When this happens to me, I do what I can do to rebalance it, visit a naturopath, kinesiologist or masseur (or all three), go on a date with my boy, and/or book a holiday or something else fun to look forward to.

It’s important to try to recognise the signs that we need to slow down, when our lives are out of balance and we need a little TLC. The signs might be as forgiving as a persistent cold or rash, as blatant as a heart attack, or as abstract as reaching for a non-existent sixth gear. The earlier we recognise the signs, the more we can do to support ourselves through the stressful period and recovery from it, and reinstate a sense of balance in our lives to limit stress and its negative effects. If not, we could all end up with blown gaskets and leaky radiators. And they're not that cheap, easy or fun to fix.

It's not hard to be nice, people.

When I was a university student, I worked part time for a year delivering pizzas, pasta, garlic bread and soft drinks for a large chain restaurant (being a girl, the tips were great). I was quite good friends with the other staff, and we’d hang out in our free time listening to music, seeing bands and drinking. The manager, head kitchen guy and I were probably the closest of friends there, but we all got on very well. Or so I thought.

Over a whisky one night, the kitchen guy told me how the kitchen hand had been talking about me behind my back. This was a surprise to me. The kitchen hand seemed like a lovely girl – she was friendly, happy, smart, physically gorgeous and understandably popular. She was quite young (maybe 16 years old, compared with my mature 20 years), but we chatted easily. Apparently, one night over a post-work ciggie, she’d told him that she didn’t like me because I was too nice. No one could really be that nice, she said.

Wow.

Really?

I didn’t have a comeback for this. And it’s something that’s always stuck with me. I know I’m not a horrible person, but I wouldn’t say that I’m especially or unrealistically nice (actually, most of my friends are a lot more thoughtful, generous and kind than I am). I wondered if anything I was saying or doing was inadvertently coming across as insincere, but I was pretty sure I was just being me. I couldn’t be more sincere than that. Then I came to wonder how it is that someone could have such low expectations of their friends. Shouldn’t friends be nice to each other? Actually, shouldn’t people just be nice to each other, whether or not they know each other?

Back in the day, being nice was sometimes seen as a negative trait to have, a weakness – almost an insult. Nice girls or guys finished last. They didn’t get ahead in work or life. They were nerdy, unpopular, used and down trodden. They didn’t (usually) get lucky in love, or get laid. In fact, nice girls shouldn’t get laid until they’re married (but that’s a whole other blog post). And who hasn't fallen for a bad boy/girl who lived by the motto “treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen” at least once?

  

Now I have a few more grey hairs (carefully dyed red), it seems much more accepted that you can be confident, assertive, successful, popular and nice. These traits do not have to be mutually exclusive. In fact, being nice can actually help you to be more personally and professionally successful, and have more good friends. Given the choice, wouldn't you prefer to work with or for a nice person? Wouldn't you rather hang out with someone who was nice to you? You can still stand up for yourself and others and be nice – it’s all in the delivery. And being nice makes it a whole lot easier to meet someone, fall in love and make it work. 

With all the bad news reported, it’s pretty safe to say that we need more nice people, and more love, in the world. I light up with gratitude and love when other people are nice to me or someone else. I get that warm, fuzzy, goosebumpy feeling. Sometimes I even get a little teary. And being nice doesn’t have to be selfless – it gives me joy and peace to see people’s reactions when I do something nice for them. It’s a win–win feel-good situation.

Being nice to someone – even just smiling at them – can improve their mood and day. It might also inspire them to be nice to someone else, who might then be nice to someone else, and so on. In this way, you don’t just affect the person you’re nice to, but also the people they come into contact with. It can create a beautiful snowball or ripple effect.

And the best bit about being nice? It isn’t hard and doesn’t necessarily cost you any money. Smile at a stranger who is walking past you – or, God forbid, sitting near you on the train. Ask the cashier in the supermarket how their day is – and listen to their reply. Let a car pull out in front of you, and wave thanks to drivers who let you pull out in front of them. Hold the door open for someone walking behind you. Take your neighbour some surplus fruit, vegetables or flowers from your garden if you have one, or just say hello to them next time you see them. Pat the dog or cat who approaches you (if they look friendly). Leave your scraps of bread out for the birds. The opportunities to be nice are endless. 

Being nice doesn’t have to take much thought or effort, but can be life changing for you and the person you’re nice to, and the people who later cross their path. What’s not to like about that?

Big love.

Wow. Another year has almost passed without my posting here. Time flies when you're studying and working full time, being pregnant, renovating, and learning how to be a (relatively) responsible and loving parent.

To get the ball rolling again, here's a photo of Bella keeping warm on a cold winter's day. Modems make handy heaters.

About Bella

We adopted Bella, who was 4.5 years old at the time, from the Cat Protection Society of Victoria (CPS). These people do a stirling job at caring for all sorts of cats, from week-old kittens to the more mature, retiring types; from strays and abandoned cats to those who are sadly given up due to illness, death, moving or financial problems.

Bella's story is sad, but not the saddest I've heard. Her owners had four cats. They gave up all of them when the woman became pregnant and felt she couldn't care for them and a baby. Bella and her brother, and two other cats (brothers from another litter), were handed in to the lovely CPS. The two brothers were soon snapped up. Bella's brother was also in demand because he was a beautiful, sociable cat, but the CPS kept declining offers of adoption for him alone. They hoped to find Bella and him a new forever home together.

The only problem was that Bella was shy. Painfully, off-puttingly, awkwardly shy. She'd cower in the corner under a blanket or run away from whomever approached her, so no one could get to know her and see how beautiful and loving she is. No one wanted her because she seemed so timid and difficult. I think she had a broken heart (and abandonment issues). Eventually the CPS rehoused Bella's brother alone, and Bella stayed with them. For more than a year.

I saw Bella online and fell in love with her big green eyes. I visited her almost weekly for two months. Each time she'd hide or run away from me. I realised how much work would be involved in adopting her and didn't think she would be a good fit for our home, because we were at work all day and she'd need company and security. So, I made it my mission to find her a home.

I tried to convince other people to adopt her, including our retired neighbours, my boy's family and my family, but had no luck. Not even my parents would take her (and they've adopted loads of cats and dogs in need over the years).

I've heard that you don't choose a cat, it chooses you. On one of my last attempts to win my mum over, I took my parents to visit Bella at the CPS. Bella had been moved into a cage inside, where kittens and sick cats were kept, to give her some peace and quiet (probably from the kids that chase the cats in the cages outside). I opened her cage and she cautiously came over to me. I put out my hand slowly. Bella let me scratch her ears and chin, then rolled over to let me scratch her belly. Her motor started. The cage was the same height as my upper body, and she came closer and head butted my face in a clumsy kiss. We played with some feathers on a stick, and she chased them happily up and down the mesh walls. Then she head butted me again. It was decided.

My big-hearted boy eventually caved (with a big list of demands of his own to even things out) and let me bring Bella home the day after our engagement party. He was the first to let her into bed with him, despite being allergic to her.

Bella took a little while to come out of her shell, but we bribed her with cheese and she was soon making herself at home…

Snuggling with my boy (the day after we got her!).

On the bed.                                                              

In the bed.











On my head on the bed.

Under the blankets.

Under the rug.

On the cushions.

On my preggy belly.

On my shoulder while I breastfeed Little Red.

Helping me study and work.

Supervising me cooking from on top of the microwave on top of the fridge.

Smooching with our other cat, Indi.

Bella is not the cat we thought we were getting. She is loud, demanding, quietly confident, obedient and clingy. She is the most loving and affectionate cat I have known. She waits patiently for me to have a minute to myself with a cup of tea so she can climb onto my lap, crawl up my chest and snuggle under my chin, head butting my face as she cuddles in. She nuzzles her way into dressing gowns and jumpers, and under blankets. She comes when she's called. She gently sniffs and smooches Little Red, and isn't deterred by her cries. She never wanders far from us. She no longer hides from strangers (especially if they have cheese). And she always looks at us with absolute adoration.

It just goes to show what difference a little love (and cheese) can make.