The Cerebral Mum

Me, I’m an exhausted girl. With a headache. But I just wanted to quickly let everyone know that The WinterWarm Project is now live.

It took me much longer to get running than expected, not because the work was hard, but because I seem to have minimal skills at coping with pressure these days. I’m working on that.

Anyway, the site is finally here. At the moment, in order to get the knitted items to us, we only have a Melbourne post box, so items will need to be sent to us. Melburnians can use the contact form on the site to organise a pick up or drop off. The delivery options will increase throughout the year though, and we’ll be doing a lot of work when Mum is here in July, organising freight sponsorship to help us with that.

Anyway…

Run on over and check it out. (You get to see what my Mum looks like!)
Spread the word if you can. (I’ll be adding a few different images you can use in your sidebars over the next couple of weeks.)
Help out with the knitting/crocheting if you can. (We’ll slowly begin to add free patterns to the site, so subscribe.)

Anyway, we’re excited!

xx cm

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Some people post about the bigger events in their lives. I rarely seem to be able too. When big things are happening, blogging doesn’t. Which I guess is why I’ve never kept a journal. So Week Zero (O-Week) was last week.

O-Week is “Orientation”. There aren’t any classes: It’s just time to hang out, get used to the campus, sign up for clubs and unions, go to information seminars, change your courses, sort out your books, ID card etc, etc… I only went in on the Monday, because I’ve done this before, right? And 5 hours on public transport is a lot to pay for a sausage sizzle. But I did write some scribbly notes on my home, and here they are…

Late last night… Still not organised. Should I even go to O-Week? There’s a host to meet at 9am for a “challenge”. That means I have to leave home at 6:30am. All my clothes are in the laundry. I have changed my mind 4 times already about whether I’m going to do it all or just go in for a couple of later sessions. Then it’s 2am and I still don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m finally excited instead of just worrying about being organised.

And then today… I wake up. It’s 8am. I guess that’s my decision made for me. I say to Big Sis, “Nope. Definitely not going.” I look at my O-Week program again and see that the Arts Faculty welcome is at 2pm. I can make that session.

I have the luxury of showering while Big Sis runs around stopping Cas from pushing all the buttons on the television. And the stereo. And the computers. It’s cold. the weather and the only clean items in my closet dictate what I’m going to wear. I still haven’t plucked my eyebrows. I take tweezers with me so i can do it on the train. What’s a few eyebrow hairs between commuters, right?

I finally get there, 2 1/2 hours later, and the weather has changed. I’m wearing a skirt as a top, smock-like over a black turtleneck, and a heavy winter coat. I take the turtle neck off. Still too hot. The coat has to go too, so it’s off to the bathrooms to remove my bra as well. Not exactly perky but a strapless “smock” hides a multitude of things, and at least I’m no longer sweating. I obviously wasn’t organised enough for Melbourne weather.

I have a list. The queue for ID cards is too long. The queue to even get into the bookstore is too long. I buy a latte and hang out watching the band. And then to the lecture hall.

It is far larger than even the largest lecture hall at my old Uni. I take a seat in the centre of the 3rd row. That’s where I always sit at the movies. I ask the girl in front of me if she went to the “challenge” this morning, just so I knew what I had missed out on, but she hadn’t gone either. The girl beside me starts a conversation, an American living in the Halls of Residence for her first Australian semester but planning on moving out once she gets her bearings. She’s lovely. But a photography major, so I’ll probably never see her again…

That’s where my notes leave off, but I did get my ID card and my books. And I was completely spellbound listening to the faculty welcome and all the phenomenal opportunities which are ahead of me if I want them… Internships, study tours and even an overseas semester with, wait for it… The fees covered by HECS! So now I’m dreaming of an extraordinarily cheap semester a Harvard. I just have to take a breath here and savour that thought.

Not only that, I also found out that I could switch to a double degree and get a Bachelor of Arts and Bachelor of Education at the same time in stead of just following my BA with a Dip. Ed. Now that’s a plan!

And not only that, I can factor in a Graduate Certificate of Arts & Social Sciences while still an undergrad as well. I’m not sure yet if I can do all 3, but if I can, I’m sure as hell going to!

By the way, my first actual real lecture was today, and fantastic, but I’m going to have to tell you all about that tomorrow….

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Okay. I swore that my Uncle K would be the only person ever allowed to call Caspar that, and he is only allowed to because nothing would stop him (and I adore him), but it makes for a catchier title than “Caspar update”.

Why Spooky Joh? Caspar’s middle name is Johannes, in honour of my Opa (my mother’s father), and the spooky connection seems fairly obvious. I was very aware that when I chose his name (or it chose me) that I would have to deal with “friendly ghost” jokes. Please resist the temptation to make one and remind yourself that that lovable, floaty cartoon character’s name was CaspEr, not CaspAr. And, yes, I was also aware that I would be spending the next 20 years correcting everyone’s spelling.

I hate nicknames. My sister has called Cas numerous ridiculous things and each time I object, but my Uncle K is not my sister. He’s special. So he gets to call Cas Spooky Joh, and the terrible thing about it is that it’s terribly catchy. Why, oh why, did I write it here? I refuse to give my permission for anyone else to use it.

Anyway, I am rambling. Update. That’s what I’m supposed to be writing. An update.

I wish I had some brand new pictures to go with it, but I’ve been slack with the camera lately so I’m going to post some slightly older ones in the hope that no one will notice. 11 months old or 13 months old, he is still insanely gorgeous.

Apart from his overwhelming interest all in things that do things, he now performs many important tasks on command. He dances, he spins, he points to his belly button and sticks out his tongue. He “goes upside down”, which is downward facing dog if we’re talking yoga positions. He sits down. He gets his ball or his shoes. He “reads” his books. He runs away so I can catch him. And today, he decided he was ready to jump.

I don’t know at what age children normally learn to jump, but whenever they do, it is seriously funny. Such a gargantuan effort, with a tennis-player grunt, and he only manages to get enough lift to stand on tiptoe. Before falling on his butt. He, of course, soon realised we found this funny so being the puppeteer comedian he is, he began to simply go through the motions, bending his knees then straightening up, sticking out his chest and throwing his head back. This, of course, made us laugh more so I am afraid that we will be doomed to that performance for some time to come, much like the fake laugh he developed which still rears its head on occasion, usually just long enough to leave us in tears.

Yes. My son has a fake laugh. I have been told on occasion that my laugh sounds fake, which is really not a nice thing to hear but Caspar’s fake laugh? It’s irresistible. It began in the emergency room while we waited for Big Sis to be seen. He went, He He, and we laughed. He did it again. And we laughed. So he did it again and again until our sides ached and we were sliding from our chairs, crying. They were the best tears we shed that awful week.

Are fake laughing and fake jumping considered milestones?

Oh, there is one other thing he does on command which boggles my mind. I know they say that children learn by example but if so, I can honestly say that he didn’t get this from me. “Put it away” and “Put it back“. I never put things away. He loves to put things away. As teaching Caspar thus far has appeared to go more along the lines of me working out what he already knows rather than me showing him something he can repeat, I thought I’d test the breadth of his understanding. I told him to get his shoes, which I had, of course, left scattered on the living room floor. Then I told him to put them away. He carried them from the living room then walked down the hall and into our bedroom where he placed them neatly on the shelf of his wardrobe. Yes. Neatly.

He did not get that from me.

Not only is he tidy, he does things comfortably in an orderly fashion. If I hand him his bottle in the kitchen, he takes it and ambles off to our bedroom to wait beside his cot for me to lift him in for his nap. (Admittedly, he occasionally tosses his head and sighs as he does this, but he still does it. Without prompting.) And when I change him into his pajamas, he goes and gets a book or two then climbs onto the couch waiting for me to read to him before he happily goes to bed. Seriously, where did he pick up that kind of behaviour? Where? I think he must be a changeling. I know I’ve said that I got the beginner’s model, but I think it’s more than that. I got the training model.

I think I’ve gone on for a while now, but there is only one more new thing to tell you. He has a trike. Just one of those walking ones, no peddles. But he isn’t tall enough for it. My Mum bought it for him when she was here in July so that I could give it to him for his birthday. She was careful to pick one that wasn’t too high or too wide but at that stage he was at the top end of those ubiquitous percentile charts. Then he went in for his surgery and he just stopped growing. Okay, he’s grown some but if percentiles were like grades, he would now be failing.

So after his birthday we tried it a few times but with his little legs all he could do was get his heels stuck under the back wheels. After a few attempts (and a face planted in the concrete driveway after flipping himself over the handle bars) I gave up and it has been sitting in a corner ever since. A couple of days ago though, he decided that he wanted to play with his trike and if he couldn’t ride it, he would walk it. For an hour and a half he criss-crossed the lounge with it, struggling to pick it up to turn it around each time he needed to change direction. (Steering isn’t a skill he has acquired yet.)

An hour and a half!

Honestly, does this boy need me for anything, other than clapping?

God, I love him.

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So now, after writing about my neurotic lack of coping with the first birthday party, I should probably record here what the party was actually like.

It was held here at Big Sis’ house in the front yard and there was no need to worry about rain. The weather caused a me a little concern, though. 33° (92° fahrenheit) is way above the average for October and raised the spectre of last year’s bushfire season, which burned out 1.1 million hectares. Later, watching California burn, I couldn’t help but think of the continuing drought and what may come with the summer.

After collapsing into bed the night before without finishing all my preparations, there was a lot to do in the morning but between Big Sis, B and I, nearly everything was done on time and Caspar was kept amused outside by B’s twins and the Jolly Jumper Big Sis and B had bought him for his birthday. The kids were impatient for the party to start and I locked them out of the house while I decorated the cake I shouldn’t have put off making to the day of the party.

When P (the other half of The Odd Couple in the house behind us) arrived with his two girls, we fired up the BBQ straight away although nobody else was here yet. The kids had been patient and were hungry. I had taken the little red table I bought secondhand as part of Caspar’s birthday gift of crayons and drawing pads outside and all the children sat around him there, fussing over him and playing with his hair, as girls are wont to do.

Caspar, like the far-too-advanced boy he is, sat on his yellow chair and fed himself, not at all bemused by the female attention. He has become accustomed to it. Indeed, I think he expects it. Not long after that a couple of my friends arrived and took a seat in our circle of big-people chairs. I, of course, flapped around a little trying to make sure everyone had something to eat and drink, not quite relaxed yet.

One thing I have been consistently amazed by since becoming a mother is how many hands and eyes are there to divert and watch over Caspar while I try to get things done. This assistance seems to be instinctual on the part of parents and non-parents alike and it is carried out so graciously that there is no need for words. I read so often of mothers, especially single mothers, overwhelmed by their parenthood so I must believe myself fortunate in this respect but I can’t help thinking that this is the way it should be. I do not think the days of community in childrearing are dead and gone.

So I had a chance to sit and talk and eat while Caspar belonged to everybody.

And then, of course, the cake. With the wind, it was impossible to keep the lone candle lit but it didn’t matter. Caspar would not have been able to blow it out anyway. He could, however, recognise that the slightly sad looking giraffe with its bright yellow icing was something good to eat and we had to move it away to be dished out as he tried to grab the whole lot of it for himself.

Not long after that, the children went home and Caspar went down for a nap, pink in spite of slathers of sunscreen and warm in just his nappie and a singlet. My friends and I cleared away the dishes outside and sat in the lounge talking over a glass of wine. Later, K, the friend that I had lost, arrived and I woke Cas from his sleep so they could meet each other. A bit bleary eyed and wobbly, it didn’t take him long to start turning on his charm and show off all his skills, running around, waving, clapping his hands and putting his hands on his head. And my favourite… Dancing. He’s been head-banging since before he could sit up, and his repertoire of moves just keeps growing. He can move up and down, shift his weigh from foot to foot as he sways, stomp, writhe and spin around in circles. He’s got rhythm and whenever he hears music, he starts rocking.

And then of course, the afternoon grew late and it was time for people to leave but it was lovely having that quiet time with my three friends, and Caspar loved having all the company. There were no tears and no stress on his part.

We had a quiet evening, B cooking up the last of the meat on the BBQ and Big Sis and Cas and I eating with him at the table in the garage as the sun went down and the air cooled. Caspar sat at the big table with us, for the first time in the portable booster seat which was my first birthday present from Big Sis and B.

I tasted the cake then, a recipe I hadn’t used before but I had been assured by the party guests that it was good. I wasn’t too impressed with the giraffe I had made, but for a first effort, without any guiding instructions, it was good enough. I’m sure the cakes I make will get fancier as the years go by. Until the day Caspar tells me to stop making him such silly things. One day he will be protective of his young man’s dignity.

The cake was good! I mean, really good! And so easy. I used a simple tea cake recipe (3 quantities) and blended it in the food processor. It only took 5 minutes. Try it at home and just brush it with some butter then sprinkle on a layer of cinnamon or coffee sugar. Because, really, virulent yellow icing is not that appealing to adults.

Tea Cake

60g butter
1 tsp vanilla essence
1/2 cup castor sugar
1 egg
1 cup self raising flour
1/3 cup milk

Cream butter and essence. Add sugar, then egg, and mix until creamy. Add flour and milk and mix until smooth. Bake in a moderate oven for 25 minutes.

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He turned 1 today! See his year in pictures, from his first moments on earth to today. I’m sure you’ll agree that he is perfect.

View gallery…

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I knew it was coming. There were some valiant attempts earlier in the week. A white knuckled grip, a face mashed into the the upholstery, one knee high up against his side and one foot almost lifting off the ground. And two days ago he made it.

Yes, Caspar can now climb up onto the sofa. I’m impressed. I’m proud. I’m thrilled. But I’m also horrified. The logistics of the descent still seem a long way off. He thinks a head-first dive-bomb is the way to go and I can no longer leave the living room, even momentarily, while he is in it. Who will be there to catch him?

After a morning spent at the house I am selling, dragging old furniture and a pond and a pool table out to the nature strip for the annual hard rubbish collection, I actually spent some of my afternoon on the couch watching TV. Caspar is very good at entertaining himself. He likes patrolling the house, inspecting the floorboards, opening and closing doors and poking at whatever he discovers along the way. But he also likes his Mummy & Me time. And that means books.

So there I was, watching episode 3 of Grey’s Anatomy’s 4th season in a fairly half-assed way, perking up a little when Really Old Guy… No, better not mention that. It hasn’t aired here yet. Anyway, there I was on the sofa when Caspar came over and handed me one of his favourite books before clawing his way up and snuggling in to just the right spot for me to read to him. Needless to say, I turned the television off.

Let’s just dwell on that image for a minute, before I go on with my story. I can’t remember exactly when he started snuggling in by himself for story time, coming over with book in hand and sitting himself down on my knee whenever I was cross-legged on the floor but it still moves me each time. It is probably the clearest communication I have from him.

(When he shakes his head, no, he won’t hit me any more, does he really know what he is agreeing to? When he nods, yes, he’s finished his dinner, does he really understand what it means? Actually, I’m, pretty sure he has that one figured out. When I asked yesterday he had hardly eaten a thing but I let him down anyway so that he would learn. He promptly picked up his dinner so that he could continue eating while toddling off to say hello to Big Sis. Finished obviously means Get free. I think I got played.)

But I don’t think it’s the clear communication that puts butterflies in my stomach and a lump in my throat when he comes and claims his space, even though that is something to be proud of. It’s not even that he loves reading so much. I think it is the trust expressed - his trust in me, in my attention, in his place in my world - which is so very beautiful that it almost moves me to tears. I think it is in moments like these that you know you are doing a good job of being a mother.

But, being a mother, Caspar’s choice of a more elevated book time (elevated to sofa level) today seemed like a good opportunity to provide some instruction. Like any addict bookworm, one is never enough for him and his usual method of obtaining another fix more books when we are on the couch is to lunge over the edge to reach the bookshelf which doubles as a side table while I grab at his ankles like a bungee cord, trying to avert possible brain damage. Today, with a lot of patience on my part and very little on his, we did a some manoeuvring between stories to show him how to go down backwards. I’m not sure the message sank in though.

He’s right, after all: Head first is quicker.

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Yes. He’s turning one. It’s wonderful. And it’s too fast.

A party date is set. The 21st. I’ve let people know but it’s time to get those invitations out. I ditched my picnic idea - it is too inconvenient to get us to a location convenient for everyone else. If only a few people come, well, that’s a bit depressing but it is the way things are until we move.

So a yard and a barbeque and a birthday cake. Home made, of course. And no balloons. Caspar is terrified of balloons. It is the first thing he has ever really been afraid of. He cries and clings and buries his head on my shoulder briefly before turning back to make sure that round and colourful air monster isn’t coming for him.

So definitely no balloons.

I bought some invitations yesterday and some 90 cent crayons as his present. Today I’m off to get some nice paper to print off as Wishes to send along with the invitations so that everyone who can’t make it can fill them out and send a birthday message for him. I’m hoping that I will also find a secondhand, Caspar-height table for him to sit and scribble at and I will get some colouring paper. After that, and the beer and the meat, all the preparations are done. It’s not the best party I have ever planned (And a generic invitation pad? Who does that?) but it will do.

So now I just have to deal with the fact that this first year almost over. Just the other day when I dressed him, I thought I’d try on one of the oversized polo shirts that my Mum had bought for him in July. Contrary to my expectation, it fit perfectly. It almost made me cry. Some of the welling tears were of pride. (Pride that he is growing? Does that count as an achievement? Well, yes. When you’re a mother.) The rest of the tears were for being forced to acknowledge that there is not a lot of baby left in him.

I remember when he was a baby and I went to the the supermarket and placed him in the infant seat as I usually did. Looking at him there and trying to do the straps up, I realised he was far too big to be in the infant seat any more and was ready for a real trolley. But I felt so silly for not realising this that I left him there and did my shopping with some chagrin. And it was just the other day that I realised I no longer have to carry him from the car to the house and then go back for my shopping bags.

He can walk, stoopid!

I can carry my bags and he can hold my finger and we can walk into the house together. Change just happens in the blink of an eye. Sometimes it takes me a while to catch up.

So on his first birthday he will wear his big clothes, feed himself cake, put his hands on his head, clap, dance, say dah-gah, play catch, lead everyone else around by the hand and tear the paper off his presents himself. As he should.

It freaks me out and bring tears to my eyes.

And that is how it should be as well.

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