I'm not losing a daughter, I'm gaining a son. Right?

I've just returned from Greta Garbo's flat, where she and her sister and I have been spending time reminiscing over school experiences, family laughs and upsets, and trading insults. In typical GG fashion, she had spent the day unwisely, not eating, and fashioning an eclectic menagerie of animals out of lumps of potato-starch-packing. She made me a frog with a pink nose. Her lounge table was covered in Lush products from a gift pack, and she was in her pyjamas and so, so young.

Tomorrow she is going to marry her love, a wonderful young man who we respect and care for a great deal. I felt I should have imparted much wisdom but in my normal tied-up manner I couldn't bring myself to do much more than joke and poke at her, telling her that not only did we like him a great deal, we liked him more than we liked her, and that we would want to keep him if they ever divorced. I've saved the profound things, the things that will make me cry, for my speech at the reception tomorrow night.

I don't remember the night before my first wedding. I remember the morning, getting ready, leaving the flat with my home-made dress and my five-months-pregnant stomach. Pregnant with GG - this precious little baby who woke up the resilience in me that had lain dormant until that point. The little baby who helped me birth the adult I needed to become. My wedding then was a backyard affair with salads and cold meat and bemused relatives who treated us like kids at a birthday party. This will be the full bridezilla catastrophe and I must say, I'm kind of looking forward to it.

The Daily Hack - Christmas shopping

Are you receiving eleventy billion brochures advertising The Perfect Christmas Gifts For Your Loved Ones? They are actually useful, you know.

I bought a wonderful Christmas notebook from Kikki-K last week but any notebook would do. It's divided into gifts, food, cards, and budget. I'm using this notebook and the brochures to streamline Christmas this year. As I go through the brochures and see something I think someone would like, I write it down in the gifty bit of my handy dandy notebook, which has a column for their name, the gift idea, where you get it, and the price. And I can find the good food bargains too.

Let's see if I'm more organised this year!

Welcome back!

Sometimes changes come in sharp tremors that shake you and leave you in no doubt that your life has altered irrevocably. Sometimes it creeps up on you, and one morning you wake up and realise that they way you look at the world when you shake open your bedroom curtains is vastly different from how you looked at it a year ago.

I've had changes of both types over the last year. Major Tom's arrival in April was one of the first, and marked a change in some large and prosaic ways - a year's maternity leave, an alteration of our lifetime expectations, a whole new child and a boy at that! - and in some less tangible ways. Major Tom completed us in a way we didn't know we needed to be completed. From the moment I knew he was coming, I realised I had to readjust. Career, family, hopes, money - it was all going to have to be totally overhauled. Okay.

The second type of change has surprised me. It took the Night of the Great Spew to make me realise just how much I have changed.

Saturday was a harbinger of what was to come. On the way to Wangaratta, Clarebear vomitted and I had to turn around and bring her home. Because I hadn't got far, I set out again, only to have Major Tom vomit in short order, stymying our trip completely. Then, nothing. The calm before the storm. Sunday morning Clarebear was vomitting again, and vomitted and vomitted... all day. By dinner time both Beloved and I were feeling queasy, and by bedtime, he and I and Gennabug were all vomitting. Then ensued a night which saw encore performances from Isobug and Toxic Teen (who is really getting too old and mellow for that label).

This morning I awoke to find that Isobug and Gennabug had both missed their buckets in their bedrooms, and Isobug in the loungeroom also, and that the bathroom was a special kind of hideous carnage. Despite my own delicate state, I hastened to clear away all the evidence so that the house was smelling of bleach and fresh air and not some kind of third world latrine.

We rested most of the day, with me puttering around after the family, fixing toast, mixing hydration solution, doling out icy poles and resting a maternal hand on somewhat febrile brows. Beloved slept for much of the day. I spent the afternoon getting some tedious jobs done that have been shrieking at me for weeks - sweeping cobwebs out of the back entrance way, wiping out the cupboards under the sink, picking up bits of debris out of the back yard, sorting out the kids' shoe cupboards. The children kept me company in between their naps.

The only remotely resentful moment I had was after feeding Major Tom at 6pm, I came out to find that the planned meal of baked beans on toast (we had barely the stomach for even that) was still in its can/packet, and that Beloved had fallen asleep (again) on the chair and everyone was waiting for me to get it for them. I sighed a little, but then got on with it, and then tidied up afterwards.

This is hardly some kind of amazing feat of motherhood, is it? But for me, such a day, after such a night, is a major turning point for me. Last week I lamented to my sister that I was missing something, that whatever it was that enabled other people to cope and be good and reliable and tidy and organised, I was clearly missing it. I was basically deficient.

And yet, after today, I'm not. And tomorrow I wake up knowing that I'm not, and I can open the curtains and look out on a day that will be full of me being just fine and capable.

Brief thoughts for the day? My new favourite blog is Our Red House. The best thing I have done this month is start up a Home Control Journal. The funniest moment has been laughing about The Worst Vomit You Have Ever Done over lunch today. And tomorrow Gennabug has her orientation day for highschool....

Pic of the day:

When I got home from buying up my Sick Food (potato chips, Coke and Tic-Tacs) there was a little noisy miner bird chick sitting outside the church door, as if waiting for sanctuary. Its mother was swooping down and depositing food in its wide open mouth. I took a snap of it and she was flapping and shrieking at me. I called for Beloved to ask him what we should do, and he told me to leave it. It was gone an hour later. Hopefully not into Mungo's stomach.

She spins, and spins

At the end of the day, when my work is done and I'm settled on the couch, a golden orb weaver begins her work outside, from the branches of the wisteria, in our pergola.

When the foot traffic from the back gate to the back door is finished, and the noise has quieted, and the only other evidence of life is the shrill of the cicadas in the gum tree leaning over the fence, she emerges from the leafy greenness and anchors her night's work to the brick paving below.

She lays the foundations - long, thick strands of silk running four or five feet, one from the wisteria to the ground, another from the launching place to the back of a garden chair, and an anchoring strand between. Here she will begin her web, with the more delicate, sticky strands that will form the net for her victims.

Her golden body bustling, she begins from the outer and works her way in, extruding the architecture from her very body with back legs working like cotton-mill machinery, pulling the thread from her abdomen, ready to catch the unwary moths and beetles that hum and flicker in the yard at this time of year. Around, and around, in even and geometric industriousness, she spins. The nights are short now and she must work quickly to make the most of the undisturbed hunting patch.

When she is done, the web is magnificent, even if her inch long body and glossy red legs are not for the faint hearted. Feigning nonchalance, we all go outside and admire her handiwork, walking as close as we dare, while she continues the finishing touches before settling in the centre of her piecework. We are glad she is distracted, feeling a little threatened by her single mindedness and devotion to the kill. We wonder if there are babies in the green branches above us for whom she is gathering sustenance, and the touch of a leaf on our necks on the way back to the door is quickly brushed off with a nervous titter.

In the morning, when we go out again to begin our daily work, there are only a few shredded remnants of her web, some gauzy strands floating down from a twig, a length stretching still to the garden chair, and we can't see where she has gone to spend the daylight hours. We can only assume that she is sated and that the breeze, the birds and unwary pedestrians have caught the products of her labour.

While I admire her industriousness in the night, it's the destruction that daylight brings that elicits from me the greatest respect. Daily her work is torn down, and her beauty hidden in an environment that helps us forget she is there, waiting for the sun to drop in the sky. And nightly, without complaint, she continues her ritual, oblivious to our wonderment and nervousness. Such determination and dedication.

I consider this, as I hang out yet another load of washing.

And so that was Christmas

It's such a cliche to say that Christmas can be a frought time, but it really can, can't it? Our Christmas has been relatively calm and enjoyable, but there has still been a lot of emotional intensity to deal with.

It was preceded by the decision to ask Greta Garbo to leave home. The situation has become untenable. I've committed the heinous sin of expecting her to pay board ($60 per week) whilst not granting much in the way of privileges along with that... other than her being able to come and go as she pleases, her doing pretty much zilch in the way of cooking or cleaning or otherwise contributing to the household or being in any way accountable. Yes, she doesn't have a proper bed, she sleeps on a mattress in her sister's room. We had planned on rearranging rooms and putting the loft bed up in there for her - but apparently that's not good enough. She was happy enough to live in a pigsty on a mattress for twice what we are asking beforehand.

It' s just not working, and not just because of her inability to stop berating us over this basic requirement of an adult living in this household. It's that while she is here, she simply can't learn the lessons she needs to. The place for her to fall is too soft. Whilst she complains about it all, she's happy enough to accept it, and not figure out that this is now her life, and it isn't up to us to solve her problems any more. Not only is it not our *problem*, it's not our place - it's actually not doing her any good, letting her stay here and continue in the position she's in. She needs to get out and confront life and learn the lessons it has to teach her, without holding her hand all the way.

It came to a head the other day when she brought the subject up again and then proceded to be ruder than anyone in this house has a right to be, shouting over the top of us, telling us to shut up, and generally being appalling. I gave her one warning that if she didn't stop, she'd be given a month's notice to quit. She didn't stop, so I gave her the news. It all happened quite quickly.

What surprised me was how difficult it wasn't. I feel few regrets other than that I wish I had been more consistent and much firmer over the past year while she transitioned from "high school student" to "independent adult". Where I must accept fault is in overcompensating for my fear of failure of being a Good Enough Mother. I've said, "I will not do this for you," and then I have gone and done it.

And in the meantime, this kiddult has left a pile of her dirty clothes in the laundry for nearly two weeks.

Christmas was a series of compromises, in many ways. While it was enjoyable to spend the last two days with the inlaws once Beloved had finished his church duties, it is always hard to leave behind the things that have always marked out Christmas as something special for me. Doing it in a different place, eating differently, doing things at different times, in different ways... it was hard. I decided to cope by looking at Christmas as a season that will continue for the next twelve days, and to celebrate the things that were missing through that time. Things like the food we didn't have - jaffa cakes and trifle and nuts, we can do that along the way. Looking at Christmas lights - well, they're still up! They're still pretty! I might even see if I can buy a turkey on special at the sales tomorrow, just so that I can have turkey leftovers for days.

Beloved has also messed me about a bit with our planned holidays - things that I thought were going to happen are now not going to happen. Things that I wasn't anticipating are happening - like extended stays of his family and mine - while I am on my brief and desperately needed holiday, so I've had to rearrange my mind. I've come to realise that I can adapt better than I used to be able to - I just have to find strategies to think about things differently. There are aspects of my character that are still very difficult to deal with, but last night proved a shining example of why they aren't all bad.

I couldn't sleep last night - the noise from the inlaws' neighbours was atrocious. As the night wore on, the volume just grew and grew. I went to bed early-ish and fell asleep reasonably quickly, despite it all, but awoke at 11.30pm to screaming coming from next door. The room was hot and sticky and I could literally feel my blood pressure rising as my pulse started whooshing in my ears. Frustrated and angry I poked Beloved and said, "Is anyone going to ask them to shut up?" "I don't know," grumbled Beloved, who, from the sound of his raucous snoring was not being particularly disturbed.

"I guess it's up to the pregnant woman to get up and do something about it, then," I snarled. I stomped out of the house and up their drive way. "Excuse me! Excuse me!" I shouted at them. I had to shout several times from only a few feet away before they could even hear me. "I have a house full of kids and a pregnant woman who can't sleep. Do you think you could shut up??!!!" The adult in the equation poked his head out and told them they'd better pipe down - they were squirting each other with a hose and screaming, whilst the stereo boomed out of the windows. At nearly midnight!

So my irritability is a bad thing... but if it weren't for my occasional bouts of high dudgeon, sometimes things just wouldn't get done. The kids think it is hysterically funny when I put on my scary lady face and get angry at people (who deserve it), but I sincerely believe that if you aren't prepared to do something about whatever is pissing you off, whether it's changing the way you think about it or doing something active about stopping the behaviour, then you lose your right to complain. There comes a point where lack of action signals self-abuse, and my sympathy begins to wane.

Perspective

This week, Greta Garbo has been fuming at the expectation that now she is in employment, she is required to pay board - $60 per week. That is the rate we decided on with dd2, and it seems reasonable. Even if she chooses to eat elsewhere 90% of the time, it seems important that adults pay their way, simply on principle. It's a lesson we all need to learn. And it's not like we aren't forgoing a significant amount of income in order to live where we do. She has a warm spot, amenities, and security. To me, that's worth $60. She wouldn't get it anywhere else on the continent for $60 a week. She's not speaking to us. We are apparently grotesque in the unreasonableness department.

Today I read the blog of a Melbourne family who lost their son too young, far too young, tragically young, to cancer. He had everything going for him, and was grabbing life by the throat when cancer grabbed him.

I want to grab my daughter, and shake some perspective into her.

Oh, the irony

I'm about to post two contradictory things, one little item on "emotional vampires," and a bit of a vent.

I read this online today and I could name at least two people who fit the description with whom I spend a lot of time.

How Energy Vampires Drain Your Positive Energy

Energy vampires drain positive energy in many ways, such as:

• Intruding on your life, ignoring boundaries and privacy (energy vampires don't think of you).
• Making big deals out of nothing. Energy vampires are often called "drama queens" because they can easily turn a broken nail into a Shakespearean tragedy. Negative energy spreads from everyday events.
• Complaining constantly about their partners, jobs, children, bad luck, and illnesses. Energy vampires like to vent.
• Criticizing your hair, appearance, job, children, partner, friends, and pets (energy vampires aren't positive).
• Not taking "no" for an answer. Energy vampires don't consider your needs.
• Being unrelentingly negative. Their negative energy is unrelentless, and energy vampires drain your positive energy by encouraging you to be negative, too.
• Blaming everyone else for their problems (energy vampires don't take responsibility).

I need to learn to set boundaries and refuse to get dragged into it, I really do.

Anyway.

Last week, we found out we were having a boy baby. It sounds so prosaic! And yet it was so emotional, and all the more so for the fact that it was so very unexpected. I still haven't unraveled all of the issues contained in this delightful surprise.

One thing I will have to contend with however is the startling revelation (startling to me anyway as the feminist mother of five daughters) that the pressure on boys to be Boys™ is even stronger than it is for girls (to be Girls™, that is). Generally, whenever it was apparent the progeny was carrying two x chromosomes, the generalisations were along the lines of "Your poor Beloved," or "You'll never be alone, will you?" The most I can retort to those is, really, "He doesn't realise how hard done by he is yet," and, "Oh, bugger."

What has come out of the blue closet has been, well, revelatory.

Apparently, this child with the y chromosome will have to "stick together" with Beloved. I wonder why - are the girls and I suddenly going to surround them and throw stones whilst chanting "boy! germs! boy! germs!"?

Apparently, boys love their mummies. (Except for the ones that don't, but maybe I only meet them when they are adults.) I'm in for some monumental loving then, because as far as I can tell, girls love their mummies, and their daddies, too.

Beloved will find himself bonding closer with this baby. Is it possible to be closer than he is with Miss Four-Going-On-Forty, for whom he has been the primary carer for the past four and a half years? Is that such a superficial thing that the presence of testicles on the next child will allow a bond so much stronger?

Boys like cars, and building things. Which is good, because at least half of my girls do too, and I've got boxes of cars, trains and legos that they still love to play with. And while he's at it, he can play cricket with Stompy, and test out all the electrical circuitry on her home made gadgets, and discuss how cool arthropods and spiders are. All whilst getting absolutely filthy.

And, apparently, boys love blue. Girls love pink, sure, but in the clothing aisle, their wider tastes are reflected in the green, red, orange, purple, black, white, yellow and every other imaginable colour (even blue) clothing provided for them. In the boys' aisle, there is every shade of blue. Or, perhaps, blue mixed with some brown check. Or a bit of green. But don't forget the blue. Dark blue, especially. Because, as we've seen above, you need practical colours that Boys™ can get dirty.

I may be completely naive. After all, I haven't had an opportunity to observe any differences with this baby yet. It may be that he turns out to be a complete Boy™. Or, like many boys I know, he may be useless with his hands and love reading. Hate football, but be into fabrics and other creative pursuits. He may be quiet and contemplative. He may be anything at all.

What I'd like, world, is for you to just back off and give him the chance to be what it is he's meant to be. Thanks.