Really Very Pretty

I've recently just finished making the Doctor's quilt. It took such a long time, and I have such immense respect for those who make things with their hands.

Which is why I love this Kantha range that's new-ish to Freedom. Hand made in India, no two pieces are the same. There are throws, cushions and bolsters. I love the look of them layered all together, the nuances in each piece, the stories that those stitches can tell. Plus they are perfect for Winter, for layering onto your couch, or over the end of your bed. There's nothing I love more than snuggling under the blankets - layers and layers of them, whereas Matt protests, I feel like I am in my cocoon.

In fact, our bedding is a constant tussle with us. A bone of contention in our marriage. I pile them high, Matt prefers just a doona. I like an old school bed. Matt likes just a doona. I like bunkering down under 87 layers. Matt likes just a doona.

Someone talk some sense into the man.



Ice-Cream Sunday

How was your weekend? 
What did you do? 
Did you do anything exciting? 


I made raspberry ice-cream with the Vitamix. It took me approximately three minutes. 
I will make a video and show you how, because my goodness, that was soooo good and made a pretty hideous Sunday turn the beat around. Ice-cream has a knack for that. 

Therapeutic Monday:: In The Garden

I spent some time in the garden yesterday. Actually a lot of time. With secateurs in hand. 

The reason for this spate of Gardening Australia? I had to find the water meter for the water meter reader man. Do you think I found it? Nope. Despite hacking into everything - and being completely disgusted with the weeds that think it's ok to procreate in my garden. I still have not found the meter. 


However I did find my inner gardener, my inner Peter Cundal. It was sprinkling and cold and yet - I was stalwart and continued hacking into those overgrown bushes (not that bush, manners, please). I must be channeling my mum. And my grandmother. Both keen gardeners. Now there are piles of clippings all over our garden. And nowhere to put them. Novice fail. 


It was good to do physical work - to feel the physical tiredness, and see tangible results. 


In other ground breaking news Tiny went back to preschool today - and I got to spend some time with her and her classmates, decorating picture plates. Boy it was funny, I was chuffed to spend time there, and today was a triumph. Tiny wore jeans. Crumbs. She gave me a cute attack. 


Tonight Tiny told me she wanted to climb onto my back and never hop off, no matter what, she'd just ride up there on my back - and never-ever- everlet me go, then she would yell: "this is paradise". Chris Martin has been brainwashing her. 


Sigur Ros. This is beautiful. A good reason for me to move to Iceland. Good music and crazy knits. 


Tomorrow, on ANZAC day, we're planning to head into the city. I enjoy seeing the diggers, waving, acknowledging them. I'd like to take the smalls to see that, with rosemary pinned on. 

Neighbours. And I don't mean Kylie, Scott Michaelson or Madge

Do you have dodgy neighbours? For a while there, we had great neighbours. We had a bunch of IT guys that lived down the back of our house and we barely heard a peep from them. Our neighbours on another side are a young couple renovating the cutest weatherboard cottage you've ever seen. And then on the other side are some people that always have their blinds closed, and I only ever see their dogs out the back when I hang the washing out. 


Life was good. Life was simple. Life was quiet.


Until the IT guys moved out, and we had this bunch of junior burgers move in who drive up and down, up and down the driveway. Blast out their music starting at 11:30pm. Have a spot of biffo at 3:30am outside the front of their house - which coincidentally is right outside our bedroom window. Not so rad. 


And then the young couple with the ever-so-cute weatherboard invited us in for dinner one night. A good night was had by all. A few months later they asked us if we wanted them to trim their huge - beautiful - oak tree that leans over our driveway. We said yes! Yes please. The possums get in there, along with the bats, and they have one big pooping and weeing party all over our car. So they said, yes, yes we will do that. And then nothing. And then two days after Christmas one of the branches - actually two - fell on our car and gave it three big pock marks on the roof.


We let them know. They said they were waiting to trim the tree because it was too expensive to have the tree trimmed - it was $600. We got a quote to fix our car - it was $600. And then they started to avoid us. Like the black plague. 


Now they're not talking to us. As soon as they see us drive in, they go inside their house. And since the tree branch falling on the car thing happened, we have to park on the street. 

Totes awkes. 


And now the flipping across-the-road neighbours are parking right outside the front of our house, which - as we all know, is the holy grail of car parks and in a highly sought after parking situation, that park belongs to the correlating tenant. RIGHT? Isn't it some unsaid thing? But no. Not for them. It's like they're staking us out in their big white Tarago. 


I'm thinking about moving into this pink caravan that I spotted while we were away. At least I could move it every time someone got too close. 

What Do You Do All Day?

Richard Scarry. One of my all-time favourite children's author/illustrators. 

Our Onegirl fleur. It is so loved. And a lot of love comes from me.

My knitting. Which is going nowhere fast. Mum, I need you to fix it. 

I don't have much of any value to share with you. 

So tell me, what do you do all day? 

Working. And What Does This Mean?

I've been giving it much consideration lately - I was formerly a stay at home mum (SAHM) - and found it immensely tiring, but in the same breath - immensely satisfying. You got to see the outcome of what you put in, and, for me, that was my proudest achievement. Daily you reaped rewards in the form of sticky cuddles, sloppy, wet kisses, and the pinnacle of parenting - high-fiving after mastering potty training. It was full of daily simple pleasures, and sometimes it was mundane, but mostly it was full to the brim of a gentle kind of happiness.

When Matt and I decided to switch things around so he could finish his studies, I returned to the paid workforce. I had been freelancing for five years, which was getting more and more tricky with two small kids, but it had its rewards too. But it was inconsistent, so I started looking around.

I went back to the coalface, working 4 days a week, and have been there now for 18 months. It's not been an easy transition either. I am riddled by mother's guilt. I always feel like I am missing out. I always feel like my kids are missing out on their mama.

Work is satisfying and exciting, and of course there's the thrill of hitting targets and weekly wins, I get to utilise my years of experience, but it's definitely not the same as parenting.

Sure there are tantrums. Arguments. Petty office politics. But on the flipside, I do get to go to the toilet cubicle solo.

I race hither and thither so I can be doing my job to the best of my abilities, and race home so I can spend as much time as possible with my smalls.

And recently, it made me think:

What do other mums think?

Is it more important to work in a job that stretches your brain (in a good way), and let's you blossom professionally?

or

Is it more important to have a flexible job?

And

Is it possible to have both? Or is brain-stretching distinctly separate to flexibility?

I'm undecided.

PS - I don't know why I felt the need to post a picture of Tootsie. I just did. I love Tootsie. I just can't even rationalise why I put that picture there.

Naked? In Front Of Your Kids? *GASP*

A couple of years ago I heard of a couple who never got naked in front of their kids. This isn't an urban legend. The children had never seen their dad naked, and according to the parents - they weren't ever going to either.

I was a little shocked  because - well nudity is a feature in our house. We're not nude all of the time, but we're not not nude all of the time.

But what I found most shocking was the organisation that this would entail.

I re-enacted it in my head. I would have to take all my clothes to the bathroom when I showered. I would have to close doors. I don't usually close doors. But above all, I wouldn't be able to stand at my wardrobe, in a definite state of undress, deciding what to wear for the day. This startled me. I usually walk around the house in the morning in various states of dress before finally getting my stuff together and getting it on. I thought about how small our house (smaller than a shoebox) and how difficult life would be if they never saw me naked.

I think it's good to be nude in front of my kids!

And this is part of the naked upside down breastfeeder talk. People, generally men, didn't like the idea that she was nude! And she was breastfeeding.

But for me, being nude is good. It's a positive! Being nude shows children real bodies. Bumps, lumps, hips and dips. Everything. I have thought about all those perfect images of women and men being presented perfectly in the media - airbrushed, over-styled, and after sitting in a make-up chair for a couple of hours. 

While my body isn't perfect it is pretty awesome. It's grown babies. It's birthed babies. It's fed babies. It can run up and down stairs. It does so much cool stuff. And my brain drives it. Pretty rad when you think about it.


image of Chilli Peppers via

Christmas Gift Guide: Home Lovers

It's time for me to pull out another gift guide for you, this one is for those friends and family you know who love their home.

French iron herb dryer. So Frenchy, so chic - Heaven in Earth $30

Limited Edition Threadneedle armchair in Royal Silver - it's bound to be the best seat in the house - Freedom $999

Wooden serving spoons - Father Rabbit $39

Sea mobile - rainbow colours - Puka Puka Design $65

Travel in the comfort of your couch - Nomad by Sibella Court from Berkelouw $50

Check out this fab Trim telephone in turquoise - Lark $149

Hand blocked polka dot tablecloth - Sally Campbell $150

Marimekko 'In Good Company' bowl - Funkis $27

Vintage European map cushion in organic cotton - My Bearded Pigeon $55

Voluspa White Currant Quince 100 hour candle - Saison $55

Et voila. 10 ideas for the home lovers in your life.

Holy House Envy!

Have you seen this book? Aye carumba. I have house envy to the max.

I thought The Selby was top of the pops. Well he is, let's face it. But Design Sponge has me salivating. I may even throw some of my stuff out. Some may call it junk. I call it stuff. It's feasible that it could be stuff. It's stuff from other people's bins.

But whatever you want to call it, get your filthy doggone mitts on this book. You will not regret it. Mark my words homegirls!

PS - Check out this Neon Wedding. Be still my boom-ba-da boom-ba-da heart. I might have to get married all over again. (To you Matt, of course.)

Skater's Dream House

Did you ever draw dream houses when you were a kid? I did. I spent hours drawing floor plans, a really big bedroom, an indoor swimming pool - and by indoor, I mean it was in the heart of the home, large wardrobe, big kitchen, probably a spa, all the bells and whistles. I loved drawing those little floor plans in multi-coloured textas. A wannabe architect.

Well imagine my glee this morning when I stumbled upon this ace house - the PAS House. Everything in the house is skate-able. The walls. The furniture. The whole kit and kaboodle. But you can only skate in there if you're a pro-skater. The PAS House is only a full-scale model of one room of the house, but I'm already saving my pennies.

When the Doctor's bigger, I think we'll invest in this home (ahem). I can imagine teenage boys digging on this idea. Heck, I dig on this idea. Uber cool!

Mondays Are...

Sometimes running around doing odd jobs and paying bills and running chores.

Today is tidying the house for the week ahead, because by the time I get home from work on all the other nights, I am too plum shickered to even lift a broomstick. This afternoon I make meatballs and some biscuits to throw into the pantry.

And before you think, but PottyMouth, life from the outside looks glamorous. Or maybe you don't. But these shots here are testament to the fact that life ain't one inch of glamorous. Unless you count the one inch of lipstick I have left that Tiny hasn't smeared all over her face and hands.

Raking.

Tossing clean clothes onto my bed to be folded.

Washing.

Vacuuming up the dust bunnies. Dust. Dust. Where does all the dust come from? Please - no one reply with - dead skin cells. EEP!

I hate the work/homelife juggle. I know you know where I'd rather be.

A Sordid Tale

This is a sordid tale. One of woe and yore, and all other old-fashioned sounding words that one does not bother with these days. But one should, shouldn't one?

And that is what leads me to this dastardly tale that will leave you on the edge of your seat. It will leave you with your nails chewed down to the quick. You'll be sitting on the edge of your caboose, spellbound. Gobsmacked.

I have a ribbon drawer. Yes. It is true, dear reader. I do have a ribbon drawer. In which I store... ribbon.

I put the ribbon in the drawer nice and tidy-like, just like any side-saddle horseriding woman would do.

And yet, when I come back out the next day, the ribbon is in a state of dissarray.

It's a true story. Not a long story. It's a perilous story. Not a scary story. But it's a story of truth, and gore, and I just know, you'll be sitting there right now with a dropped jaw, wondering just who unravelled all that ribbon?

PS - please vote for me in the Kidspot Top Fiddy Bloggers. I'll love you long time.

Do We Stay. Or Do We Go?

A couple of weeks ago I was standing in our minute living room and could smell the unmistakeable stench of dead possum.

Given I am a country girl, I can identify the stench of dead animals at 10 paces. My parents taught me well. I know dead possum when I sniff it. And dead fox. And dead dog poo.

This was that gassy smelly of a dead possum. A common dead possum. In our ceiling.

So I called our real estate agent to report the dead animal and request some back-up. She called back and told me the landlord would come over the next day.

Great. Dead possum be gone.

So the next day the landlord came over. I expected him to sniff around the house. Smell gassy dead possum and remove dead possum.

Instead he said: "I have a possum cage, shall I set it?"

Well, not unless you're Bill Murray from Ghostbusters, I don't think you're going to trap this dead possum. I can't imagine it's hungry for anything.

And me being the pushover went, "Oh, oh, ok, yep." And let him set the trap and leave.

Now let's time warp ourselves to today. The now. The right now. And right now, we've got disgusting, and I am talking deee-skust-ing big. Fat. Blowflies. Flying in from the airvent thingie. Seriously. One day they were just loitering there, at the air-vent thingie, and flying in and out. Filth.

Now fast forward to right this very second, and I've just checked my emails and surprise! I've received an email from my real estate agent, my very favourite pen-pal!

Did I receive their correspondence back in March? No. No. No I did not. Well surprise! We've reached our 1 year anniversary, and to celebrate they're putting our rent up. Who wants to blow out the candles on that one?

Now I'm not Bill Gates. Or Steve Jobs. Or even Brynne Edelstein. So where am I going to pull this extra cash out of? Tell me that real estate agent? Selling blow-flies on the backstreets? Hocking possum skins to NZ fashion designers?

What to do? Cough up? Or look for an alternative abode?

A Cat Lady

After re-locating our rabbit back to its breeder, and ever since our goldfish turned black and learnt how to float, we've been pet-less.

I enjoyed not having to look after another being. Life was simpler. I didn't have a rabbit eating my brand new jeans. Or a goldfish needing its tank to be cleaned.

And then it got a bit sad, and I had a word in Matt's ear about the smalls needing a pet and the fact that by our smalls ages, I had about fifty bazillion pets, inadvertently killed a duck, dug up worms for my mum for Mother's Day, and so much more.

So I emailed to ask if our landlord would let us get a cat.

Let me be upfront.

We're cat people. We like dogs. We love cats. Well I do, anyway.

I waited over a month - no response. Playing hard to get.

So I emailed again. Finally a response. Negative. Apparently our landlord had a bad experience with a previous tenant in another abode. They had cats. In a carpeted apartment that came fully furnished. And it was trashed by a cat lady.

So no. No we could not have a cat. Not now, not never. Not even in ten minutes.

Problem is, our house is our own furniture and we have floorboards.

Real estate agents. You can switch on your brains now.

So for now, we have to make do with going out at night and catching the snails for the smalls. Yep, that is what's in that little plastic container that Tiny holds so excitedly.

We have pet snails.