The McD’s do… Kaikoura, NZ

After a relaxing week in Auckland, then a fairly hectic week in Nelson for my dad’s wedding, the four of us decided to take some extra time on our road trip down to Christchurch and stopped over in Kaikoura for a day and night.

Kaikoura is a magical little seaside town located on the east coast of the South Island of NZ.  The local speciality is crayfish, and there are gorgeous little food trucks selling freshly caught cray, oysters, whitebait and other seafood, right on the water’s edge.

Nin's Bin crayfish van (Image source: TripAdvisor)

The other attractions in Kaikoura are the seals

How to travel with toddlers

We’re off on an end-of-Summer-holiday this week; the four of us are heading to New Zealand for my dad’s wedding, and to catch up with other parts of the family.

I probably should have included a question mark in the heading of this post because, to be honest, I have no idea how to travel with toddlers! The last flight I took was just the Stuntman and I, when he was a pre-walker, and he had a lovely time being smothered in red lipstick kisses by the LAN flight attendants while I sat and had a relaxing cup of tea. 

The Stuntman making friends on our last flight

The week that was - the Stuntman's first week at Kindy

It was ‘ back to school’ week for my littlies this week, with the Stuntman heading off to the same daycare as Little Miss for the first time. He’s been cared for by family members on a regular basis for most of last year while I worked, but he’s never gone to a big daycare centre before, so it’s been a big week for everyone. 

A bright and cheerful kindy room :)

I’ve been experiencing a rollercoaster of emotions all week at the thought of my darling baby boy heading out into the big bad world without me. I called the kindy several times a day to check in on him, and would tear up and have to run to the bathroom at work whenever I thought of his sweet little face searching the room for me. Oh gawd, now I’m tearing up writing this!

During one check-in phone call his carer told me that whenever Little Miss came into the toddler room (she’s in the pre-school room), the Stuntman would grab hold of her and give her a big squeezy cuddle, not wanting to let her go. The carers would have to eventually prise them apart to go to their separate rooms. I’m sure the daycare teacher thought I’d be happy to hear that story, but it actually sent me back to the bathroom for another weep. I’m a sook, I know.

He’s made a surprisingly good transition to the centre, playing nicely with the other kids, going down for a sleep without much protesting, and only a few teary episodes throughout the day (probably less than me if I’m being honest!). Due to his food intolerances, the kindy provides a special allergy-friendly meal for his lunch, but so far he hasn’t been willing to try it, so I’ve been sending along a sandwich for him (on his special soy-flour-free bread) so that at least he’s eating something. Hopefully next week when he’s feeling a bit more secure he’ll be willing to try the prepared meals.

While he’s been pretty much fine at the kindy, at home he’s been a clingy little monster; screeching to be picked up whenever I’m around, wanting boobies all the time, and waking up screaming several times a night. These are all pretty classic separation anxiety signs I guess, which is not really surprising. I’ve been trying to be as patient with him as I possibly can be, but what with the lack of sleep, the constant whingeing, and the aching back from lugging him around everywhere, I’ve been a bit of a grumpy mum this week.

Due to our work schedules, I generally do the kindy drop-off, and Mr McD does the pick-up.  I’ve been feeling like I’ve been missing out on the fun part, but today I got to do both ends of the day, and to tell you the truth, the pick-up wasn’t all I’d imagined it to be! I had a mental picture of both kids running towards me, arms outstretched, so excited to see their mummy, but this was pretty far removed from the reality of it. 

When I walked through the door, Little Miss caught sight of me first and ran up squealing “Mummy, Mummy!!” (all good so far), then grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the art corner where she had some new creations to show me. The Stuntman clocked that I was there at this point, raced over and grabbed my other arm and started pulling me in the opposite direction, also squealing “Mummy, Mummy”, but more upset than excited. He then started trying to climb up my leg, saying “Up, up, boo boo, mine”, while Little Miss was still trying to pull me across the room. 

At this point I overbalanced and toppled onto the ground, almost squashing Little Miss, and pulling the Stuntman down on top of me. Luckily, he’s like a cat and always lands on his feet. Me, not so much; I landed squarely on my arse. Fortunately it’s well padded ;)

The young daycare teacher raced over to see if I was OK, and, much to my humiliation, tears welled up in my eyes. One even ran down my cheek. OMG - why was I crying?? No idea. The poor girl was really worried I’d hurt myself, but I think it was just the shock of falling, and the fact that my emotions have been on such high alert all week. I just couldn’t keep my game face on. That coupled with mega embarrassment just sent me over the edge.

The Stuntman couldn’t have cared less about my predicament, and actually tried to yank down my top while I was prostrate on the floor, in an attempt to help himself to the boobies. While I was trying to haul myself up off the filthy, sticky kindy floor (in black trousers no less), my handbag fell off my shoulder, sending my phone, wallet and multiple lip balms flying across the room. It must’ve been quite a sight for the other mums and dads who were picking up their kiddies.

You can always count on me for some light comic relief.

I eventually managed to sign the kids out, collect both sets of bags, water bottles, hats and artworks without falling over again or dropping anything, and we made it back home in one piece. The kids must’ve sensed I was right on the edge when we got home, as they played beautifully together, ate their dinner without any fuss, and went off to bed like little angels. Small mercies.

I will definitely be leaving the pick-ups to Mr McD from now on!

Any back to school/kindy stories for you this week?

Family Dinners? F*@k that!!

We’re not very good with family dinners in our house. I keep saying that we’ll start doing them regularly, but it rarely works out. The kids need to eat by 5:30-6pm in order to get through the dinner/bath/bedtime routine by 7pm, and Mr McD and I aren’t ready to eat then.

 

A family enjoying a civilised dinner (not mine)

Occasionally we give it a go, generally with disastrous results. Take our Boxing Day dinner for example. We had so much food on Christmas Day that we didn’t end up even putting our turkey in the oven, so I decided to cook it for the four of us on Boxing Day, with all the trimmings – potatoes, sweet potato, parsnips, carrots, peas, gravy and a couple of pigs in kilts on the side. Yum! I thought it would be lovely to have an early dinner with the kids so we could all enjoy it together. (I’m shaking my head in disbelief at my naivety as I write this).

We fell off the milk ladder

This week I had planned to start the Stuntman on a journey up the ‘milk ladder’. Despite this post's heading, we didn’t actually fall off – we never even made it onto the first rung.

For those not up with the lingo, the milk ladder is a step by step process that aims to desensitise sensitive little tummies that are intolerant to the proteins found in milk. There are specific recipes that go along with each step, with the amount of dairy increasing and the amount of cooking decreasing as you progress. Baked goods that contain dairy are more easily digested than raw dairy products, and separated milk solids (such as those used in flavouring) are often harder on the tummy than straight dairy. The milk ladder was developed by allergy specialists taking all of these factors into account, and has been proven to be a very effective way to reintroduce dairy into an intolerant little one’s diet.

The basic 'milk ladder'

We worked with a paediatric dietician to develop a specific plan for the Stuntman,  incorporating his likes and dislikes, as well as my style of cooking.  The plan was to start on the first rung this week, moving up the ladder over the holidays, with the end goal of him being able to tolerate some dairy in time for him to start kindy early next year. So I had menu-planned, shopped and scheduled my baking days - I was feeling pumped, and ready for the challenge (if you’ll pardon the pun).

The making of a princess

I get a lot of joy just watching my kids play. I love listening to the stories Little Miss makes up, and watching the Stuntman’s face as he learns a new skill (this week it is jumping off the arm of the couch, bouncing off the cushions and face-planting onto the rug). I try to get down on the floor and play with them as much as I can as well, but sometimes I prefer to just watch.

Little Miss has been slowly evolving into a real girly girl over the past few months. I was always very conscious of making sure she had as many toy cars as dolls, and dressed her in lots of blue and red and green, but now, much to my consternation, everything must be pink, and she has pushed her toy cars aside in favour of plastic tiaras and Peppa Pig paraphernalia. It’s frustrating, having tried to impress my own ‘gender neutral’ views on her, that she has decided that actually, she just wants to be a princess, thank you very much.

This morning she told me she didn’t want to wear a particular t-shirt because “it’s for boys”. When I asked why it was for boys, she pointed out a speck of blue on it and said “There. Blue is for boys. Not girls. Not me. I just like pink.”

Toddler tag teaming

We’ve had a pretty full on week. On Tuesday we had a friend’s funeral, which was heartbreaking, and then that same afternoon Little Miss came down with violent gastro, which was horrendous. I was working towards a major deadline I absolutely had to meet for a work project, as well as a million other little deadlines for various jobs leading up to the end of the year. Needless to say, I’ve been a bit stressed and emotional.

Normally, any one of these things would make me feel anxious and overwhelmed, but this was like a perfect storm of stressful events. Oh, and then our hot water tank crapped itself (again), just to make things interesting.  During times like this, I really need my sleep. I go a bit crazy if I’m trying to deal with stress and I’m sleep deprived as well. Sleep deprivation can then make me feel even more stressed and anxious, so this can be a really vicious cycle.

The kiddies haven’t been too bad with their sleeping lately, generally sleeping through the night, or at least not needing me to go into them if they do wake. But this week, just when I needed a good 6 or 7 hours a night, my two terrors toddlers decided to take it in turns to torture me each and every night.

Stuck in a Westfield with two

“Well I don’t know why I came here tonight… I gotta feeling that somethin’ ain’t right…”

Trust your instincts when you drive into a shopping centre car park and feel an urge to drive straight out again. This week I decided, for some unknown reason, to take both kids to our local Westfield, which is currently undergoing major renovations. Last time I was there I vowed never to return, so I really don’t understand what possessed me to try again. But I did.

Trolleys: never around when you need one!

Being a Monday morning, and the first day that this centre had introduced paid parking (after three hours free), I assumed that the place would be relatively quiet and hassle free. I imagined that all the commuters that used to use the car park for free all day would have to park somewhere else, and there would be loads of spaces nice and close to the shop entrance for us. First mistake.

The place was mobbed. We drove around in circles looking for a park for about 15 minutes, and ended up parking on the rooftop car park, quite a walk away from the lifts down to the shops. Now I knew I needed to get groceries, so I really didn’t want to take a pram. I’ll just put the kids in a trolley when I get inside, I thought. Second mistake. After trudging about 400 metres from the car to the lifts, with the Stuntman on one hip, nappy bag slung over my neck, shopping bags around my elbow and holding Little Miss by the hand, we were faced with a sheepish looking security guard who quietly mumbled that there was a problem with the lift and that it would be two or three minutes. And when it did come, another security guard would have to press the buttons as they weren’t working. A nagging voice in my head said “turn around, go somewhere else, LEAVE NOW!”, but sadly, I ignored it. It’ll be OK, I thought. Two or three minutes I can handle. I really needed to catch my breath anyway. So we waited for the lift (about 10 minutes in reality), and then piled in with the 20 or so other shoppers who’d turned up in the meantime.

We finally got down into the shopping centre, and the Stuntman started his wriggly-limp-noodle act (where he goes limp, puts his arms up over his head, and basically wriggles out of my arms), and Little Miss promptly ran off. Here we go, I thought. Quick, find somewhere to buy them a treat, STAT. But first we had to walk past the ABC Shop, which is a trial on the best of days. Usually I’ll have at least one of them restrained in a pram or trolley, but this time they were both ‘free range’ and on the loose.

“Mumma, Mumma, look Peppa, it’s Peppa, it’s PEPPA!!!!” screamed Little Miss.  Yes darling.

“Uh! Ooh ooh!” exclaimed the Stuntman, excitedly.

“Mumma, Mumma, Peter Rabbit, Peter Rabbit, it’s Peter RABBIT! LOOK! LOOK!!!” Smile and nod, keep your cool woman. The Stuntman grabs a Tombliboo off the shelf and the whole display topples over. Oh shit.

“Come on, let's go, I can see an ice cream shop over there,” I scoop up the Stuntman over my right shoulder, and somehow lift Little Miss onto my other hip, bags still in tow. I’m now carrying an extra 27 or so wriggly, unwilling kilos, and trying to gracefully maneuvre my way out of the shop without knocking anything else over. This is relatively successful (i.e. we didn’t actually break anything), so once we are a safe distance away from the shop entrance I breathe a sigh of relief and let the kids down.

We now find one of those horrid shopping centre ‘rides’ (a Wiggles car in this case), which occupies them for a few minutes while I try to get my bearings. I have no idea where the supermarket has moved to – I don’t know which way I’m facing, there’s no natural light in the centre, no clocks. It’s like a giant casino, without any booze. I guess they hope that people will just lose track of time and spend hours and hours in there, handing over wads of cash at every turn. It’s horrendous, I hate it.

After a minor screaming match to get Little Miss off the Wiggles car, we finally make it to the supermarket. Hooray, a trolley! I wrestle the Stuntman into the trolley seat and strap him in as tight as the belt will go, grab Little Miss’ hand and start cruising the aisles. Everything is going smoothly now – the Stuntman is secure and entertained, talking to all the old people in the shop, Little Miss is having a good time grabbing things off the shelves and dumping them into the trolley, and I’m checking things off my list. We get to the checkout without incident and I’m feeling so pleased with us all that I suggest we go and have some sushi for lunch. Cheers all round; both the kids love sushi, so off we go to the sushi train. Lunch is also incident-free, and by this stage I’m wondering what I was so stressed about earlier. 

This parenting thing is easy really, just keep everybody happy! Don’t stress! Don’t yell! Offer treats and bribes! Chill out mum!

I now decide to tempt fate by swinging into a different supermarket just to check if they have any coffee pods (which were out of stock at the other place). I know I’m pushing it here, the kids are now fed and it is dangerously close to their sleep time. But I’m a glutton for punishment (and desperate for coffee) so we do a quick lap of the second supermarket (out of stock here too!), and then head to the lift to get back to our car.

“I’m sorry madam, this lift is out of order, you can’t get in, the stairs are just over there.” Umm, what? But I need to get to the rooftop car park on level 5. That’s on the roof. I’m on level 1. I have two very sleepy and almost-grumpy children and four heavy bags of groceries in my trolley. What am I supposed to do?

“Can you call someone to help you madam?” Umm, what?? Who the fuck am I supposed to call at lunchtime on a Monday to come and rescue me from this suburban shopping centre/hell? 

Steam is coming out of my ears by this stage, but I’m trying to hold it together and not swear at the man, if only for the sake of the kids.

Then this dickhead of a security guard sends me up to the next set of lifts up the other end of the centre, assuring me I can access the rooftop car park from that end, so off we trudge another 17kms or so (I may be exaggerating here, but it felt like a VERY LONG WAY!), to the lifts at the other end.

Of course, being the only effing lift working in the whole effing centre, there is a line of people waiting to get in that actually snakes past several shops and doubles back on itself. We wait in the queue for an eternity; Little Miss is almost falling asleep in the trolley, and the Stuntman is doing his best Houdini impression trying to escape from the trolley seat. While I have my back turned sharing an exasperated eye-roll with another mum he actually manages to get his legs out of the straps; as I turn around he is standing up in the trolley seat, reaching out for me. FUCK! I catch him just as he tries to step forward into thin air. 

There is no way I’m going to be able to get him back in the trolley seat . I’m now trying to steer a trolley with a sleepy toddler and four heavy bags of groceries with one arm, and holding a wriggly, writhing slightly smaller toddler with the other arm. Just for kicks, he decides now would be the perfect time for a breastfeed, and tries to help himself down my top. To keep the peace I'm now stand-up-breastfeeding holding him in one arm, pushing the trolley with the other. 'Awkward' is an understatement.

We finally get into the lift, and ride all the way up to the roof. But, as I had suspected, this roof doesn’t connect with the other roof, the one where our car is. I’m almost crying by this point, and take a few moments to try and calm down. I walk to the edge of the roof (no, I’m not considering jumping), and try to look down to see where the two towers of the car park connect. I *think* it’s level 3, so we go back to the lift and wait another 15 minutes or so for the lift to return, and get us down to level 3. Fortunately I’ve managed to get the Stuntman back into the trolley by this stage, so at least I’ve got two hands to control the trolley. I’m in a definite no-pedestrian zone here – running the gauntlet of frazzled shoppers backing out of car parks to get home for their lunch. But my goal is now in sight – I can see the giant giraffe head that my car is parked under. It just happens to be up on the next level, and the only way up is a steep, curved ramp that has two-way traffic and no pedestrian access. With no other way up, I position the trolley in the middle of the ramp (i.e. between the two lanes of traffic) so that we are as visible as possible to cars coming in both directions, and take the ramp at a run. Several people drive past, shaking their heads at me, looking disgusted. If I had a spare hand I would give them the finger, but it’s taking everything I’ve got to get this bloody trolley and my precious cargo up the ramp. We make it! OMG, I nearly cry with relief. 

Our car is just ahead, beckoning us home. I strap the kids into their seats, give them each a biscuit in the hope that it will keep them awake on the way home, and make our way to the exit. As we get to the exit barrier, the fancy new number plate recognition system tells me that I have overstayed the free three hours by 20 minutes, and I now owe $4. I’m pretty sure I burst a blood vessel in my neck at this point. I reach out to press the ‘help’ button, ready to explode, but the boom gate just lifts and we’re allowed to leave. Relief washes over me, tinged with disappointment that I didn’t get to yell at anybody.

Unsurprisingly, both kids fall asleep in the car before we get home. Surprisingly though, I’m able to transfer both sleeping children into their beds without them waking. Finally, a good result.

No more shopping centres for us for a while!

What about you? Do you love or loathe those big centres?

To my darling Little Miss, on your third birthday

Today is your third birthday, my darling. I can’t believe it’s already been three years since you arrived into our lives, although it also feels like you’ve been here forever. I guess in some ways you have; I’ve been hoping and dreaming I would have a little girl of my own since I was a little girl myself. You make your dad and I so happy - you and your brother have filled a void in our lives we didn’t even know was there. Our life before you seems so empty and meaningless, and while I miss the sleep-ins and impromptu nights out, your cheeky smile lighting up the room every morning makes up for it all.

I love you so much, my darling girl. I love the way you are so kind and gentle with your brother (most of the time), and work so hard to make him smile when he’s upset. I love the way you watch everything that is going on, and I see your brain ticking, trying to work things out. I love the way you look at your dad with delight when he’s being silly, and I love the way your face lights up when you see me from across the room. I love your crazy dancing and the way you love to bounce. I love the way you get such a kick out of making people laugh, just like your dad. I love it when you get the giggles. I love how you practice pronouncing new words, and are so proud of yourself when you get it right. I love how you love to read books, and that ‘one more story’ is never enough.

I hope I can teach you to be patient and kind to everyone, most importantly yourself. I hope I can teach you to love yourself, no matter what, and to avoid the negative self-talk that can be so crippling. I hope I can help you to become brave and confident and strong, and to follow your dreams. I hope I can give you enough knowledge to make good choices, but also feel safe to ask for help when you need it. I hope that you find someone to share your life with, who treasures everything about you and loves you completely, like your dad and I love each other.

I know we won’t always see eye to eye, and I know that sometimes we’ll argue. I know it’s highly likely that at some point, you’ll even say you hate me. But I hope you‘ll always know that you can talk to me, you can tell me anything, and you can always ask me for help. I promise to never say I told you so. I promise to never turn my back on you. I promise to love and protect you with everything I have.

You are my sunshine on a rainy day, my darling girl, my sweet princess. 

Happy birthday my love.

Breastfeeding a toddler (a.k.a. 'Boobnastics')

I love breastfeeding. I love the fact that my body can provide nourishment for my child, and I love the way it connects us. I feel very lucky that I've been able to breastfeed both of my children, as I know some mums don't have the option. I'm confident to breastfeed wherever I choose to (or wherever my child chooses to), and I feel proud to still be feeding my toddler. 

Having said that, breastfeeding a toddler is not quite the love-fest that breastfeeding a newborn or young baby can be. 

Once you get the hang of it, breastfeeding a baby is pretty simple - you find your comfy feeding chair/lounge/bed, prop yourself up with pillows, attach bub correctly to boob, and away you go. Breastfeeding an active toddler is slightly different. Forget finding a comfy chair; if my hungry toddler spots an uncovered breast for some reason (e.g. while I'm getting dressed), he'll launch himself across the room like some kind of hairless chimpanzee and help himself to a drink. Self-service style. At the moment he likes to feed while standing up, so I sit and he stands in front of me, calling the shots. The term "feeding on demand" has never been more true than when describing breastfeeding a toddler.

Newborn and baby breastfeeding involves lots of long, loving eye contact, and a sense of sharing an exquisite and intimate experience. Toddler breastfeeding involves fingers up my nose, trucks being driven across my belly, kicks to the head, and my boob being twisted round so he can watch TV while he's drinking. Oh, and not to mention lifting up my top and flashing my other boob for all to see. It's not relaxing or comfortable, and it's certainly not discrete, but still we persevere.

The Stuntman is now 15 months old, and is still a big booby monster. I don't mean that he loves big boobies, he just loves boobies. A lot. Mine in particular. Although sometimes he'll nuzzle into Nanna's or Aunty's or a random stranger's chest, just to see if anything is on offer, which can be a bit awkward (for them, not him). He doesn't have many words yet, but he can say "mumma boo boo" as clear as day.

On the days I don't go to work, he can have upwards of five or six feeds a day; sometimes just a five minute quickie, but other times a long and intense suckling session of 20 or even 30 minutes. Usually while I'm trying to get out the door to do something. Stopping a feeding session with a toddler once it's in full swing is simply not possible - they are too strong, and, let's face it, they've got too many teeth. 

With the little guy being intolerant to cow's milk and soy, weaning him just hasn't been an option for us yet. I'd like to keep it up until he's ready to stop, although I may have to reassess the situation once he starts school. Just kidding.

Wonder Weeks Hell

We are in some kind of Wonder Weeks hell at the moment. It's the fourth week of Leap 8 (Programs) and the little Stuntman has reverted to being a devil-child who cannot fall asleep on his own and cannot stay asleep for more than an hour, day or night. So I'm back to feeding, rocking, patting, shooshing and bouncing him to sleep, several times a night. My back aches, my shoulders ache, my heart aches because I cannot help him. Exhaustion is an inadequate description. The sleep deprivation is torturous - little black dots seem to crawl up the walls and the room tilts at odd angles. I feel drunk, or perhaps just hungover. I can't hold a conversation. I can barely hold my head up. Little things become big things as my perspective is all out of whack. A big black hole of depression lies just ahead, waiting to swallow me up. 

But at least there is light at the end of this tunnel. This leap is nearly over, and (fingers crossed), our lovely little boy who sleeps though the night will return. With some new mad skills to show off. Just three more days (and nights) to get through...

For those who don't know about the Wonder Weeks, they are 10 developmental 'leaps' that all babies go through in the first 20 months of their lives. Some clever researchers found that the development stages that all babies go through could be predicted almost to the day, so they charted these periods and called them The Wonder Weeks. 

These leaps are stages where babies' little brains go through an intense period of learning and change. New connections are formed and a greater understanding of the world they're living in is reached. Understandably, this can be hard for them to deal with.

The first signs that a leap is approaching are the three C's - crying, crankiness and clinginess. This, plus sleep disturbances (oh yeah!), changes in eating habits and changes in behaviour, can leave parents thinking that they've somehow brought the wrong baby home from the park. Knowing when the Wonder Weeks will occur can be a lifesaver for a sleep deprived parent. 

There's a book, a website, and yep, there's even an app for that. The Wonder Weeks app is a great help to me, as, although it can't do anything to change my baby's behaviour, it gives me warning of what's ahead, and also provides some advice on how to best help them get through this awful, horrible time. 

My mantra during Wonder Weeks is "he's not giving me a rough time, he's having a rough time."  Although that doesn't do much for me at 4am.

Three more days...