In Celebration of the Two. 19 June 2007.

by Cath Jenkin

the shitties

breast pads. clearly created and marketed by people who have never had breasts. and especially ones that leak.
expressing. aka the wakka wakka machine. clearly created by people who have never used their nipples for anything except erotic pleasure.
sickness. the unbearable loneliness and powerlessness that comes at 2am when you can do nothing more except hold your crying child and pray that sleep will come for both of you.
dependence. the realisation that this tiny little person is entirely dependent on you for everything. realising also that you, yourself are still dependent and feeling even more powerless to do anything.
tantrums. and oh boy, how you can throw them. one word comes to mind - retribution.
pain. the pain of childbirth is nothing, absolutely nothing in comparison to the pain you feel when you get a phonecall to say your child's been hurt and needs emergency medical attention.
disorder. nothing will ever stay clean again. ever. just give up hope of ever having a clean house ever again. but, reserve the right to complain and from young, you do them train.
metamorphosis. the constant change demanded of you as a result of the constant change that this little person is going through. don't blink, because you will miss something.
fatigue. you will never be as tired as this. ever. you will never sleep again like you used to. ever. you get used to it, you do, and by the time the teen years roll around, and all they ever want to do is sleep, your body's so well-honed to not sleeping that you get up and do random hobbies like decoupage and shit.
heartache. nothing will ever hurt you as much as when your child rejects you in favour of another. nothing will ever hurt you as much as when your child gets hurt, in any way whatsoever. they say when a child is born, the parents' souls then live outside their body. it's true. never mind heart on sleeve, try everything exposed and raw and tender and unprotected.
pooh. i have no need to explain any more on this than to say pooh.


the f**king amazings that i wouldn't trade for anything in the world, not even twelve hours sleep and a hot bath and being able to read an entire book in one sitting.

that very first smile. my dad died the same day and you looked at me and smiled. three weeks old and already more resilient than me.
that very first mama. a warm thursday evening. it just popped out, you wanted my attention so much.
those very first steps. that i watched you take as you walked from the wall and into your daddy's arms.
the love. the indescribable and overwhelming joy that rises up from a place within you that never existed before when your little rascal throws their arms around you and squeezes.
the kisses. open mouth with tongue all over your cheek, nose and including a free dose of snot and some dried up milk.
the dancing. the dancing around the lounge with you and you throwing your head back and laughing.
the giggling. when you laugh, your whole body shakes. its evidence of your unashamed aliveness that i hope will never be tainted by the world.
the singing. and the clapping. and the singing the songs with the actions.
the excitement. everything you see is like you've seen it for the very first time. "Look mama Look Look Look"
the fanclub. even when you're entirely ruined, deemed unsuitable for anybody's consumption in the adult world, rejected, dejected, and passed on by, you come home and all your little person wants is for you to hold them and sing badly to them.
the night time doo doo ritual. of kisses and stroking and you playing with my hair.
the dressing up. being able to dress you up in clothes with ears and knowing full well you'll hate me for it one day but not caring because you are just so cute, i could fall over.
the holding my hand. with your little hand in mine we read together and you point to the pictures and tell me their names.

i keep looking at you and asking myself - where the hell did the time go? what happened to the little bundle we brought home all swaddled who just slept all the time and ate and slept and cried? how is it that I know what to do now about hiccups? (thanks very much Google - three days old and already your livelihood's dependent on the internet!) how is it that childspeak, once deemed entirely undecipherable by me, is now my most common spoken language?

you've changed me, as you've grown. you've forced me to decide who i am, and who i want to be. you've helped me do things I never thought possible, and just tonight, walked over to me, put your arms around me and said "love you mama". you can piss me off and melt my heart in a nannosecond, and yet, i wouldn't change a thing.

730 days. approximately 4500 nappies down. approximately 3650 bottles of milk. more laundry than a hospital in war time. and more love than my beaten heart can hold.

thank you for being in my life, little girl.

As I write this, two years ago at this time, we were checking in at maternity where that numbnut behind the counter said "and what are you here for?" /well lady, i'm actually smuggling soccer balls and was bored so we thought we could come hang in the maternity ward for a while because we had nothing better to do. what the hell do you think i'm doing here!/. your grandparents were anxiously waiting to hear from us, i got a pipe inserted up my bum haha. my best friend was nervously checking her phone every thirty two seconds. your aunts and uncles were hopping around waiting for you to arrive. and i was wearing a burn shirt.

i will never forget how you looked when you arrived. so calm. you were so calm we were actually worried that something was wrong with you. all long limbs and tummy and haha tail, you were. of course, it took me three days to find out you had a little tail!

and now, there you are, asleep and dreaming of your barney cake and candles and swings and friends.

we love you little one. every day we are thankful for your exuberant smile and your joy for just living. thank you for choosing and blessing us.


Happy Birthday Cameron.