Sticky Reminders

-David Bly-

Sticky Viddie - Mad Baby Skillz

Sticky Baby decided to compile some of his baby talents in one short clip for your viewing pleasure. Such a show-off...

Dear Baby

The past few weeks have been non-stop. You have turned crawling into an Olympic sport and I can barely keep up with you on all fours, let alone two, which I have a sneaking suspicion is right around the corner..


You are pulling yourself up on everything in sight - the coffee table, the couch, the play pen, my legs. You can’t seem to get enough of this new upright position. It’s fun isn’t it?


You are paying attention to things in a whole new way. The fridge magnets are suddenly intriguing to you where before you used to pass right by them. You and the dishwasher are great pals. Every time you hear me pull out one of the loading drawers, you’re there in a flash. White goods in general seem to be your new favourite thing. You are a man on a mission whenever the fridge door is opened. You could spend hours in that cold box, if we allowed it. But we don’t, so you trot off to the next kitchen landmark - the stainless-steel bin. I’m not sure if it’s the allure of the forbidden or just the fact that you can see your reflection in it, but you sure do like that trash can!


You have lots of new tricks too. You can clap your hands, point, wave, kiss your red inflatable horse on command, feed teddy at meal times, hold your own bottle, walk on your own pushing your baby walker, play hide and seek...something new every day it seems.


You still hate putting your pyjamas on at night and you are growing increasingly impatient with getting your nappy changed. Patience is something you haven’t quite mastered yet, I’m afraid.


You are becoming a very cuddly little koala with your father and I. You are so affectionate and we can’t get enough of your smooches and hugs. It’s our bliss.


You continue to charm your way through this village - this afternoon, you scored a free croissant for yourself at the bakery. They just can’t resist your blue eyes, baby.


You are playing ever so well with other children now. You even shared a laugh with your friend Jax today in the back of the car. I’m not too sure what the two of you were giggling at...my singing perhaps? Either way, that sound was truly delightful.


You have 8 teeth now, each of which is helping you expand your palette - you are sampling olives and gherkins, dried mango, rice cakes, banana rice pudding, roast pork, meat balls, leeks. I love experimenting with your adventurous little taste buds! You take after both your father and I in that department. Watching you eat watermelon in your bathers makes my heart sing.


Every day with you is deliciously wonderful. I’m so happy to be your mama.


We love you like fireworks,


x Mum

Sticky Piccie - Our angel is back

Back from the brink of teething hell, he emerges victorious, pink butterfly wand in hand...

Bubbleboys

Who’s having more fun? Father or son? You decide.

The little’un is quickly catching on though....

The tiles just got stickier. Whatevs. 

Ma’Gyver

It occurred to me in the car this afternoon, on the way to go rape and pillage the summer sales in town (more on that later), that I have reached a new milestone in mummy-hood.

I think I shall call it...

plansomethingeverydayoftheweeksothehoursathomedontseemsomindnumbinglysuffocating

Did ‘ya catch that? Oh, you’re not proficient at reading 76 letter words? Poor you. I have mad skillz in that department.

I’ll break it down for those of you with brains the size of clams (joking)..

My new, invisible mama badge is awarded to me (by me) for...cue the orchestra....Making Mama-Baby Social Plans Like A Socialite On Speed. Seriously, if Sticky Baby shrunk to 1/4 of his current size, grew a tail, barked and made a Louis Vuitton bag his home, I could totally be the brunette version of Paris Hilton. Except nicer. And with undies firmly on whilst getting out of cars.

So yes, as I was saying, Sticky Baby and I make plans for play dates, pool parties, beach walks, breakfasts out, afternoon trampoline sessions and the like most days of the week.  He’s at an age where staying at home just doesn’t cut it. Not enough stimulation for the lad, despite our entire living room having the capacity to light up, squeak, honk, or play a satanically high-pitched version of some wacky nursery rhyme. Sit on the sofa and before you know it some fluorescent toy playing Row Your Boat is half way up your wazoo.

Stimulation is necessary for this child. He’s not one of those baby blobs (I say that affectionately) that is happy sitting in a bouncer for the duration of three consecutive Oprah episodes. Sweet Hay-zuse, that would be so good. I would love me a baby blob... But the great G.O.D above had different plans for me and instead I am the proud owner mother of a busy, buzzy, stuck-on-fast-forward, fridge-climbing, commando-crawling, tap dancing (I swear, that’s next on his list) baby boy. Perhaps I had an illicit affair with the Energizer Bunny that has been swiped from my memory....

So outings are a requirement for a good day. No outings/too many hours stuck in the house and Sticky Baby turns into Damien from The Omen. One to two excursions per day and the little dude has a perma-halo hovering above his blonde noggin. Sweet angel.

The trick to setting up play dates is to firmly encrust yourself in other mums’ lives. Befriend them, pay them compliments, tell them how cute their kids are. Bribe them with bottomless cups of tea, chocolate muffins, babysitting exchange. Stalk them if you must. ‘Cause when you have a good group of women with restraining orders against you friends, every day is a happy, adventurous, fulfilling day for mama and bub.

Shall I give you an example of my week?

Monday - Post office and market with friend #1 and her bub + b’day present shopping at the mall in afternoon. Baby shopaholic in the making. Sticky Baby ♥ shopping trolleys 4EVA.
Tuesday - Sticky Baby and Papadada off on 'boyz club' adventure to mechanics. Afternoon tea with friend #2 for me! Cupcakes and Earl Gray tea make me a better mother.
Wednesday - Morning play date at our house with friend #3, followed by a 3 hour long afternoon play date at friend #4’s house. That’s an obscenely long play date, in case you didn’t know.
Thursday - Sticky Baby at ‘school’ = No stalking required.
Friday - Breakfast play date at friend #5’s house followed by afternoon b’day party at friend #6’s house.

See what I mean? Stalking totally pays off.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, there’s not much to do in our little part of France, so you 'godda use your imagination a little. I can do with friends+babies+social activities what McGyver can do with string+can-opener+clove of garlic.

Ta-da! Ma’Gyver! Get it?

End Note: In effect, I didn’t really rape and pillage the sales racks in town. But I did nab myself a truly amazeballs pair of wedges that were a whopping 50% off.  Tan leather with patent bronze accents. Sa-weet deal. Will go so well with the soggy rice cereal that they’re bound to get smothered in..Not so sweet deal.....

Sticky Piccie - Basket Case

This is what we do at 7:18am...we put Sticky Baby in our stripey laundry hamper. He reminds me of a cobra at a Moroccan market.

Super Size Me

Behold Papadada’s sandwich....

Yes, it is the same size as Sticky Baby’s head. Possibly bigger. That’s how the handsome one rolls..

Today’s realisations...

Sticky Baby was at ‘school’ today, so Papadada and I were free to do whatever we pleased.

For me - 1hr of self-imposed house cleaning (didn’t please me in the least) + leg wax (still, not pleasing)

For him - 3hrs of disassembling, sanding, reassembling his beloved Vespa (very pleased).

I’m back on my cleaning binges, people. Something in me has ticked over. I think it’s the realisation that I’m no longer a ‘New Mum’. For God’s sake, my kid is in size 5 nappies, is as tall as our stainless steel trash can (I know this because he hugs it on a disturbingly regular basis) and can pretty much replace the dead batteries in his own toys (screwdriver training from Papadada). I ain’t a ‘New Mum' no more!

With that label dead in the water, so are the excuses that are permissible only to New Mums:

• I’m too tired to cook/clean/grocery shop/get off the couch/pay bills/get out of my dressing gown/shower myself
• My newborn requires every ounce of my attention, therefore I can’t quite fit much else in
• I’m still figuring out how to multi-task with this new addition to our lives

All totally reasonable, very valid statements that should/can be used for as long as possible. But 10 months, people? I can’t use them any longer.

Tired. Yes. Baby requires attention. Yes. But multi-tasking? I’ve totally got that shiz covered, let’s be real. So it’s time for Cleaning and I to become one again. I’ve got my daily list, my weekly list and my monthly list of ‘cleaning to-dos’. Anal retentive. BIG YES! I’m back, baby.

So anyway, once the cleaning and the hair removal were out of the way, Papadada and I decided to treat ourselves to a lunch date down by the water. And yes, I did get out of my dressing gown for it. Not a 'New Mum’ anymore, remember? 

It’s here that I had my 2nd realisation of the day. I’m a really, really, really cheap-ass date.

I ordered one measly glass of white wine and I was hammered. Seriously buzzed and almost slurring my words. Tipsy enough to yell something out to the steroid-y looking jackass wearing obnoxious pink euro-boardshorts. (Ok, so I didn’t actually yell out to him, but boy was I coming up with some gnarly one-liners in my head!)

Food-wise, I ordered the grilled fish, but in all honesty? I would’ve been happy with a half-eaten teething rusk and a jar of apple sauce. 

PA found

A few posts ago, I advertised for a Personal Assistant. I think I found one.....

The big D

It’s begun. The D word. At 10 months of age, Sticky Baby is gagging for it. Discipline.

Such a scary, grown-up word. Three syllables that had my 16 year old self desperately conjuring up lie upon lie upon lie, to get out of another lie that I lied to my parents about. Yes, I was a deceiving little so-and-so as a teenager. Sorry mum and dad. The two of you will be glad to know (and laughing your asses off, I bet) that the penance for my shady adolescent behaviour is well and truly upon me and comes in the form of a sticky, curly haired, stubborn, tough-as-nails little nugget. And now it’s my turn to dish out the discipline. Sweet Jesus.

How can you feel like laughing out loud AND throttling something at the same time? This is what Papadada and I are facing of late. One of us is either burying our head in a pillow to stifle fits of laughter or giving Sticky Baby a firm talking to. We take turns. ‘Cause really, when it comes down to it, it’s really very funny to see a baby kick up a stink. Hilarious in fact. So freakin’ funny that I want to tear chunks of my own hair out.

It’s that mad mix of hilarity and frustration. You can either choose to laugh (for the love of Lady Gaga, not in front of the conniving baby, who’s watching your reaction with eagle eyes) or you can choose to lose your shit. Strangely enough, I mostly sometimes become eerily calm. So zen, in fact, that I think I could definitely land a gig on Play School. I even start singing whilst doing the whole mummy-reverse-psychology scam. ‘Ooh, Sticky Baby, you just threw a spoonful of sweet potato across the room. ♫Sweet potato, sweet potato, potati, potato, potati♫, Mummy is not bothered at all!”


For now, our discipline mostly involves not giving into him. Adolf (Papadada has nick-named him this...during these trying new times) wants to be in my arms all the time. No seriously, ALL THE TIME. Lately, when I put him down, he screams so wildly that Papadada and I are reduced to staring at each other with this expression on our faces:

Totally don’t know this guy, but this is what our faces look like

Our tactics so far include:

• Putting him down when he screeches like a banshee for no apparent reason
• Not paying him any attention while he is screaming bloody murder - again for no known reason
• Addressing him firmly, yet calmly, at eye level
• Tapping him on the wrist/chunky baby thigh when he really, really deserves it - like biting, or waving his arms aggressively at us while hollering like a drunken hobo, or chucking an all-out tantrum with screams sounding like a cross between two parakeets having 'sexy time' and crunching gears in a manual car. (Seriously, that’s a spot-on description of what our child sounds like. Good times.)

It’s a true test of parental patience, strategy and consistency. Thankfully, I have a loyal team-mate in Papadada. He calms me down when I need it and revs me up when he thinks I’m letting Adolf get away with too much. And I do the same for him. Either way, the kid stands no chance up against the two of us.

There’s also a sweet side to this new stage of development. Seeing this little boy grow, testing boundaries, experimenting with emotions,  discovering this big personality of his. In order to learn right from wrong, he is bound to dip his toes in ‘wrong’ at some point. 

And it really is just that - Experimenting - it’s written all over his face that he’s just trying his ‘naughty hat’ on for size. 

And we’ll be there to take it right off and tell him it doesn’t suit him...

Sticky Viddie - Baby toss

I just want to apologise for my bossy-boots voice in the background of this video. Seriously, who do I think I am? Stanley Kubrick? Martin Scorcese? “Again”, “Higher”...shut up

...And just ‘cause you love us so much, us and our baby-throwing antics, don’t forget to vote daily to keep Sticky Baby listed on the Top Mommy Blogs Directory! Just to make it super easy for you, just Click here if you can’t be bothered scrolling up to the actual logo. I’m feelin’ ya...I’ve got the lazy-bones disease today too..Stop staring at me, mop bucket and vacuum cleaner. Shoo.

Smoke bomb

Sticky Baby has discovered, and perfected, the art of the ‘Smoke Bomb’.

For those of you unfamiliar with the term:

Smoke Bomb:  Used in war as a diversion to disguise entry or exit of troops; To disappear from a social situation, swiftly and subtly. Handy when one is bored, uncomfortable, would rather be elsewhere, can’t be bothered with general farewelling rigmarole. Easily achieved at parties with numerous guests. Some guests may be known to suddenly ask, eyebrows arched, "Where’s so-&-so gone?". Oh, he’s done a smoke bomb...

Papadada is an adept Smoke Bomber. He has the skill down to a science. He thinks he’s Jason Bourne from The Bourne Identity. Now that we’re married he expects me to adopt this behaviour. I talk too much to be a good smoke bomber, but I’m working on it.

Sticky Baby, on the other hand, totally poached that sneaky little chromosome from his father. He’s a natural.

It all happened at Friday morning’s big event - his little friend’s 1st birthday party. I was so excited for him. His first social do with peers. I had big dreams of seeing him playing alongside the other children, even indulging in his first piece of birthday cake.

We were one of the first to arrive, but as all the other guests traipsed in, I sensed there would be trouble in Sticky-ville. ALL of the invited children were girls. Ewwwwwww, girl germs! Seriously, that’s what the kid was thinking. The birthday boy was Sticky Baby’s only ally and seeing he was the star of the show, Sticky Baby didn’t stand a chance at having his pal stay by his side. Fair enough.

It’s the first time I’ve seen my son so shy and awkward. He’s usually the bald kid who greets others with a bop on the nose and a finger in the eye. All friendly gestures, of course. Here, surrounded by little women, I could see him quietly shitting himself. Gulp, went his wee little adam’s apple. He crawled onto my lap, not before rummaging through the nappy bag to retrieve his beloved blue rabbit comforter. And there he sat, on mummy’s knee, terrified at the dresses, bows, patent sandals and long eyelashes that surrounded him.

He lasted a further 10 minutes, at one stage braving the floor and crawling towards one of the pretty little ladies. She must’ve said, in baby language, “Do I look fat in this?” or “Tell me what you’re feeling”, because before I knew it he was back tugging at my ankles with pleading eyes.

The rest of the party? He spent in the birthday boy’s crib upstairs, fast asleep, sucking on blue rabbit’s ears. Smoke Bomb.

The baby monitor flashed and whirred to life only when ALL of the guests had left. Sticky Baby stretched and yawned, a big smile on his face, emerging from the crib triumphant, with only his birthday boy pal left to play with. Just the way he had wanted it from the beginning.

So I didn’t get to see my boy with a cute little coned party hat on. Nor did I get to see him smear cake icing through his curls. But I did get to chat with the other mums, without interruption, and sink a glass of bubbly. A good morning in my books!

It was the smoke bomb to end all smoke bombs, but at least the little dude knows his limits. Too many girls for now, mum.

He won’t be saying that in 15 years time, that’s for sure....

Our little seaside town comes alive in the summer. In fact, it triples in population and is quite the hip and happening holiday destination. We have ice cream parlours, crepe booths, free evening concerts, cafes, t-shirt shops and a veritable BUZZ right on our doorstep. There is a little yellow ‘train’ that circles around the town, dropping tourists off at their camping sites, hotels, the shopping centre, the beach. Pre-Sticky Baby, Papadada and I would have never considered going for a ride..cheese factor = high. But now? What better way to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon! Ah, how things change...

Co-sleeping

This is what most afternoon's in our house look like. Power-napping must be a male art form. I wish I could do it.

Something to keep in mind...

Sticky Piccie - Chucking a Britney Spears

Clearly Papadada never saw the E! News report about Brit Brit getting fined for letting her baby sit on her lap in the car...

Help Wanted

I only have 1 child, and I don’t work, and to top it off Papadada is one of those rare hubbies to be super hands-on in all things child-rearing and chores. But sometimes, just for the heck of it,  I can’t help but day-dream about having a Personal Assistant, like all those celebs who pay their minions to hold their iphones and go shopping with them at Kitson, that cool-ass shop in Hollywood that you always see on the E! Channel...

Help Wanted

PA Job in the South of France (that’ll draw the suckers in)

Must be able to name all characters and sing most songs from the tv program ‘In the Night Garden’ and dance exactly like Iggle Piggle.

Some experience with balancing an 11kg weight on hip, filling an inflatable pool with one hand and applying sunscreen with the other.

Previous work in catering a plus. Must know how to handle large quantities of mayonnaise for mayo-loving husband.

Cannot have fear of mashed banana or all-round, extreme stickiness.

Must be laundry-competent, in particular with obscene amounts of smelly male sports clothes and towels, towels, towels....and more towels.

No need to apply if you own white clothes and don’t like your hair pulled.

All jokes aside though, wouldn’t it just be tha bomb if there was someone to vacuum and mop twice a day, hose down the high chair (notice the use of the word ‘hose’ as opposed to ‘wipe’), cook dinner every night, clean the bathrooms weekly, do the groceries, and do 3 loads of laundry a day (wash, dry and fold - instead of the current situation where most of our clothing makes its home in the dryer for waaaaay too long. My sock told me the other day that he and the others were a few hours away from hanging up a Home Sweet Home sign on the dryer door. Fail.). 


Don’t get me wrong, all of these things do get done. Eventually. But since sporting my mama-cape, my standards have dropped considerably and I’m not as organised and thorough as I once was. Granted, I used to be a little too anal  OCD with all things cleaning. So it might not be a bad thing. Silver lining anyone?


Ooh nearly forgot. For the love of Kim Kardashian, will someone please come to my house and change our bed sheets?!?!? It’s starting to look like a CSI chalk-outline-crime-scene thingy on our sheets...except it ain’t blood and guts, it’s just grime and dirt. 


Someone sic the lazy brigade on my ass, PLEASE!

Medical Mamadrama

I took Sticky Baby to the doctor yesterday.

My brain is so tired of playing the ‘What If It’s This’ game, trying desperately to figure out why this child is suddenly chronically catnapping, rising way too early, tugging fiercely at his ear, smooshing his nose, coughing and generally being Satan-with-his-pitchfork personified.

(Clearly I don’t think my child is Satan..hold that thought...he is currently beating his high chair with a rake whilst smearing cream cheese into a toy. hmmmm).

This is my brain and the baby-related torment it is currently processing:

[Scientifically accurate diagram of Mama L’s brain]

Such is a mother’s existence. Constant worry about your child and wondering if you’re doing everything as well as you possibly could be and God damn it, too much information from the internet, books, and the crazy cat lady down the road (yes, I have taken advice from her before. Most of it relates to her feline companions, but I apply it directly to Sticky baby. Don’t other parents do this?).

So my gut is telling me that something’s up with the Sticky one. Surely he can’t be this feral simply from growing new teeth? It’s got to be something else.

Cut to the doctor’s office..

Sticky Baby loves the stethoscope. All smiles. Charmed the pants of Doctor Deschand.
Sticky Baby does not like tongue depressors. At. All. The first five minutes of the throat inspection were spent trying to pry the wooden stick thingy out from between his 6 teeth. He was biting down that hard on it.
Dr Deschand consequently decided that we should pin Sticky Baby down, to facilitate the examination.
Sticky Baby hates being pinned down more than he hates tongue depressors.
I tell you what, that baby was pulling out some serious wrestling moves. At one point he performed a half-nelson on Dr Deschand’s arm. It was good. I tried hard to suppress a laugh, but a noise akin to a yelping possum escaped from my mouth. Dr Deschand death-stared me, so I kinda made out that I was emotional over my baby’s obvious distress.

The doctor’s assistant, a burly brunette, was summoned to help pin down the 10-month old baby. Yes. 3 adults to hold down one infant. Though I really don’t count seeing I just stood there singing random french and english lullabies to soothe Hulk-baby.

Temperature was taken, ears were inspected and throat was finally examined. Sticky Baby was red, sweaty and trés, trés pissed off.

Turns out there was nothing wrong with him (You’re fired, gut instinct). One ear was ever so slightly pink (isn’t that the colour they’re meant to be?) so the doc prescribed some light-weight antibiotics, just ‘cause he can, and just ‘cause the french medical system is so awesome that you don’t pay for a single drug, ever. No word of a lie. My grand total at the pharmacy for antibiotics, nose cleaning spray, baby panadol and baby nurofen? A whopping €0. Merci beaucoup. Vive la France.

So there you have it. Sticky Baby is teething like a mo-fo. Again. My heart hurts watching him swat at his mouth, bite his fingers, drool every last millilitre of saliva from his wee body. Papadada and I have an arsenal of teething remedies at the ready. Frozen watermelon, cold wash cloths to suck on, and.... car keys. Disgusting, but at times like this, whatever soothes bub will have to do, no matter how gross it really is. Just one of those things you swear you’d never do BEFORE you had kids, right?

Oh, and we’re looking at enrolling him in baby wrestling classes. If I can find them.

10 signs that Papadada has been in France for quite some time...

1. He can effortlessly park a car in the teeniest of spaces. And quite comfortably parks illegally, like all good, french motorists.
2. He can read one of Sticky Baby’s favourite books to him - and the whole thing is in French! Top points scored for authentic french-man accent.
3. He prefers red wine over beer.. and even has some impressive vinoculture vocab to show off with.
4. He finally understands the virtue of small cars. Where we once owned a ginormous Toyota Prado beast, we now zip around in a miniscule Citroen.
5. He is addicted to baguettes and hardly ever eats regular sliced bread
6. He wears Speedos. He wouldn’t be caught DEAD in Australia wearing Speedos. It was board-shorts all the way. But now? Black DTs it is! Public swimming pools, the beach - wherever there is water, Papadada is rocking the budgy smugglers. Women around the world are rejoicing. Me in particular. Geez, the man looks good in a Speedo!
7. He has cultivated a mild fascination for Vespa scooters. His loud, garish, dirt bikes are a thing of the past.
8. He owns a beret. Yes. He. Does. A Lacoste one at that. Double french points there.
9. Duck is his favourites meat. Quack.
10. He drives like a lunatic and swears in french when he gets road rage. Merde! Putain! I have taught him well. 
11. (just because I can never keep a list down to 10) He once ordered Foie Gras ICE CREAM. And enjoyed it. 

Someone, give this man a French flag so he can fly it proudly from our balcony. He’s passed the test. He’s a real frenchie now!

Sticky Viddie - Fairy Punisher

Sticky Baby stole this sparkly butterfly fairy wand from a poor, unsuspecting little girl that was in our home yesterday. As you can see, he’s not the most delicate of fairies....in fact fairies all over the world are shitting themselves right this minute....

A new, bling blog

I’ve got a slammin’ new blog design. Did you notice the change? It happened last night at about 9pm. The universe shifted a little.

Beyond. Excited.

If you scroll down to the bottom of the right side bar, you’ll notice a cute-ass Sticky Baby button that you can ‘grab’ and put on your own blog...or just use to embellish your emails (as if). Or your lives (pffff).

It’s a fresh, new start for Sticky Baby. Streamlined, sleek, shiny...and always a little bit sticky.

Hope you likey.

Tick Tock

Dear 5:56am,

I don’t quite know how to say this without being rude...but you’re a horrible, mangy BITCH and I despise you truly, madly, deeply.

Your stupid three digits taunt me each morning, mocking my limp and tired body, my foggy mind, my swollen eyes, pointing out the fact that any second now, Sticky Baby will bellow to start his day.

Your kind and beautiful sister, 7am, was a good friend of mine. She made our days begin in the most seamless of ways. The three of us were well rested, with smiles on our faces, ready to take on the day ahead. Sadly, 7am disappeared from my life two months ago. And now you’re here. And Sticky Baby awakes as grumpy as Heidi and Spencer from The Hills are crazy. And that’s saying a lot.

I’m here to tell you that you suck the big one. And also that Papadada and I are doing everything in our power to banish you kick your sorry ass out of our lives for good. We will do whatever it takes to lure back your sensible, appropriate, much-adored sibling, 7am.

5:56am, you better watch your back, you sicko. I’m gonna take you down to China Town. Consider your days in this household numbered.

Sincerely The bags under my eyes and I hate your guts,

Mama L

S is for SWOON!

I am in Love. Lust. Must-have mode. Wish-list fever. Get me one of these pronto!! Serious, would this not make the most divine new baby gift? Or even for a child’s birthday? Or even just a cool-ass letter to represent your last name?

The very talented Darlinglark, a unique and more-ish online ‘Etsy’ seller, personally hand-draws and customises any letter or symbol of your choice. You can discuss colours and themes with her too, and these unique works of art measure a perfect 8”x10” and are equally perfectly priced at USD$35. I can just imagine how beautiful they would look once framed!

It’s a done deal. I’m getting Sticky Baby one. It has to happen. It might just be his 1st birthday gift. Something that we can look at every night together, picking out the gorgeous details, making stories up of each little drawing as we go. I think there are endless hours of fun and discovery in this gift. I can see it going with him to his first apartment, overseas on his first travel adventure, and one day sitting on a bookcase in his own home. Hold on, do boys do that?? Oh well, this one will. I will just stalk him, framed letter in my handbag, waiting for an opportunity to set it up on one of his shelves.....yessssss.

Sticky Piccie - Should we be worried?

Children imitate their parents, right? Does this mean Papadada and I chug our coffee THAT desperately in the mornings?

Note:  It’s an empty mug. No babies were harmed in the making of this photograph

The loss of a friend

All morning I’ve been indecisive as to whether or not I should write this post. Part of me knows it’s inappropriate content for a baby blog. I try and keep things light and lovely and fresh on these virtual pages. Because for the most part, I’m one of those ridiculously LUCKY humans whose life truly is light, lovely and fresh..

Unfortunately, life is not always that way. And I awoke this morning to some horrible news that has driven that very fact straight through my heart.

One of my dearest male friends from high school died earlier this week from a drug overdose. I am numb.

I don’t want to waste my words about him on the negativity that consumed his life this past decade. But I will say this. Drugs kill. And they killed my friend. He let himself get swept up in the tornado that is drug addiction. What started with ‘harmless’ pot smoking in Year 11, turned to much more sinister things. We tried to intervene so many times. But nothing worked.

He was one of the smartest people I knew. A talent for words like no other, a gifted writer. A wicked sense of humour and always the life of the party. He was the first of our friends to get his drivers licence which made him God in our eyes. My senior years are littered with memories of laughing fits in the back seat of his car, drive-thru McDonalds in the afternoons, sneaking out at night and meeting on the local golf greens. He reminds me of that first taste of freedom, of feeling grown-up, gaining independence, our whole lives ahead of us, the world our oyster. I will always remember that group of us, he at the helm, always a cheeky smile and a naughty twinkle in his eye. His laugh was contagious.

He and I lost touch for a number years, as his addiction took hold and created an irreversible chasm between him and his ‘old life’. Part of me feels such guilt at not having tried harder. Though try I did. But I also know that the choices he made were his and his alone.

So this post is to say “Goodbye" to my beautiful friend. I know you will find peace and happiness where you are today. I will miss you. I will miss the 17-year-old you, who I used to have long, caring talks with and eat too many mini-Snickers bars while doing so.

Sticky Baby, when you are old enough to read and understand this post I want you to know that drugs, ANY drugs, no matter how harmless they seem, can lead to this. It’s not just ‘other people’ this happens to. This was mummy’s friend. And I never want it to touch you, or one of your dear friends. You and I will have long chats about this, so you know that it’s just not worth it. None of it is. It’s a waste of energy, a waste of money, a waste of a life.

xoxooxox Miss you Pete xoxoxoxox

My 2 main men

These two give me the kind of feelings people write about in novels...

Christmas in July...sorta

I have been doing Shakira’s Wacca-Wacca-Africa dance around our living room all day. Why? Because I like it. And it makes me think about taking up soccer...for about 2 seconds...and then I slap myself across the face as a reminder that my limbs are ridiculously uncoordinated and who am I to think I could actually dribble a soccer ball without snapping one of my pins and making a total mockery of the sport? Soccer fantasy over. Leave it to the pros in the World Cup. Wacca-wacca-Africa dance still going on in lounge-room though.

Total tangent...sorry.

Happy dance was being performed this morning because the pimply french lad from the post office rang the doorbell and delivered my much-awaited Mothers’ Day pressie! Hells yeah!

Obviously, it’s rather belated. Not Papadada’s fault. Totally my own. Paypal and I aren’t friends. Thought I had paid for it, waited for 3 weeks, contacted the seller and then realised the payment hadn’t gone through because I botched up my passwords or something wack like that. I wanted to punch Paypal in the head. Or maybe myself for having forgotten the password in the first place. Loser-face.

But my first Mothers’ Day gift is here now and will forever be close to my heart ♥

Photo isn’t that clear, but it’s a lovely delicate chain with a hand stamped hammered disc with our 3 initials on it! And a lovely cluster of fresh-water pearl charms alongside.

The lovely Zoe over at Three Sisters Jewelry made this beautiful piece and I am in love with it. So simple, but so special and precious to me. Thanks Zoe. I LOVE! And thank you Papadada, for my beautiful, memorable present xoxo

Venus & Mars

Testosterone   2
Oestrogen       1

I’m outnumbered. I’ve lost the battle.

This is a typical scene at our house. Garage male bonding. Just like my husband, my son is already tapping into his inner grease-monkey. Like father, like son. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Blah blah. I get it.


Welcome to my life. Noisy, messy, dirty, garage-y. Is it normal that our baby is quite adept with a screwdriver at this early age?

I must say though, there’s nothing quite as adorable as these scooter-fixing moments. Sticky Baby fascinated at everything that goes grate squeak bang clash. This is his mecca. And Papadada’s face lighting up when he sees the joy registering on his spawn’s face. I can hear the inner monologue from here:

Ahhhh, that’s my boy

All I’m good for during these moments is holding the camera and saying “ooh”  “aah”  “wow” and  “sweet Jesus, watch the power tools”.

No words need be exchanged during these exclusive, boys-club moments. These dudes understand one another. There is mutual respect for all things oily, greasy, rusty (ooh that reminds me - ask pediatrician about tetanus shot - kidding!). 

Sticky Baby, spend as much time as you want in the garage with your father. Treasure those moments. Learn from the master. Soak in the passion that is ‘tinkering’. But please, for your mother, will you promise to take me out to coffee every now and then, when you’re older? Will you sit down next to me on the couch and ask me about my day? Will you spend a Sunday here and there in the kitchen with me, trialing new recipes? Will you still come bike riding with me, even when you’ve well and truly outgrown your blue and green froggy helmet? 

I would sure love that:)

Sticky Piccie - Shower Power

Email gems from my father-in-law

We still miss you though, Oz!

Chip emergency

Sticky Baby choked on a potato chip yesterday. No really, choked.

I was pool-side with a bunch of my lady friends and their rug rats enjoying the gentle afternoon sun and the chlorine fumes.

Snacks were being passed around and Sticky Baby, always one to enjoy a nibble, made big puppy dog eyes at the giant red bag of crisps.

Now, I’m not one for feeding my tiny boy junk. In fact, the majority of what he ingests is home-made, honest to goodness food.

But what’s a pool party life without a few indulgences? So I let him have some chips.

Cough. splutter. Dry retch... I can deal with that. He does that a lot, being a baby and all.

Red eyes, no noise, tongue sticking out, struggling, not breathing...that I cannot deal with. For the love of Britney Spears, I CANNOT DEAL WITH THAT!

In that instant, I whipped out my super-mama cape (I keep it tucked away in my string bikinis) and took action!

I remained remarkably calm and remembered my sister-in-law’s instructions (she’s a gifted ambulance office):

Put baby over knee and administer sharp blows between shoulder blades.

My version was a little different, seeing I was waist-deep in water and Sticky Baby was sitting on the edge of the pool. I simply grabbed him, slung him over my shoulder and whacked him on the back multiple times.

Worked a treat. Soggy chip on my shoulder. Baby breathing and happy again. Whew. Good Lord, this parenting stuff can be stressful. I don’t think I took a real breath during the whole chip incident. 

Sticky Baby, you gave me my first heart-attack.

And what do we say when we narrowly escape choking accidents?

Thank you ambo sister-in-law! 

You’ve got mail

Dear muppet-baby,

These past few days have been filled with so much fun, sun and lots and lots of water!

Summer is finally here. We've been waiting a long time for it this year. All of your lovely warm-weather gear is out on show - your gingham rompers, your checkered diaper-covers and a drawer-full of singlets to show off those baby muscles.

You are, without a doubt, a summer baby. You are happiest shirtless and in a nappy with rosy-red cheeks from crawling too fast and pulling yourself up on everything in sight. I make a point of stopping you in your adventures so you can have a big drink from your blue sippy cup. And then you’re off again!

It’s also been a week of ‘firsts’ for you. Just today, you flapped your arm to wave goodbye to our friends. I’ve been showing you this move every morning, when we wave Daddy off to work. I didn’t realise that you were paying such close attention and simply waiting for the perfect moment to unleash your new skill. It was brilliant, your energetic, bigger-than-life wave.

You also swam in the ocean for the first time, had a dip in a big swimming pool, and captained your new red, inflatable boat that we bought you. You love bobbing up and down in the gentle waves, floating between your father and I as we push you to one another. The water seems to soothe you a great deal - a much needed moment of calm in your otherwise hectic, busy, loud, sweaty day.

You’re a delicious golden-brown colour, like one of the freshly-baked croissants in the bakery window, despite the sunscreen and the big floppy hat we make you wear. When you’re well and truly waterlogged from our time in the sea, your appetite is even more ravenous than usual and you sleep like a newborn babe. Bliss.

When you awake from your seaside dreams, you babble and coo so convincingly that anyone would think you were actually talking! So many new sounds coming out of your mouth, all mashed together to create the most brightly coloured sentences I have ever heard.

Your hair is longer, blonder, curlier. Your teeth have finally outnumbered your limbs. Six in total now. Your legs are so strong, your fingers so nimble. Your smile brighter by the day. Your face more expressive by the minute.

You’re growing into the most amazing little boy.

x Love Maman