Strange Days Indeed*

Mama never told me there'd be days like this.

Some days are easy. Some days are zen-like, calm, unassuming, floaty, sunshiney, Xavier Rudd song kinda days, where's everything goes smoothly and according to a plan, if you have one, or blissful, carefree, no-plan, if that's the way you roll.

Other days are like today.

Other days are new strollers that don't want to work and bus drivers who berate you because the new stroller won't work and other mothers who tell you you shouldn't be using a stroller at all and others who chastise you for not getting one sooner.

Other days are a pounding headache and a sad little teethy child and a blown lounge room light globe and a whining cat and washing left too long on the line so it goes damp again and a lost favourite teethy toy and a spilled drink and a stubbed toe and a STROLLER THAT WON'T FIT IN THE FRONT DOOR.

Strange days indeed.

But, at the end of it all, there is Tiger, and there is Bear and there is a Xavier Rudd CD on the CD player, and she smiles and giggles and he hugs me and Xavier is ... well, how can you be stressed while listening to Tiger?

And besides, we are only specks in an enormous universe, and our problems are dust and ash and tomorrow is a new day.

~ Love, Miss Cackle x

* Most peculiar, mama.


Cafe Culture, Tiger Style

Today, Tiger ate a sammitch.

"No big deal!" I hear you cry! "For Tiger hath eaten many a sammitch hitherto, and during, her Little Existence!" (And no, I don't know why you are all speaking in pseudo-Shakespearen dialects. But this is my blog. And so I decree it so).

This sammitch was different, though. This sammitch was not a prepared-by-Mummy homemade job.


This sammitch was a prepared-by-some-other-sammitch-making-person CAFE SAMMITCH!


This is a FIRST and also a VERY BIG DEAL. 

Of course, it is not the first time Tiger and I have cafe-ed together. Tiger is a veritable connoisseur of cafe culture in Launceston. But this is the first time Tiger has actually eaten a little meal prepared in the cafe. It is the first time she has eaten anything not made by Mummy.

She is now, officially, a Lady Who Lunches.

And, can I say, if you are ever going through Campbell Town (Tasmania), do go to Burger Me. The service was awesome, the food lovely and inexpensive and they had plenty of gluten-free options for me, and were happy to make a Small Person meal of a cheese sandwich for Tiger. 

All in all, it was a super lovely day for the Little Family. We caught up with Grandma V (and Tiger was presented with her very first hand-knitted scarf, along with many precious Grandma cuddles), saw ducks, and went to not one but two Big Person eateries (the other was The Red Bridge Cafe), which thrilled Tiger with its many mirrors, fans and other Little People to look at. 

It's wonderful being able to have these little trips with Tiger now. She is no longer a baby, but is a Big Girl. Next thing we know, she'll be ordering paella and Wagyu beef and pork belly and duck confit, and remarking on the smooth mouth feel of her creme brulee.

Or she'll be happy just going to a nice cafe that does awesome toasted sammitches. Whatever. Tiger goes her own way.

And it's lovely.

~ Love, Miss Cackle x


The moment my heart exploded.

Today, Tiger and I were going on a Very Ordinary walk in our Very ordinary city.

As if our wont (or, at least, it WAS - read on *sob*), Tiger was travelling in her Baby Bjorn on my tummy. We've walked together like this ever since Tiny Tiger was big enough to fit in this most wonderfully ergonomic of baby transportation devices (thank you again, a million times, to Auntie N for gifting it to us - you've no idea how valued it has been).

We love the Baby Bjorn because we can cuddle as we walk, and whisper to each other, and I can hold Tiger's tiny hands and she can see the world from an Even Bigger Person's view.

And, up until today, it has been the perfect way for us to move.

But today, something bad happened. Today, as we were on our Very Ordinary walk, crossing a busy street in the middle of the Launceston CBD, when we were hit with quite some force from behind. A woman was racing up the hill, dragging behind her a shopping trolley. The trolley bashed into my legs and I hurtled forward, my feet becoming tangled in the trolley.

I can only thank all the powers of good in the universe that I managed - with some difficulty - to stay upright.

The woman kept running up the hill.

The Tiger Mother within me (and a hefty shot of adrenaline), caused me to scream after her, "You could have killed my baby"!

I then promptly burst into tears.

And it may not be true. Tiger might not have died if I'd fallen forwards with force, but she would have been horribly injured. And the thought of what might have happened if a car had whizzed around that corner, not seeing us sprawled on the road ...

My heart exploded at the thought of it.

And tomorrow, sadly, we are off to buy a stroller. 

~ Love, Miss Cackle x


That awkward moment when ...

Today, I had my first cringey moment as a mummy.

Don't get me wrong. I know I will have many more in the future and I KNOW I will have many worse. But today was my first. And for that it deserves to be recorded.

Oh and also, it involves monkeys.

So for those of you who don't know, there are monkeys in City Park in Launceston. Japanese Macaques, to be precise. Yes, the ones with the red bottoms. 

I grew up longing for and counting down days until trips to Launceston, to see my Auntie Shirley. And to see the monkeys (oh, and to have hot chips at Deloraine. For some reason this was a Very Big Deal). Auntie Shirley never got to meet Tiger (sadly. She would have loved her), but I couldn't wait to show Tiges the monkeys.

Today was not her first meeting with the Macaques. It's something we do on a semi-regular basis. but today was not meant to be a monkey day. Today's trip to the park was a spontaneous let's-get-off-at-this-stop-today whim, and had more to do with my sudden desire to take Tiger down a slide for the first time than doing the monkey thing (why does that sound wrong? Oh, that's right. Read on ...). 

And, as an aside, Tiges went down a slide for the first time today. After a little scare when I didn't think we'd make it down the slide at all (Tiger grabbed the rails at the top of the slide and jammed her little feet up against them too, and shook her head, determined she was NOT GOING DOWN THAT THING), we made it and she LOVED it - a surprise to her little self and a joy for me!

But back to the monkeys. And the awkwardness.

So we decided, as we were in the park already, we may as well say G'day to our monkey mates on the way out. It was quite busy at the monkey enclosure today, being school holidays and the day before a public holiday. So there were kids milling, tourists photographing, a group of elderly ladies oohing and aahing.

And me and Tiger.

And I - as is my wont - was narrating the whole scene to my little girl. Perhaps a touch loudly. Tiger has inherited my inability to modulate my speaking volume. It's a family curse.

"See that baby one there?" I exclaimed. "Remember we saw him last time having a drink from his mummy?"

"Look at that one!" I cried. "He's picking bugs off the other monkey there! What a good monkey friend to have! One who picks bugs off you!"


"Look at that one, Tigesy!" I roared. "He's chasing the other monkey! I wonder why he's chasing the other monkey! What could he possibly ... Oh. That's why he's chasing the other monkey. To do ... Okay, we'll talk about that when you're older."

Cue giggles from old ladies, school children and tourists alike, as I turned beetroot red and made a mental note to deal better with animal ... canoodling the next time I encountered it with Tiger.

After all, I will teach her from an early age about sexuality and procreation and the birds and the bees and the - ahem - monkeys. I want her to be informed but ...

Today wasn't the day. Not with an audience of maybe fifty sniggering onlookers.

Today was the day for beating a hasty retreat and planning to talk much more quietly the next time we're in the vicinity of any animals who may or may not experience their natural urges in our presence.

Auntie Shirley would have found it hilarious.

~ Love, Miss Cackle x


Rock on, Chrissy

Somehow, farewell doesn't seem the right word. Or Rest In Peace. She would have hated that. 

Rest In Chaos, more like. In Delight. In Noise. In Revelry. In Thrills.

In a Wild Rumpus.

Actually, no rest whatsoever would probably be more her style. No rest for the wicked, they say, and Chrissy Amphlett was wicked in the very best of ways.

As a kid, I idolised her. Her feisty attitude, her fire, her anarchy, her "I-don't-give-a-toss". I loved her stage outfits, sang along to her songs before I knew what the words meant (and with more fervour once I did).

She was a pioneer. A trailblazer. A visionary. The kind of woman I wanted to grow up to be.

I wanted to be a rock star too.

And of course, I didn't turn out anything like Chrissy Amphlett. I'm not a rock star. I'm a shy, hermit writer.

But in my head, I'm her. In my head I'm a warrior valkyrie, howling my lungs out at the night sky, dressed in fishnet stockings. 

And of course I hope Tiger finds her idols in scientists and writers and philosophers and charity workers and doctors and politicians (there are some good ones). 

But I hope just as much that she finds someone to look up to like Chrissy, who was a bit mad, a bit free, a bit boundless.

A real Wild Thing.

Don't rest in peace, Chrissy. Rock on. And I'll play Tiger a few of your songs, so you can live on in her and all the other children of women who loved you, and are secret valkyrie warriors inside their heads.

Have a fabulous time, where the wild things are.

~ Love, Miss Cackle x



Right. So. The "flu-like illness" I may be struck down with "2-3 days following" my hospital visit?

Yes. That.

But oh golly gosh. This is no ordinary flu. This is, surely, a mutant master race flu sent to me from the pits of Hell to kill me slowly and quietly. I can honestly say, I feel ...

No, I can't even put into words how I feel. Because the ones I chose would almost certainly be very NSFW.

I just need to say, thank heavens to Betsy and all that is good and pure and holy that today is a weekend and Tiger can hang out with Daddy Bear while I moan and writhe and quietly melt into a pool of gloopy, pain-filled yuck.

But the worst thing of all is, while Daddy Bear looks after Tiger, I miss her, and I worry she will forget-and-or-hate me by the time I'm well again. 

Irrational yes, I do know that. But good golly I just want to be back on form so we can be Team Mummy Tiger again.

Hopefully tomorrow. If you could cross all digits for me, that would be most lovely.

~ Love, Miss Cackle (moan) x


Tiger Magic

Thirty years ago, on my first birthday, I received a copy of a new release picture book.

The author was Mem Fox. The book was Possum Magic.

On Tiger's first Christmas, her doting Uncle R bought her a copy of the very same book. 

And today, Tiger went to her very first party - a birthday party for Possum Magic.

There is something, well, magical about that. There's something uniquely marvellous about a timeless book, as loved by mother as daughter. It is a kind of immortality, this making of books. I am privileged that it is my profession. I won't live forever, but my books are a small part of my soul that I will leave behind. Not everybody gets to have that honour.

When Mem Fox passes from this earth (hopefully not for a huge number of years - she has far too many stories inside her to flee from us any time soon), she will leave behind something miraculous. A book beloved of mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. A book whose words are intoned, learned, repeated as a kind of mantra of childhood. A book whose mentioned foods are now a sacred feast, the eating of which transports us back to the first moment we knew their thaumaturgic power. 

Today, Tiger ate a tiny piece of her very first Vegemite sandwich, a miniscule sliver of lamington.

And there it was. A brand new visible tail. Maybe not visible to anybody but Tiger, but it was there. 

Happy birthday, Possum Magic. You were important to me. You are important to Tiger. Thirty years on, it is a privilege to share you with my darling girl. It is a ribbon that connects us. When I read you to Tiger I don't feel thirty-one. I feel small and new as she is, and full of wonder. And magic.

~ Love, Miss Cackle x


*Those* mothers

Tiger and I often go for a walk at about the same time Ballet Pickup is happening at the ballet school down the street.

What this means, essentially, is that our fairly working class street is transformed, for half an hour or so, into what I imagine Toorak in Melbourne looks like. Except without the mansions. Or swimming pools. Or tennis courts. In fact, only the cars and children are like Toorak - enormous, shiny, mega-designer-brand four wheel drives and little sprogs named Giselle and Camilla.

Oh, and the mothers.

By golly, *those* mothers. 

Those mothers, in their uniforms of designer skinny jeans and Very Expensive riding boots and cashmere jumpers and puffy ski suit vests; their caramel-streaked hair (no doubt zhoushed by some Very Expensive colour specialist cum yogi in a temple in Tibet, while drinking Champagne From Actual Champagne and having crop circles made on their backs with little hot coconut shell thingies and their feet pedicured by ... llamas. Or something), tied back in sleek ponytails; their faces "nude" (i.e. smeared in Very Expensive Nude Makeup. Possibly made from caviar or similar).

Those mothers talking to their Little Princes and Princesses as if they were mentally-impaired guinea pigs with an aversion to voices louder than a VERY ANNOYING WHISPER.

Those mothers nearly running over me and Tiger in their STUPIDLY BIG CARS because, evidently, no child is important apart from THEIR child.

Those mothers telling those OTHER mothers about the giftedness / perfectness / robotness of their PERFECT ANDROID CHILDREN who, presumably, never throw tantrums, wee in the bath, pull their siblings' hair, think murderous thoughts about their mothers ...

Those mothers. By golly. Those mothers.

I am so flipping glad I am not one of them. I am so flipping glad Tiger is not an android child. When I look into our shared future, I see no big four wheel drive monstrosities, no puffy vests, no designer llama pedicures ...

I see a tiny house somewhere rural, with goats and chickens. I see martial arts lessons, so Tiger can be a superhero kicking serious baddie bum. I see not giving two actual hoots whether Tiger is more advanced in phonetics or calisthenics than Tarquin or Persephone. I see fun. And not Structured Play kind of fun. Messy, muddy, chaotic kind of fun.

The kind of fun *those* mothers could never have. Because it might ruin the cashmere.

And yes it might sound like I'm being smug or patronising, but I don't care. One of *those* mothers nearly squished me and my baby today in their stupid car. Another one refused to move her conversation out of the middle of the footpath, so Tiger and I didn't have to walk on to the road. Another one whisper-yelled at her poor little Princess, "Grace, remember, we don't skip in public. We walk. Don't we?"

Yes. Actually.

I'm sorry if it sounds like I'm being unkind about *those* mothers. 

Actually, I'm not. Because they don't give two hoots about me. And that suits me just fine.

Because I don't want to be them. I like my life better. 

It's messy and it's imperfect and it's flawed and it's LOVELY.

~ Love, Miss Cackle x


The Tiger Phenomenon

I've noticed a curious phenomenon occurring on the streets of Launceston.

There seem to be more smiles than usual, directed at the general vicinity of me and Tiger.

Actually, that is an outright lie. The smiles are not directed at me at all. They are focussed wholly on my gorgeous girl. 

Tiger, it seems, makes people smile.

And I hear them whispering, too: "She is so cute", "Look at those big eyes", "What a gorgeous baby".

And None of it - the cuteness, the gorgeousness - should matter a jot. I always swore I'd love Tiger to the moon and back even if she looked like the wrong end of a Sharpei dog. And of course I would have. But I do love that just the sight of her brings joy to the day of a complete stranger. And I know that it's not just Tiger's appearance that causes that jubilation: It's the feisty curiosity in her sparkling blue eyes, it's the cheekiness of her grin, it's her soul that's shining through that makes people chuckle at the sight of her.

She has a breathtakingly beautiful soul, my baby girl. And this city is a brighter place for catching sight of it.

~ Love, Miss Cackle x


And amid all the chaos ...

The past week has been a bit of a whirlwind. 

A newly VERY MOBILE Tiger, coupled with a hectic social calendar (she is SUCH  a little social butterfly ... tiger ... thing, my girl!), a couple of handyman visits and a flu jab ...

Just as an aside: Flu jab.

Oh my golly gosh, my girl really is a Valkyrie warrior. I was so worried she'd be Very Upset by her flu needle, what with her being Older and More Aware Of Pointy Things and associated Hurty-ness and all. But NARY A WHIMPER. Tiger just looked at her leg, went "oh" and went back to trying to eat her own foot. Courage, thy name is Tiger.

Anyway, back to what I was saying: all of THIS stuff made it one of the most tornado-like, crazy-busy, life-on-fast-forward weeks in Tiger's Little Life.

We both had barely time to catch our breaths. 

But this afternoon, after a truly gorgeous day (we saw Lovely Miss S! Tiger was Very Excited about this!), we retired to our bedroom and Tiger fell asleep in my arms. In the darkness, and the rare quiet, I took her tiny hand in mine and I held it for the hour during which she slept, snuffling in my arms.

And the tornado subsided. The world disappeared, and we made our own world, of Tiger and Mummy. I listened to her breathing. I held her, and everything was utterly, infinitely perfect. While she slept I softly, secretly, kissed her fuzzy head and I knew, as always but more intensely in that moment, that I would never feel anything like this. It's not love. That word feel woefully inadequate for what I feel for her. It's something for which there are no words.

That dark hour, that holding-of-hands. That there is the meaning of life. It is the thing we spend our lives searching for, struggling to name. It is the thing that fills the hole in our soul.

~ Love, Miss Cackle x


And another Oh Golly!

Tiger has made another Little Wisdom Decision.

She has decided that, as she is now a Very Big Girl, she does not want Mummy to feed her ANY of her meals. In FACT, Tiger will ONLY eat her foods if Tiger is feeding the food to HER LITTLE SELF!

No more mashing. No more purees. No more spooning foods into little mouth. Tiger is piloting this ship now. 

So. Finger foods, it is.

So tonight Tiger had for dinner a bucket of chicken and some chips from KFC.

Or not.

Actually, we offered her some peeled and seeded tomato, cheese stick, carrot sticks and pasta.

Tiger ate the cheese sticks.

She mushed everything up. Then, she actually picked through all of the foods and extracted the pieces of cheese.

She, it seems, likes cheese. The rest? Notsomuch. She DID eat a bit of pasta, and she put a bit of carrot in her mouth before spitting it out, so we have hope.

Tomorrow, I think I might offer her less choice. I think that was my fatal mistake. Have I learned nothing from being Gen Y? Too much choice is the DEVIL. It messes us up and means we're still living with our parents at age forty, crying because we can't decide between different brands of squeezy hand soap.

Tomorrow, Tiger will have cheese stick and carrots and she will sit there until she finishes and ...

Oh my golly gosh I really am a parent now, aren't I?

And, actually, I'm loving it. When we were trying our guts out to bring Tiny Tiger into this world, I told God or The Great Spirit or The Stars or The Master or whoever was listening that, if she just arrived in my arms alive and healthy, I'd never moan about pooish nappies or teething grizzles OR PICKY EATING.

I'm not moaning. I'm loving every second of this, just as I love every other Little Life Stage Tiger goes through.

Picky eating? Not crap at all. In fact, it's just lovely*

~ Love, Miss Cackle x

* But I hope tomorrow she eats her carrot.


Super Tiger

So. Not content with the little achievement of, you know, LEARNING HOW TO WALK AND ALL, Tiger has also, in the past two days, decided to (in no particular order):
  • Crawl. Properly. Like, not the peculiar (but endearing) caterpillar crawl she's been doing for the past three or four months.
  • Climb over things. Mostly Mummy. Nothing is an obstacle any more to Tiger getting what she wants. Especially Mummy.
  • Eat a Cheese stick. Admittedly, Mummy did play a part in this particular skill, but still, Tiger decided all by her Little Self that she was going to eat it and not throw it on the floor (which was the fate of Mummy's poor steamed broccoli. Sob).
  • Self-settle in her cot at night time. Go girl!
  • Say "Dada"! Yes, finally, Tiger has got the "Dad" thing down pat. "Dada" is very relieved and happy.
Mummy is exhausted. As I mentioned, ALL of these GIANT CHANGES has occurred in the space of forty eight hours. I have whiplash! It's as though Tiger saves up all her AWESOME SUPERPOWERS and reveals them all at once, for maximum impact.

I swear tomorrow she will reveal she can fly.

In the meantime, I am adoring this crazy, chaotic new stage in Tiger's life. She is just brilliant. 

Utterly lovely *

~ Love, Miss Cackle x

* Also a bit scary. But lovely nonetheless.


Oh My Acual Gah

So you know how I freaked out a tiny bit when Tiger started rolling ...

And how I had just the teensiest of moments when she started crawling ...

And how sitting up was kind of a big deal ...

Well now. What could have happened to make all of those momentous occurrences seem like piffly little non-events?

Oh yeah.



Except I'm not entirely sure what a Bex is and, plus, I have a ten month old baby who is WALKING. As if I can ever lie down again.

What a marvel she is, my little girl. At Christmas she was still only rolling sporadically. Now she is practically Usain Bolt.

And I am rendered both awestruck and impotent in her wake. Soon she'll be cooking her own dinner and driving herself to work and I will be made completely redundant.

As long as she still lets me kiss her little feet and rub my cheek on her little head I'll be happy.

In the meantime, I'm off to watch my daughter practise for her first marathon ...

Oh the scariness. 

Oh the loveliness.

~ Love, Miss Cackle x



"Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair
Flow it, show it
Long as God can grow it
My hair"

Tigesy has never up until this point been a hirsute baby.

No. That's not true. She was born with a fine head of brunette hair. And then ...

It went AWOL.

By the time we brought her back from the hospital, we had a baby as bald as a badger would be if badgers were, in fact, bald (where on EARTH does that expression come from? Badgers are COVERED IN HAIR). 

We got used to people asking if she was a boy. Because hair equals male, obviously.

We got used to people commenting on her lack of follicles ("Do you worry that she won't grow hair ever?" Um. No. Not high on my list of priorities).

We got used to rubbing our cheeks on her little fuzzy skull. Because, while there was no actual hair there, there was fuzz. And it was GLORIOUS.

We got used, in short, to having a baldy baby.

But THEN ...

In the past two or three weeks, it hath cometh! ALL OF THE HAIR! This time a couple of weeks ago, Tiger was boiled-egg bald. Now, she has ... well, not MASSES of hair, but by golly it's a huge improvement on what she did have. And Mummy gets a little lump in her throat when she looks at it. Because Tiger has The Lovell Swirl, a strange, tornado-like cowlick at the back of her head, that both her mummy and her Uncle R share and detest. 

But it looks so cute on her.

And, while Cackle Mummy is mourning the loss of the cheek-rubbingly-magnificent fuzz, she is also so very proud of her little Tiger for producing this fine head of Tiger furr. 

And she can't wait for a little bit more. Because by golly she is positively ITCHING to put a bow in that stuff!

How lovely will that be?

~ Love, Miss Cackle x


Things I Love About Tiger, #575,689

Tiger has very big feet.

I have been saying this ever since she was born. Daddy Bear refused to believe me and, while she was Very Tiny and in five-zero gro-suits that swum on her miniscule frame, the truth about her enormous plates of meat COULD be ignored, if one was determined to do so.

But I knew it. My baby was a bigfoot.

Just like her mummy.

I have always had big feet too. I squeeze into a size nine now, mostly because nine and a halfs are rare as hen's teeth, and I refuse to go into the Truly Massive territory of a sixe ten.

Tiger hasn't inherited much at all from me, appearance-wise, apart from a dimple, big eyes and a small double chin. 

And the feet.

Tiger is now wearing size zero clothes. We tried a pair of size four boots on her at Cotton On Baby. They were too small. 

She is now in socks designed for a two year old. She is ten months old.

Daddy Bear has finally had to acknowledge it: Tiger is a large-footed lady.

And by good gosh I adore those feet. Like the "strawberry" birthmark on her head, they make my little girl quirky. If it wasn't for these tiny "imperfections" (which I prefer to think of as "superpowers"), Tiger would be just too conventionally cute, with her chubby, rosy cheeks, rosebud mouth and enormous blue eyes.

Plus, her feet are something she got from me. Proof she came from me. I like that.

And also, you should see them. Her beautiful big feet are stroke-able, kissable, nuzzle-able. Not actually certain any of those are actual words, but I know this one is:

Tiger's big feet are just LOVELY.

~ Love, Miss Cackle x


What Tigesy Did Next ...

And then the next night ...

Tiger did NOT sleep through the night. In fact, she did not sleep very much at all. But in the morning, Cackle Mummy and Daddy Bear observed Very Red Cheeks and a surplus of drool.

So more teeth may be on their way (already??? But we only just got the last lot!!!), and this may be why we had the Worst Sleep Of All Time.

And she has slept all night once, so she CAN do it - and just knowing she's capable of it is enough. Now we know that, whatever she does is just fine. She'll have yucky nights and good nights, just like we all do. Good golly, I have just as many sleepless nights as I have restful ones, and that was true long before I had a Little Person dictating my sleep schedule.

Tiger is not a machine. She's a Very Small Human. And tonight she might sleep all night or she might wake every hour like last night. Whichever is fine. "Sleeping Through" is not the parenting "holy grail". Tiger smiles and giggles are what I aim for. In five years' time, I won't even remember these sleepless nights. 

Tonight? We'll see. Whatever Tiger does is Just Fine and Lovely.*

~ Love, Miss Cackle x

* Last night, Tiger did sleep through the night. She is still sleeping, snuffling away on her belly with her bottom in the air. I could not love my little girl any more.


All through the night

I don't want to speak too soon ...

Or jinx myself ...

Or jump the gun ...

Or count my chickens before they hatch ...

Or put the horse before the cart ...

Or draw a line in the sand or beg the question (sorry, those two were just for Daddy Bear) ...

BUT ...

SOMETHING has happened.

*whispers* Tiger slept through the night.

*Runs away, hides behind the couch, blocks ears and says "lalalalala" very loudly* 

Not sure why. Just feels like the thing I need to do to MAKE IT HAPPEN AGAIN ALL OF THE TIMES.


Also, Gah.


 ~ Love, Miss Cackle x


What Easter Means To Us

The Smallest Bilby and the Easter Tale - Nette Hilton and Bruce Whatley

The Little Family is not a religious one. We are not "conventional" in our beliefs.

We will raise Tiger to be respectful of the observations of others, to be questioning, curious and open-minded about the issue of belief. Cackle Mummy and Daddy Bear may differ on our ideas on spirituality and God, but we are united in the decision that we will tell Tiger what we believe, but encourage her to make up her own mind.

Because we are not practising Christians, we did not go to Church over the Easter weekend.

Instead, we did visited the place that's most important to us. Or, should I say the places. Because there were a few, with only one thing in common: there was family there.

Family is our Church. Family is what matters most to us. And so it was only natural that we spent this rare time away with those we adore.

We went on Easter Sunday (after a special Easter breakfast treat of chocolate custard), to stay at (code name) Scotland Place, on the coast where we grew up. We dropped our gear and then nipped out to visit Auntie I, Uncle K and LFM (Little Ford Man), who were also being visited by Poppy S and Nanna L-L. While Tiger and LFM couldn't hug like they did last time, because of Tiger's cold, it was still fun watching their fascination with each other. And Tiger got hugs and beard-pulls with Poppy S AND membership to a special Tiger club, courtesy of her proud grandfather.

After many cuddles, we returned to Scotland Place. We walked around the paddocks, Daddy Bear rowed on the dam, we shared a beautiful meal together and then we watched our version of religious programming together:

Doctor Who.

We spent the next day in happy companionship with Gran and Granda, Sammy the dog, Annie the cat, Pedro, Belle, Jedda and Benito the horses, chickens, ducks and a few crazy turbo chooks.

Then we headed back to the Ditch, where we met in the Gorge Grandma V, Uncle R and his gorgeous partner, Spunky Miss S. Brave Uncle R and SMS went on the chairlift, while the rest of us visited fairies in the Fairy Dell, and Tiger had her very first go on a swing.

It was emotional saying goodbye (Tiger cried when Uncle R had to leave), but the beauty of family is that it is a kind of faith. Always there, always strong, always a place to call home and a comfort in the darkest times. 

Tiger has the best family. While she does not have a godmother and godfather, she has them all to guide her on her little path. It may not be conventional, but it will be utterly fabulous.

~ Love, Miss Cackle x