...adventure, uncertainty and sheer boldness!

I am always delighted to touch base with the lovely folk who have contributed stories to You Won't Remember This. Sometimes this is in person. I managed to get a picture of myself, Helen Sheil (aka my mum) and Sarah Dyer at the opening night of the My Mother is an Artist, and you can read my overview of the evening for Lothian Life if you like.  

Helen Sheil, Sandy Bennett-Haber and Sarah Dyer

Then a few days later I received a lovely email from another contributor - Stacey Campbell, amongst other things she let me know she had finished the reading the book, and she had such a warm response I asked her if I could share her thoughts here: 

Contributor Review of You Won't Remember This- Stacey Campbell

I am delighted to say I have finished reading the collection and was completely taken by its simplicity, colour and warmth!

What a beautiful collection - filled with elements of adventure, uncertainty and sheer boldness! The diversity of inclusions make it fascinating in terms of content and tone. I loved how the experiences blended seamlessly together, united in terms of the connection and meaning behind life and parenthood. I especially enjoyed this despite the inclusions having such different contexts - not merely geographical but also cultural, social, familial, personal. The list goes on!

As someone who has travelled and who is not a parent (but who has reflected carefully on the subject), I delighted in reading it and concluded the book with complete satisfaction and a wide smile which my friend commented on while we were on holiday! It was a pleasure to read and I am so thrilled to be part of it!

Stacey Campbell

Stacey Campbell is a contributor to You Won't Remember This – travel with babies. She graduated with a degree in History from the University of Glasgow in 2015. Always a keen writer, her storytelling was sparked by a childhood love of Roald Dahl and the power of her imagination to conjure impossible things. Still a lover of Roald Dahl and all things strange, she lives her life by the motto ‘be kind, thankful and bold’. In her free time, she enjoys reading Sylvia Plath, walking her dog and planning her next adventure. She is an ardent feminist and writes on a variety of topics. 

Stacey interns for She Works. Read her recent article CV BOOST Why You Need to Volunteer and How

You can also  read her article for the FT Magazine: 7 Years Left  

The shortcut blog about this woman writing elsewhere

So I had a plan – which was to write one blog a month this year. And now it is the 30^th of May and so far no blog has appeared. There has been action aplenty in life, and even some bits of writing here and there, but none of it on the Flamingo Rover blog.  

In my defence for the non appearance of a blog Finn turned two – which means that I have a two year old and a three year old. Just think about that for a little while. Trust me it is big. In a last ditch attempt to stick to my plan I thought I would shout out about some of the non Flamingo Rover writing, book talking and writing networking I have been doing. Feel free to click through to all my brilliant thoughts!

I was recently interviewed about some of the behind the scenes of You Won't Remember This by the lovely Claire Wingfield. Claire runs a literary consultancy and it was a pleasure to talk to her about getting the job of writing done when you are a mother of small children.

That theme continued in my guest post for Hewer Text - where I wrote about my journey towards getting the book finished and how outsourcing became my best friend. 

An exciting event worth being loud about is the fact that I become a founder member of the Women Writers Network. This network is part of my ongoing efforts to push my writer self out into the world - and to raise the profile of women's writing in general. So stay tuned and check out the #women_writers hashtag - because I promise there will be more writing here and elsewhere!

And I for one am excited about that. 

Oh and three cheers for Finn for taking a nap so I could write this post. 

Easter - remembering and looking forward

For me Easter will always be a special holiday. It is a holiday which smells, not like chocolate, but like boat fuel mixed with salt water. It feels like crisp mornings which will turn into sunny days.

For most of my life Easter was spent camping in Mallacoota. A seaside town on the very edge of Victoria, in Australia.

Mallacoota, Australia. With a dog.*

In her poem Blue Sarong, in the You Won't Remember This collection, my mother writes about

'the Mallacoota camping photo's

that began when you were in a bassinet

and continued 'til you left home.'

She asks what I remember, and my strongest impression is this olfactory one – the boat fuel – contained within that there are many layers of memory. One of the things I love about our Easter tradition of camping in Mallacoota is that I know so many others share them with me. They know the experience of driving slowly through the camp park on the waters edge looking out for a camp site and seeing that sparkling water for the first time since the last visit. If you are a boat owner you will have gotten in early and secured a camp sight adjacent to the moat moorings. We did not have those campsites, we simply drove past them slowly; and the smell – which might sound unpleasant to you, but is magic to me because it is the start of Easter.

I am being sentimental. This Easter is a shambolic one. I am working on Thursday, Sunday and Monday. Thursday night my eldest son Rafa and I are taking a train to stay with friends in Newcastle. I will get to do some chocolate distribution on Sunday morning before I go to work, but chances are that will be the only time the four of us will spend together. Added to this, as we host Airbnb we will have guests arriving and leaving all though Easter.

I am sentimental as well because last Easter we were in Australia. We were not in Mallacoota, we were at my mum's and we were close to our departure date to return to the UK. But our Easter Sunday was special. My brother was visiting and we put up a tent on the riverbank and lit a fire, so at least some of Rafa and Finn's Easter memories might smell of woodsmoke. The little boys ate more chocolate than they ever had in their lives, and were given special eggs to keep – I will need to find them!

Rover riverbank memories, with wood smoke - Nowa Nowa, Australia

This week on they way to nursery we saw a woman with a wheely suitcase. Rafa said 'Maybe she is going to the airport, like we will so we can go to Nanna Helen's to get Easter Egg's.' 

We will not be at Nanna Helen's this Easter, nor will we be in Mallacoota – but I am working on some new Easter memories. Our Newcastle trip is a chance for Rafa and I to have some quality time together. To form memories that will last, that we can talk about in the years to come. I don't know what shape these memories will take, but I suspect they won't smell like boat fuel. 

What do your Easter memories smell like? 

What traditions are you carrying forward? 

*When I was first posting this blog I struggled to find a picture of Mallacoota on my computer, and used one of my husband and I at Nowa Nowa. Then over Easter my brother and his girlfriend went to Mallacoota and posted some great pictures on Facebook. So I borrowed one with their dog Argie. Good to see the family tradition of going to Coota continues. 

The Sleep Series - Part two. The Bermuda Triangle

I am committed to writing positive sleep stories, and I will get there, but first I need to write out the Bermuda triangle of bad bed times we experienced this week – and then I will get to something positive!

Just now I am nostalgic for good bedtimes. It has been a bad week for sleep in our house. Or perhaps I should say it has been a bad week for bed times. Because we always look for explanations when things go off the rails here are the changes to our routine from which I understand the tri-parte badness to have come.

ONE: The clocks have changed – this one needs no explanation – although I admit to having gone into this change with unwarranted bravado – my husband was reading something online about managing the change and I scoffed a little and said something about winging it.

TWO: We got Rafa a new bed. The single bed Rafa sleeps in has been broken for quite awhile. Recently it became a bit more broken and we finally acknowledged that it needed to go. A skinny three and a bit year old can cope pretty well on a broken bed. But when his father or I take a shift on the single bed the brokenness becomes problematic. The only bit of the broken bed that seemed salvageable was the drawers underneath. Retaining this storage space seemed invaluable, so we looked for a bed that had the same height. Then I had a brain wave. Perhaps rather than a single bed we should get a double? Just a small double that could run wall to wall under the window? Wouldn't that make all our bed swapping more endurable? The room the boys share is small, but we measured it out and thought it could work. In the end we found a bed second hand from the British Heart Foundation. On Sunday my husband set about pulling the broken bed apart and putting up the new one.

These things always take longer than you think they will, but eventually Jon got the new bed almost put together – then we realised the problem. Yes the bed could theoretically run wall to wall – but in order to get the very long screws in it needed to be constructed the other way around, and then moved into place. At this point my very spatially aware friend B was over with her son. While the kids ate a snack the three adults stood in the bedroom and pondered the bed problem. (This is known as a social occasion when you are a parent) B visualised and Jon and I moved the bed. In theory it should have fitted. In reality it did not. We had a lovely new bed. But it took up half the room. The remaining space somehow had to accommodate a chest of drawers, a book case and Finn's cot.

B departed while we pondered. The good news was the drawers fitted under the bed. The bad news was Finn's bed was not going to fit – so we decided he could share the big new bed with his brother.

So that's the first two Sunday two changes/ challenges- clocks changing and first night with two boys in the new bed.

THREE: 'Baby'. We have a baby staying with us. A lovely eight month old girl. Finn spends long periods of time entertaining her, she is a happy, contented girl – who has a very different sleep patterns to my sons. This baby and her mum and dad are staying with us for nine days having rented our spare room on airbnb, and although the house is full we are all managing well- in part because we use the communal parts of the house at different times. Except that just at the time when the boys are settling down for the evening the baby is having her dinner in the next room. 'Baby' Finn cries suddenly all alert and up he jumps to go and entertain her some more.

Rafa playing at bedtime.

Rafa pretending to be asleep. 

It has been a bad week of bedtimes. Long drawn out. Grumpy mummy who is all to aware of her evenings being snatched away as the kids wriggle, fidget, need one more drink of water, one more visit to the toilet (Rafa) one more nappy change (Finn) one more lap around the house, one more chat to the baby, one more look out the window to check if it is morning yet. Finn has not settled down before eight all week – and I deem six pm to be bedtime.

Here is the bit I am nostalgic for. We are a snuggle to sleep family. When there are two adults home we divide the boys up and each lie down to settle the boys. There are certain routines that play out as we move towards sleep, certain fidgets of the day that need to be gotten out, but normally as these routines play out the boys move towards sleep. I have found that time, in bed beside Rafa or Finn when they slowly wind down can be amazingly productive to me. Sometimes (like this week the extended bed times are torture) but on a good night that forced quiet time, when I am concentrating on quieting my body and my breath so that the boys will do likewise, is when my thoughts collect for the day. Just like going for a run, when the busyness subsides and ideas that have been brewing pop into being. In the intro to You Won't Remember This I wrote about how the whole idea to the book came about during that quiet time. Sometimes it's not artistic, sometimes it is just practical day to day stuff that can get lost in the chaos of the day. I have great ideas at baby bedtime.

Sometimes they get lost. Things go on a bit too long. I move from energised to strung out, or sleepy. Or I get up from the sleeping child and go straight into 'chore mode' and the zen gets lost.

But sometimes, just sometimes, there is magic in the stillness.


Do you have a sleep story you want to tell? Get in touch and add to the sleep series.


About the Sleep Series: It is a truth universally acknowledged that whenever two or more parents of young babies and children meet they will have a conversation about sleep. The Flamingo Rover sleep series is not intended to provide expert advice – more to tell sleep stories in an attempt to reassure parents that there is no such thing as a 'normal' nights sleep, and there is no such thing as a parent who is doing the 'wrong' thing. 

Please please please -  If you've had a bad night's sleep - or a bad week or a bad month do make sure you tell your friends about it.  Your welcome to tell me about it if you like. If you still don't feel like yourself tell your GP and your midwife and your Health Visitor. Find a sleep clinic and talk it through. Try to take a nap.  


Look out for your sisters - If you see someone with a baby who looks like they have had a bad night's sleep - or a bad week or a bad month go and chat to them. 

Cover Art

So much of my communication with the world these days takes place on a screen. Big screens, small screens, in the case of my phone: a repeatedly smashed, repaired, smashed and dropped in the toilet screen. And I am not complaining; computers and phones help me stay in touch with my family and friends in Australia, they help me see the journey of a dear friend as she battles major illness and they help me stay in touch with fellow mummies down the road.

I have recently managed a few non screen based communications. I wrote a letter to my friend Helen in Australia, and received a lovely card and vintage sewing paraphernalia through the post in return. 

an Alice Retrocard in the post from Australia

I also got a great card from my mum to congratulate me for being a 'paperback writer'. The other non-screen communication is of course the book. Ok yes you can access it via a screen, but it is also an object that you can hold in your hands – and the first moment this book – or any book communicates is via the cover. Cover Art is a big deal- No matter what they say, people do judge a book by it's cover – nowhere more so I think than in the world of self/ independent publishing.

For the cover of You Won't Remember This I started out pondering photographs, I spoke to contributor Meghan about using some photography by her husband, I trawled my own travel photo archives (lots of good memories- but never quite the right thing), I got in touch with another photography/mummy friend Amelia Shepherd  who sent me some lovely options, but still I pondered. As the book progressed and I looked about at other travel books I realised that this book was not a 'traditional' travel book. I had poetry, very creative non-fiction and most of all unlike much traditional travel writing, the people were at the forefront of every story, rather than the places. A cover needed to communicate this and I eventually realised that a photo based cover was not going to work. 

I (literally) bailed up the artist who painted the beautiful 'You and your boy' cover artwork. The wee boy's and I were at my mum's in Australia in early 2016 and Gary Yelen (who is a man of many talents; a story in the book, cover artist – and was many years back the sounding board for my blog name before I headed off on my travels) had dropped in having given himself a minor injury doing some renovations to an unequipped house across the road. I gave him access to a sink and some rags to clean himself up, and while he bled into the sink I asked him what he thought about having a go at an image for the cover of the book.

I sent him a photo I thought could be a jumping off point (you can see it on the books facebook page @youwontrememberthis ) and some vignettes of stories from the collection, and I went back to my editing and parenting (a lot of toilet training that summer if truth be told). Not long afterwards Gary sent me the beginnings of an image that was to become the cover. As is often the way with screen communications – I sent back an affirmative reply, he did not get it. Eventually in a chat to his wife I repeated that affirmative, it got passed on to him and we went forwards.

It was not until Gary was back at his French life working at his gallery frukt and I was back at my Edinburgh life that I got to see the finished painting off screen – I was delighted – I had an image – but not yet a cover. 

With my foray into publishing I had also decided that the timing was right to 'brand' myself. If my Flamingo Rover blogger identity was to move forward in the world it needed to do so with style. As with so much of this project branding and book design was entirely new to me. With the screen of my computer bringing a plethora of design options to my feet I went with (as we often do) someone I was familiar with. I love my husbands logo, it was designed by a friend of his 15 years ago – and as far as I was concerned it did not look dated – a key element to a logo. And as luck would have it she still worked in design and had an office space that opened onto a kid friendly cafe. On a hot Edinburgh day I took the small boys on the bus down to Leith to visit Jenny Proudfoot at the Drill Hall to discuss logo's and cover design.

Walkabout Scotland

The meeting itself was mayhem. Rafa demanded all my attention, Finn was grotty and grizzly, but we managed the beginnings of a conversation which continued back and forth – sometimes on screen and sometimes in person until I had both a cover design and a logo.

One of the new Flamingo Rover logo's!

One of the things Jenny and I discussed was the way the colours of the book would communicate. Now I do love my pink, but I wanted the book to appeal to more than just mummies, ie- not to look like chic lit (which I love by the way). In a happy compromise I got to keep pink with my logo and (I think) I have ended up with a beautiful book cover which perfectly suits Gary's painting.

With the book in hand, and baby Finn in the pram, I trekked about to some landmark Edinburgh bookstores. It was an educative experience. By the end of the morning I had come to realise that there is a universal horror of self publishing. An almost identical quiver of horror ran through each and every bookseller I approached – until they saw the book, at which point there was a little sigh of relief.

Cover Art win. (Ok yes having a nicely bound book with an ISBN also helped)

You Won't Remember This - travel with babies

Thanks (at least in part) to the attractive book cover you can now buy the book from an actual bookstore - Word Power Books, and in a nice bit of synchronicity, our second retail outlet is also on Nicholson street. Word Power is in Edinburgh, UK and Foundry is in Bairnsdale, Victoria Australia- but both Nicholson Street.

You Won't Remember This- travel with babies -Published

In the underrated film Sex and the City II Carrie announces 'I've been cheating on fashion with furniture.' I have a similar confession to make, I've been cheating on blogging with editing/publishing. 

Twenty writers from around the world (OK 19, plus me!) have trusted me with their stories of travel with babies, they have waited patiently while I edited, had a baby, looked after it,  landed in hospital with mastitis, bought a house, stripped wallpaper, painted, moved furniture about, wished my boys would have a nap at the same time, travelled to Australia, edited a bit more, attempted to learn about typesetting, realised it was beyond the scope of my abilities at this juncture. They waited while I fiddled about with my introduction, pondered various options for cover art, contemplated book dimensions... made decisions, lost the bits of paper I had made the decisions on, started all over again, had my computer re-booted, went back to work at my day job and picked up every single possession off the floor every day, only to find it had been thrown on the floor again twenty minutes after my boys got up in the morning. Non of this is in any particular order, but it was all going on throughout the books gestation.

Finn cooling down at Lake Tyres, Australia 2016

It is a scary thing to take on something you are not very good at (editing) and something you know nothing about (publishing) and work at it and work at it and work at it. Sometimes I wondered if I was taking so long because I was hesitant about putting it out into the real world; but mostly I was just super excited about sharing it, and frustrated by my incapacity to move forward as quickly as I would have liked.   

BUT... the project I began long long ago, and blogged about here and there has finally finished its gestation and been birthed into the world. There are real books, with pages you can turn and dog ear, a cover you can pat, stories you can read and re-read and even scribble on if you wish.

I know everyone says this about their book, but my book is a true beauty: from its cover art by Gary Yelen, its cover design (and my lovely new logo) by Jenny Proudfoot, its splendid typesetting by Hewer Text, and most especially the stories collected inside. You Won't Remember This - travel with babies - has it's very own website and I can't wait to send the book out into the world. 

't 

Any Day Adventure

A day can take you a lot of places, even when you don't really go anywhere at all. 

Today at the bus stop I was reading a library book my husband picked out for me. Love with a Chance of Drowning, by Torre DeRoche is a memoir about an adventursome couple who sailed from the USA to Australia via all sorts of Pacific Islands. I am still at the sea-sick stages of their journey (hers not his), but even with the graphic descriptions of ocean going illness, reading sun kissed tales of sailing off of Mexico whilst standing at a frosty Edinburgh bus stop with your feet freezing to the ground does make the other life tempting. 

Cover for Love with a Chance of Drowning, Torre DeRoche

My reading was interrupted by the arrival of a little mittened girl with her grandmother. We chatted about the neighborhood – how great the park is, how annoying the overflowing bins are, how great the nearby library is and how little parking there is for locals. I told the little girl I was impressed at her wearing her hat. My son I told her throws his off immediately. She told me Jack Frost was here and pulled her mittens on securely. 

The grandmother asked me my sons name and when I told her she said: 'Raphael, we know Raphael don't we Katie.'

Katie nodded enthusiastically and the penny dropped. This was the Katie and her grandmother my husband reported regular play times and chats with at the playground. Katie told me how Rafa likes the shute (slide) and often has dirty knees. Katies mother does not like dirty knees, but Rafa's mum and dad don't mind. I recalled being told that some days Rafa plays enthusiastically with Katie, other days he ignores her in favor of boys kicking balls. Boys will be boys. I was delighted to get this little glimpse of my boys out and about in the world and to meet some of their new friends.

The grandma and I smiled over the coincidence of meeting in this way and agreed that we do indeed live in a village.

My bus ride takes me out to the Royal Edinburgh Infirmary. I don't have an appointment today, just an errand to run. In the week before Christmas I was struck by a big case of baby brain. I organised the baby, my husband and some friends to attend Christmas carols only to turn up a day late, I got my work schedule tangled up and got a call from my manager 'checking in' due to my no show and I caught the wrong bus home and had to walk a good distance with pre-Christmas groceries.

This was all topped on Christmas Eve when I attended my 20 week ultrasound out at the Royal. With my husband running a little behind, I left my phone out when the scan began. The baby measured up against whatever measures are important for a 20 week old bun in the oven and Jon and Rafa arrived in time to get a glimpse of the new family member.

After the scan we headed off to do some Christmas Eve grocery shopping and it was not until we loaded ourselves back in the car that my brain pinged that something was wrong. I searched through my backpack in the dark of the car for my phone, but came up empty handed, but I reasoned, I could easily have missed it in the miasma of my bag.

I told my husband about my suspicions when we parked at home. He called my phone from his and we listened to the ominous silence. Upstairs I upended the bag and found nothing. I recalled clearly setting my phone on top of the bag on the chair next to the scan bed in case Jon rang. Jon and Rafa had come into the semi dark room, moved the bag to sit without seeing the phone, which had no doubt toppled quietly to the floor. My focus was on saying hello to Rafa and on watching the new bub bob about on the black and white screen.

When we rang the hospital someone went on a search for us with the aid of a cleaners keys. The phone was not in the room. It might be in the office, but it was after five on Christmas Eve, (Wednesday) and nobody would be back until Monday. My stupidity clanged in my head. This was my first ever grown up phone, I had no insurance and while it was probably locked safe in a drawer, it could be anywhere! And I could do nothing about finding it or replacing it for four days. 

Rover and Rafa on Christmas Day, Royal Mile, Edinburgh, 2014

This morning (Monday) I woke up with a mission, go out to the Royal and seek out my phone. When I laboriously checked my emails (on my computer rather than on my phone as I am used to doing) I made a happy discovery. Along with the fifteen junk emails from Amazon there was a note from my radiographer to say she thought I had left my phone! I blessed her from my bed, she needn't have tracked down my email and sent me word of my phones safety, but she did.

My mission was successful. The world would soon be at my fingertips once more. All I needed was a power point to recharge the sad inanimate lump.

Returning from my late morning outing to the hospital the bus passed though some streets still cloaked in frost. I mused that no matter how nice the houses, living in the shadow of Blackford Hill would not be a pleasant thing in December. I could see the sun tinting other houses golden just over the way, but here Jack Frost was most certainly at work.

After a bowl of soup in Morningside I took myself to the library to catch up on my emailing and reading for the You Won't Remember This project. I had the work of two poets (Australian and Scottish) to read and some correspondence with writers from India and Canada.

Spending time with the writing of adventuresome parents tugged at me just as the sailing memoir had at the bus stop. My life just now is exciting, but it is the suburban parent excitement of watching Raphael get his knees dirty at the park and of a new life growing in my belly. Life is about catching the right bus home so I can splash with Rafa in the bath and chat with my husband about their day, and find out if Rafa was nice to Katie.

It is good to have those adventures tugging at me, keeping me pondering where we will spend next Christmas.

The 'You Won't Remember This' Conversation

Having a child draws you into all sorts of new communities. Some days our little family: mum, dad and Rafa can be more than enough to handle; on other days gathering others around you is essential. Living on the other side of the world from the friends and family I gathered about me during the first thirty years of my life can make many things about being a parent challenging.

On maternity leave with a young baby, your days are often filled with miraculous moments shared between just mum and bub. Sometimes though it is that conversation with another adult, at the library or the playground which can make all the difference between feeling like a human being and feeling like a mummy machine (even if that mummy machine is a super yummy mummy machine).

Throughout the summer I unapologetically networked at the playground, determined to feather my nest with friends for the long cold winter ahead. These day of course it is not just through family, work, hobbies, antenatal classes, the playground and playgroup that you connect with the people who make up your world, there is also the internet. And you can talk to people online long after the baby has gone to bed and the playground is dark!

Getting to know the neighbors, Edinburgh, Summer - 2014

I love that Facebook lets me keep in touch with friends and family who are far and wide. Some lives feel remarkably parallel, and others are taking paths that lead them on other adventures. But Facebook only gives you fragments of peoples experiences, only tells part of the story, wets the appetite for more.

One of the motivations behind the 'You Won't Remember This – travel tales with babies' project that I wrote about in my July blog post is to take some of these fragments and conversations to another level. To go beyond the blury glance at a photo of a friend and her son on an elephant in Thailand, or the snippet of conversation at Buggy Bootcamp about an upcoming trip to Turkey and really be immersed in the experiences and reflections of other people who have a similar passion for travel and family.

I am very excited to start receiving stories that have been written for the project, and have had to sit on my hands not to blab to much about the contents before I have the whole collection together. The challenges to write have in themselves been forming part of the in depth conversations going on around the project. Not surprisingly mums and dads with very young children, bursting to tell their tales, find it impossible to prioritising deadlines over sick children and blown up hard-drives.

Rafa on the road at Lake Louise, Canada, March 2014

Thankfully as this is an entirely independent project deadlines can be re-visited. Yes I can hardly wait to share the stories I have received and bring more folks into the conversation about the delights and perils of traveling with babies, but I can wait.

And in the meantime the conversation continues. I have gone public and put a call for submissions up on Creative Scotland– It is very exciting to see my little idea up online... time will tell who I will get to strike up a conversation with next.

If it is you, please don't be shy about getting in touch. If you have a story to tell email youwontrememberthis@yahoo.com 

UPDATE: In October 2016 - the project at long last became a book. You can check it out at here.

The Cut-Outs

The Matisse exhibition in London has been tantalisingly near, yet far all summer. Yes it is only four and a half hours on the train from Edinburgh, yes I am on maternity leave and my time is my own. But somehow the no's have stacked up against it in my mind. After four and a bit months living out of suitcases home has become a very nice place to be, and the notion of navigating the London underground with a pram has weighed against the friends and artworks on offer down south. So it has been days in the park, day trips to the beach, play in our backyard with the neighbours and quiet nights in for me through this glorious Edinburgh summer. And there have been visitors to stay in with and occasionally visitors to babysit and let me out for a wander in our long twilights. 

Rover mum and Rafa at North Berwick, Scotland 2014

A couple of days ago however I realised that my days as a yummy mummy were quickly coming to an end. Rafa is nearly one and my return to work is immanent. So I took the rather radical decision to take a few days R and R for myself before we go into the next stage of life. I got the husbands blessing, booked some train tickets, arranged to stay with friends and headed off to London – by myself - with two nights and three baby free days up my sleeve!

I am in day two as I write and have to guiltily admit that I slept very well last night – with non of that middle of the night, wake up - check the baby is not tangled in the sheets, suffocating under a pillow paranoia, that sometimes happens when the baby is sleeping soundly in his cot. Nor was there the disturbance of being woken by a baby who has rolled onto his front, tried to crawl in his sleep and butted his head against the end of his cot. I am pleased to report that although the husband took a little while getting him to sleep Rafa slept though till 6.40am – which in our world is a win. I am even more pleased to report that I slept till 7.15am, and have had a dirty nappy free morning in Primrose Hill, and got to drink my coffee in my own time rather than sculling it when it was still scalding – or sculling it after it had gone cold as is sometimes the case at home.

Anyway this blog was supposed to be about going to Matisse – it's just that as so often right now most of my thoughts skew towards babyland (which is a land that I love to live in, but am having a wee break from right now). So yesterday after I got off the train in balmy London I headed towards the TATE Modern, stripping off my layers as I went.

Henri Matisse The Cut-Outs is a 14 room exhibition of works from late in the artists life. There is a great pathos as you watch footage of the artist; he is nearing his death, bursting with creativity, his output getting more and more youthful and exuberant as infirmity takes hold. The works ask you to look for the artists tool marks, discern his lingering hand in the scissor edges and the pin pricks that get lost in reproductions, but are easily visible in the originals. According to the blurbs on the TATE walls the artist himself was dissatisfied with the printed results of his Jazz series, preferring the lively sensitivity of the cut out originals. The printed book certainly has a much flatter feel than the cut-outs – but what a treat to have them side by side.

In the My Trash blog I wrote about my 14 year old self going to the 1995 Matisse exhibition at the NGV. The poster I toted around for years was from the Jazz series – and I quite likely saw these works at that time. But of course you never walk down the same road in the same way twice – the intervening years have changed my eye. I see hearts everywhere and get distracted from the works to look for an echoe of my old self amongst the youngsters milling about – but I did not find her. Instead, babyland as inescapable as ever, I follow the sound of a baby crying – not mine! And soon the baby quietens, fed by its mother in the middle of the Oceania room. Amidst the submarine world of Henri's Tahition lagoon– what will this one be drinking in today I wondered with its mothers milk – what a vibrant mind in the making.

Matisse, and his colours lure me around corners through the labyrinth of the exhibition. Chapels, bees, dancers - the experience is all bright, jagged hearts of Icarus, luminous fronds, repetitious curvaceous plant forms broken by surprises of geometry and close hot people, people, people all soaking up the works and jostling for viewing space.

The blue nudes slow me down at last. I love colour, but it is amid the simplicity of the single colour works that I am hydrated, calmed after the morning journey and months of rush and burble before that.  Here the female figure is allowed to be bold, larger than life; cut in lines that are both fluid and jagged. At first the blue nudes are seated and inward looking – folded in on themselves – this mass of stillness, this oneness spoke to me in my world of all encroaching busyness and babyness. I breathed and looked and imagined that the press of the crowd was receding.

Blue Nude II, H.Matisse (photo of the print I bought)

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As I moved, almost reluctantly, on the blue nudes picked up the pace, they started dancing and chatting to each other. In a jovial return to the world of Matisse colour 'blue nude green stockings' greeted me - a happy dancing figure who burst upon me and reminded me I love the outside world with its play and passion, and that a bit of a bustle is just the price you pay for living. Matisse, with his busy scissors and his beautiful assistants certainly knew about the joy of living and creating - and the legacy of his passion, as seen on the walls of the TATE speak to us still of the luminosity of a life well lived.  

Blue Nude with Green Stockings, H. Matisse (photo from TATE Modern catalog)

The New Project

I am looking to collect up travel stories with a twist - travel with babies. Do you think you could be interested in contributing a story, poem, memoir, or travel tale? My concept is still sketchy, but I am ultimately looking to create a book of beautifully written and engaging stories from around the world.

I am provisionally entitling the project: You Won't Remember This – travel with babies

At the moment I am after expressions of interest, and perhaps a brief outline – if a story immediately springs to mind, email: youwontrememberthis@yahoo.com

Even if the idea of writing a story for print is intimidating – but you have a great tale to tell – do let me know, I am more than happy to do some work-shopping/editing with you.

 I am not sure what my story will be for the collection, but here is a Rafa travel one I have been writing...

                                                             A Big Deal

Rafa, in the queue you were your happy smiling self, but by the time we got on the bus something had taken hold. You told us about your unhappiness all the way along the winding farm road. Although we still remember the mutterings of the other passengers, at the time we were mostly concerned for you. What was this red faced distress? The tour guide spoke, but his voice was lost beneath yours: 'I'm not happy, I'm not happy, I'M NOT HAPPY!' On a packed and moving bus we quickly ran out of options for comforting you, and resorted to the old reliable – a mummy cuddle. It did not help.

Blessedly the bus ride was short, but your unhappiness continued in the open air. Your mummy hovered at the back of the group with you screaming in your harness. People with children murmured sympathetically; people without children congratulated themselves. The white muslin draped over your head to block out the March sun did nothing to muffle your distress.

All around us lay fields touched by the long New Zealand summer, but where we in a green bower. Quite likely the tour guide was explaining why, but we did not hear him. Bees may have buzzed happily in this innocent, happy land, but we did not hear them.

The green of Hobbiton, New Zealand, 2014

Slowly, slowly you quietened, moving from slow grizzles to restlessness and finally a hiccupy sleep. Luckily this was in the days when you were not so big your mummy couldn't carry you, and so up hill and down dale we went at last, exploring Hobbiton.

On our way to Lake Taupo for the weekend I happened to spy that Hobbiton was only a small detour. The most expensive single touristy thing either of us had ever done – and it started with the you screaming the place down.

Movie buffs, book geeks, yes and yes we were; obsessive know it all's who constantly need to prove their extensive knowledge of Elvish, Entish, lost kings, and Orcs – we left that for others in the group. I read and imagined Tolkein as a young woman in Australia, but now I live in the land of its authorship, and am getting to know the landscapes in which the author imagined his world into being. In New Zealand we stepped into Peter Jackson's imaginings of The Shire and spent a happy afternoon wandering about with a quiet bub, peering at Hobbit holes, listening, at last, to the guides stories, and having a quiet ale at the Green Dragon. 

Sleepy Rafa and Rover mum outside a Hobbit hole.

And the reason for this distress, we discovered later that day – your first tooth, peaking out of some angry gums. A big deal indeed. Rightly causing you to be upset. But Rafa, this tooth, and those that follow are the doorway to new worlds – chewing and biting new tasty foods.

We look forward to sharing so many new things with you. Tasty lunches, second breakfasts and stories of brave young Hobbits. 

That troublesome tooth on a better day

Domestic Bliss

If you ever find yourself getting tiered of that daily grind of chores – washing the dishes, taking out the trash, doing the laundry, cooking meals ect. I have a great cure.

Just pack up your entire house, put most things into storage and put the things you cannot live without into suitcases. Fly around the world, stopping off to see friends, family and magnificent locations. Be sure to include a three week road trip in America – staying in motels with microwaves and kettles next to the toilet, on the outskirts of medium sized American towns. 

Golden Gate Bridge, San Fransisco, March 2014

Out the back in Winston, Oregon, March 2014

Highway 101, Oregon, March 2014

Then go home – except if you are like us you wont have a home to speak of. You will need to

spend a week or so flat hunting. This seems to involve a lot of time online, and a lot of time climbing stairs to look at flats that are in need of renovation, or are not available for a month, or have kitchens the size of toilet cubicles. Check out other neighborhoods, daydream about the life you might live on the other side of town, then revisit where you used to live and get reminded why you chose to live there in the first place.

If you are lucky enough to find something suitable, in your neighbourhood, in your budget and with a backyard make sure you bribe the real estate guy or girl immediately. Otherwise your likely to call up about it the next morning to find that it is 'under offer' – from someone with cash in their pockets, and then you have to start the whole process all over again. Being ignored by real estate agents gets tiered very quickly. 

Home Sweet Home, Edinburgh, April 2014

When you do get keys to a beautiful, unfurnished flat your worldly possessions are likely still to be in storage. You daydream about what your home will feel like when you don't have to sit on the floor.

Unpack your suitcases, get loaned a saucepan or two and cook a meal for yourself for the first time in months. Wash that stinking mound of laundry and fill your sink with hot soapy water with which to wash your two mugs, two plates and two disposable forks.

And you will understand the term domestic bliss. I promise.

49 Beds

Since leaving Edinburgh in November 2013 to begin our round-the-world honeymoon we have slept in 49 beds* and visited seven different countries: England, Vietnam, Australia, New Zealand, USA and Canada.

Along the way we have caught up with friends and family around the world

We have also...

Driven on the left and right sides of the road.

Grown two teeth (Rafa)

Learned to love swimming and the beach (Rafa)

Rover family, California, March 2014

Failed to learn to surf (Jon and Sandy)

Had a bath in an esky (Rafa)

Visited some Hobbit holes

Hobbiton, Middle Earth (New Zealand) March 2014

Got married (again) and blessed our darling Raphael at the seaside

The Conran Wedding, and Celebrant, the lovely Bobbi. Australia, December 2013

Gained two new suitcases and a menagerie of stuffed toys, much to the delight of airport staff and fellow travelers around the world.

We have eaten Vietnamese noodle soup, frogs legs, kangaroo, my mums lasagne, freshly 'caught' mussels, tacos, sushi, fish and chips – obviously, possibly the finest desert of my life (an Italian lemon thing in California – Amazing) biscuits and gravy, bbq pork (we ordered nachos – but the pork was great so we did not send it back), prawns on the barbie, my family's Christmas dinner (thanks Jeffrey), bbq salmon, our second wedding feast, two lovely wedding present dinners out, a bbq at Wilsons Prom, Chicken Parma's, microwaved dinners and more motel breakfasts than we care to remember.

A local lunch in Saigon, Vietnam, November 2013

The baby has tried to eat pizza crusts, watermelon rind, banana, avocado, stewed apples, rockmelon, strawberries out of his nanna's garden, mushy peas (London), sweet potato, potato chips, sand, his dad's crocs, beer coasters and most recently rice pudding.

As he has traveled our son has grown into a charming, friendly smiley lad, who loves eating (shoes), swimming, sand, wind and walks.

In answer to the oft asked question, 'What is it like traveling with a baby?' I have to say we have loved it. Rafa is great company. With him we slow down. Instead of trying to do everything we do one or two great things and take time out during the day to do nothing - and in doing nothing we learn about the waitresses grandson (born on the same day as Rafa), we picnic and smell the sulfur in Rota Rua, sit in the park and look at the Golden Gate Bridge and take in the new bit of the world we are visiting. The correct way to travel no?

Rover family about to depart Heathrow, November 2013

Round-the-world Rafa back in London, April 2014

*This number may be inaccurate as it is based on a rough count during a jet lagged game of count the beds played by my husband and I.

Appointment Necessary

There are moments in life when you should just follow your gut instinct- when a decisive –

rather than an expedient or polite reaction to a situation can make all the difference. Don't walk through that darkened park, don't give that guy at speed dating your phone number, don't buy the lipstick the salesgirl just 'LOVES '...

I had one of those on my birthday. After a lovely relaxed morning at the beach with my family, my husband and the baby and I drove over to a nearby town pondering what to do with our afternoon. I remembered something I had done in my pre-baby life, a relaxing, pampering type of something that seemed perfect for a birthday girl. I would get a haircut!

Rover and her mum at the beach

The first hairdressers we saw was closed so we wandered on – knowing that the spur of the moment appointment may not be forthcoming. When I spied the second hairdressers I was perhaps a little too quick to be pleased about the 'No Appointments Necessary' sign in the window.

The moment I should have followed my gut was not on entering, but a little later. I was already in the gown and sitting in the chair. I undid the braid my hair had been in for three days – and saw that it was a good hair day for me – a good hair day being that my hair was not in one giant clump at the back of my head but hanging in limp clotted mess around my shoulders.

The moment I should have left was when I asked her if she could wash my hair before she cut it and she told me - as I sat in front of the hair washing sink – NO they did not do hair washing. If I had stood up at that point and said thanks but no thanks I could have had a shot at my relaxed afternoon of pampering. But no, instead I got a brusque lady wrenching a comb through my poor sorry hair and lecturing me on the terrible state I had gotten it into. 

I am a new mum; there are probably many things I could do better in my life – but spending time on personal grooming is low on the list of priorities just now. Which it is why an impromptu afternoon at the hair dressers is a treat. It is not just a new hair do that makes you feel like a new woman, it is the 20 mins or so guilt free reading of glossy magazines on the sofa waiting for the hairdresser, falling asleep while you are having your hair washed for you – 'a head massage? Yes please', the buzz of the salon around you, the cup of tea the apprentice makes for you and the styling that you could never possibly do for yourself. 

Rather than leaving feeling like a relaxed yummy mummy with a birthday bounce in her step and a beautiful, tangle free hairdo I left with damp, stringy hair that was slightly shorter than it had been when I went in and a sour look on my face that my husband could see from a block away.

a swim at Mallacoota

Instead of correctly and regularly conditioning my hair this summer I have been swimming, swimming, swimming. As a family we swim in the creek at my mums every afternoon. We have been to every beach in Gippsland that we can and quite a few rivers too. Rafa loves it, and smiling back at my beautiful son while he experiences the wonder that is 'swimming' is irreplaceable.

Family swim at Betka Beach, Mallacoota

I haven't added bad hair to my list of things to feel guilty about – the list is long enough already -

and includes:

going to the toilet when the baby wants to play/ be fed/ have a cuddle

trying to eat the baby wants to play/ be fed/ have a cuddle

trying to sleep when the baby wants to play/ be fed/ have a cuddle

But I have crossed that particular hairdresser off my list of places to return to.

Rafa and Rover mum swim in the Boggy Creek - Nowa Nowa

Rafa and his dad swim in the Boggy Creek - Nowa Nowa