Memo to the Net: 5 years worth of thoughts on blogging and life... A post-script in assorted figments...

I've fallen into hiatus again. It may be the last time. This may be the last post, sans bugle.

Sometimes its nice to vent and talk for a moment about life. Sometimes its nice to live in the moment. Sometimes there aren't enough moments.

You can't do it all on one blog. Funny doesn't want to read dry, dry doesn't want to read teary. You can't help but care.

It's hard getting too close to a movement you aren't part of.

Being flamed by the other side is unpleasant, slightly. Being flamed by your own is sickening, it turns your world on its head, makes you wonder why you have found common political ground with someone like that.

I started poliblogging 5 years ago with a firm belief that my side of politics held most of the decent people. I now hold the firm belief that it holds a marginal majority of decent people. I have come to be suspicious of extremes, I like the line that joins the yin and the yang.

You can't capture the emotions of parenting on a blog, not fully. It's an experience best enjoyed in person.

Men and women, even those who are trying hard, are still a long way from understanding each other. It is worth the effort, but there is still a long way to go. Very few people are really trying to understand the other.

Debates about music and sport are pointless, logically. They can, however, be a great test of the character of both yourself and those you think you respect.

A room full of bloggers is a study in asymetry and disjunct. It is also a guaranteed source of excellent conversation.

Keeping confidences can be hard. When someone has coffee with you and talks about how they're considering joining either Party A or Party B, then joins the latter and within weeks starts virulently attacking Party A and all of its supporters on their high profile blog, you don't break the confidence. But its frustrating, and you learn about the nuance that underpins so much polemic.

The more people you tell, the less you can write about. Anonymity is the friend of fine personal blogging (see my first 10 or so posts...).

Before LOLCATS was big, I gave you Chairman Mao, don't forget it.

An idiotic blog about a talking cat is an amazingly popular idea. A talking cat is a very funny, and telling, way to discover that some of your favourite threads are populated by people with an irony bypass.

It was also my wife's favourite.

A post about a 60 year old bodybuilder will attract daily visits from people who have searched for 60 year old bodybuilders on Google. It will prove to be the post with the longest tail. You will find yourself wondering at the meaning of life. (redux, perhaps?)

The kids are doing fine, thank you. Mitts is walking around holding on to things, taking steps, and Bear is jumping, painting, helping me water our new mini herb garden and still taking no prisoners. Beloved is back at work, enjoying the return to adult interaction. Minh and Mao are enjoying the new house and the greatly increased time spent outside.

I'm on tolerably better terms with my father, and with myself in respect of my father. In his own, emotionally retarded ways, he's been making small efforts. He still isn't being a proper grandfather, but perhaps the worst interpretations I started to put on his actions were excessive. I hope so, disappointed as I am.

Being a parent is complex. Try to listen to the narrative of the person, allow that to sit apart from the narrative you've adopted. For my part, I'm tired of existing narratives. All of them.

The second hardest thing to capture in a post is raw emotion. The hardest is humour.

It will be reasonable to call for an end to anonymous blogging when it is illegal to hold anything a person has said on a blog against them in a place of work. When you see pigs fly, let me know.

I have learned about mutuality and ethics. I learned not to flame, as I don't like being flamed. Something my mummy said about doing unto others springs to mind.

In this and other things I believe blogging has made me a more thoughtful person.

Blogging is often more like talking than the kind of writing we associate with articles and books. The world does not understand this.

As large group and corporate blogs take over the 'sphere, I reflect that the art of the editor, now much maligned, was always at least as important as the art of the writer.

Writing posts is quite easy. It can be done efficiently and balanced with a decent workload. What drains your energy and time is going back to comment threads to see what people are saying about your last assertion.

Godwin's Law is a crock, designed to allow history to repeat itself. It is based on the negligent conflation of two distinct acts: asserting equivalence and drawing analogy. If you see people cracking down on dissent, or touting racial nationalism, or calling for war at the drop of a hat, history is there to remind us of why we find these things so repugnant.

Feed readers, facebook and twitter have all been invented in the time I've been blogging. What does this say about a policy focussed on teaching primary school kids to use laptops?

When I was in primary school, Ataris had just been invented. I wish I'd learned to work one of those Ataris inside out, I'd have been so much better off when I hit the workforce in the late '90s.

People have given me some touching and profound advice on this blog, and shared the most personal and instructive experiences. Thank you, I am grateful. This has been a highlight.

Once you start keeping 'a record', such as things your kids are doing, a blog can become a source of incredible guilt if you are not diligent and thorough.

Long posts that talk about all sorts of unrelated crap are rarely read. I know.

Part of the reason for previous blogging resurrections was a sense of wanting to reconnect with my online peeps. Facebook has now been invented, there was always email. Mine's armagny [atsymbol] gmail DOT com.

The answer to that is, I don't know, maybe.

Work is hard to find satisfying once you've turned down 2 or more opportunities to do jobs you'd prefer. Even if they were on less pay, or in Canberra.

The Oz Blogosphere is ostensibly saturated. But there are major topics that are all but ignored. I'm not sure why, or whether there is value in exploring them, but I do think there is still room for more, well-placed, writings.

Ditto political parties. On a left-right axis the space is largely filled. On a more nuanced, multi-axis analysis, there are some large empty spaces, and they sit surprisingly close to the middle ground.

Australia is an inherently conservative country, and the likes of Tony Abbott or Barnaby Joyce should be treated with the respect that you'd give to a Taipan in a sleeping bag.

Like music, and probably other creative arts I know less about, writing can sap your emotions as much as it can buoy them.

Child hatred is as common as doting parental blogging. Sometimes, when I'm reading some bigot's rant about prams in cafes or pregnant women, I wonder "Do they vote the way I do?" I hope not, but the thought is troubling and not easy to dislodge.

A way to test the true mettle of your favourite bloggers is to experiment by joining in the same old threads under a different ID. See who treats you like an outsider, see the snobbery and exclusion embraced by some of your favourite blogerati. It can feel like the sandpit all over again.

All good posts must come to an end. So must messy, tatty, incoherent ones.

So must messy, tatty, incoherent blogs. I have, after all, given you an engagement, a wedding, 2 cats, 2 kids, and an outstanding reason to explore old Brandy.

Back to hiatus, perhaps not for long, perhaps for ever.

Love yaz all.

A.

A whirlwind of estrangement, deja vu and running on the sand

I have been offline for nearly 2 weeks, I apologise for neglecting my networkingz. In the blur that is my recency, much has happened.

One of the grandparent constellation had taken to writing letters. I wrote one back. It actually wasn't that bad. Optimistic, full of positive affirmation. The reaction was as if I called them a pedophilic closet neo-nazi. I, um, a bit stunned. I now wait to see whether we are estranged. 

We went to see my parents in Bundaberg. It was ok. My mum was hit by someone backing up with a trailer. More generally my impression was that lots of Queenslanders are familiar with trailers. I suspect most were conceived in them (with apologies to the likes of Quiggin and Bahnisch, who clearly don't have 'the gene'). The Bruce Highway, a single lane strip used for drag racing by pig-bothering types in large trucks, is testament to governmental retardation and ineptitude. 

My mum barely survived breast cancer and is struggling with several other significant impairments, but clearly she can be run over and expect no support at all from anyone relevant. Police dormant, insurers- well, that's where it gets fun, apparently in Queensland you have to chase people with lawyers to get your hospital bills paid. We'll see, it's early days, but don't these people know how to write a piece of legislation to bring their motor vehicle regime up past the 19th century?

The kids were cute with my folks and this clearly warmed their hearts a bit, even my dad, astonishingly (and to a limited level). The old 3 day rule kicked in on the 4th evening when he made a comment along the lines of 'if only we'd sent you to elocution lessons you might be a QC now'. Firstly, I don't think I brag that much here, but I'm pretty much an ace at public speaking. Secondly, he'd dishonestly given me the impression he accepted my interest in policy as genuine, when in fact he was still whistfully sitting around admiring men in wigs and wishing he could show off a picture of me in court, using my brilliant elocution to, I don't know, do what lawyers do.

Fuck over some old person who'd been run over, perhaps? Good onya dad, thanks for showing that we've made so little progress, you and me, over the last 20 years since you first commenced putting down everything I do.

And this after I wrote a letter and got their dispute with Centrelink wrapped up in less than 48 hours.

Oh and there was the comment that the way we feed Mitts would technically constitute rape in many jurisdictions. 

...ngngngng MOVING on... 

Noosa, is where we moved on to. Mitts got the sand, and the tips of the waves, between his tiny toes. Bear chuckled and laughed and splashed and kicked her feet as I carried her across the surface of the pool and through the waves and was a little bundle of blonde-bouffed joy. We shamelessly threw the rules out and sat by Hastings Street, all 3 members of the family who no longer eat boob, scoffing rich multi-flavoured iced creams and slurping vanilla milkshakes.

On we drove, and with friends in Brissie we relaxed again, meeting their beautiful new daughter and admiring the airy Queenslander (house, not local resident) with its lush, green backyard.

The welcome home was almost overwhelming and Mao is rubbing himself against me every few minutes. Here dad, here's my scent, don't going running off with any other cats!

Mitts was hitting the wall, badly, but he still erupted with joy when he lay down on his familiar sheepskin. Again when he spotted the smiling wooden clown hanging above his cot. What a homebody!

Sweet. Home.

Cat Psychosis Triggered By Stupid Novelty Card!

Now and then I notice a sleeper comment on an old post, something added well after it had slipped off the radar. Occasionally they are worth giving some airtime, as with this extraordinary tale left under my post about Mao going nuts back in '06:

My cat full on tried to kill me yesterday morning. The trigger was apparently a card that when opened has pooh talking. And pooh was the absolute devil. He thought it was me and next thing I knew I was having to fight for my life. I was thankfully on my way out the door, so I had on jeans and shoes. And for a cat that has no front claws...he certainly caused a significant amount of damage to my leg. And my arm seems to have a swollen lymph node now. I have had "cat scratch fever" before, and I am thinking that I have it again.

I left him in my apartment for the bulk of the day and when I came back...he was still trying to attack me. My parents came out and wrangled him into his cat carrier and took him to there house. Last I heard he was still in it b/c he was still aggresive. They were going to try and let him out later to roam the basement. He is going to the vet tomorrow, when it opens. I hope that they are able to fix him. But at the same time, I am sufficently scared of him and don't know what to do. I am going to wait to see what the vet says. I miss him something terrible. He was my baby boy. I saved him from my apartment parking lot. After a he had taken a ride in the engine of my car.

Well, it has to be said I'd hate being carried along in the engine of the car, and as for those fucking cards/books/plastic toys that talk....

No updates on the outcome. I hope things went back to normal for this anonymous commenter the way they did for Mao and I.

Spew, snot and rain- yay for long weekends

June long weekend has always been a dead loss, I can't remember a time where, anticipating the opportunity, I've organised a holiday and taken advantage. This was no exception, with one catch-up with friends planned for the Monday, a plan cancelled due to excess snot and vomit.

There is no narrative I can unfurl; the whole weekend blends into itself as a scene, set in the lounge room, slate-grey outside with intermittent rain. We are passing Mitt-Mitts back and forth, he cries a fair bit, snotty, later throwing up a morning's worth of liquid and bringing us our closest brush with a trip to the Royal Children's. Bear is pottering around. Thankfully she got into the Angelina Ballerina puzzle book, so she was easily entertained in the one spot. Pulling out puzzles, putting them back in with approximately 1 frustrated dummy spit per puzzle. This did not lose its entertainment value after the 42nd time.

Beloved held out well, falling sick near the end. I developed a sharp pain in my lower back from constant child-handling, a pain that resulted in my legs nearly giving way while walking to get take away last night.

The cats circled, antsy, arcing in for attention whenever a gap appeared. The weather was so lousy that Mao refused to go outside at all yesterday.

We went shopping, to 'shoppo' as Lucy Tartan puts it, and were quite successful. I wheeled the kids around the ladies section of DJ's for 45 minutes, stopping by the change rooms to write off various pairs of jeans as ill-fitting. Sass & Bide, or Bidet as we say north of the Yarra, had no chance after I used the analogy of a short carrot to describe their lack of flattery. Beloved ended up with a nice pair of Diesels. The kids got PJs, Bear choosing hers with a little embroidered crab on the front. I got a mediocre coffee after a long wait at Muffin Break. That was the exciting bit over with, late Saturday morning. The rest you know.

Should I start a new tag "Cabin Fever"?

Nuts. Cats. Nuts. No Daddy!

*Thump* *Thump*

A ribbon of cream and brown cat fur swirls past, almost fluid with speed and linear perfection. Mao and Minh at play, something beyond tracking by the mortal eye.

"Nuts"

"No not nuts daddy. Cats!"

I sit there stunned as Beloved cracks up. I am the punchline, but frankly I'm also just floored at being corrected by my 28 month old daughter.

Today the Doctor told Beloved that Bear is amazingly articulate.* They looked around the surgery, Bear pointed out the "stethoscope" and other points of interest, before asking if she could play with some toys in the corner "please, Doctor?"

Sorry to brag but I am a proud daddy, I am simply puffing up with pride. And pissing myself, what a crackup. Funny girl, my daughter.

*my emphasis, of course.

Thank you your kind wordsmiths

As Bear might put it. Thank you my milk. Thank you my bekkfast daddy. Thank you my choc-latt.

I have endeavoured to update my link list to include all visitors who left supportive comments. Regardless of our politics or anything else, you are now my online peeps. If you link to me and have been left out, let me know. Note that my list only brings up sites that have recently posted, though...

We are returning to normal life. It still feels funny. Fate swept a reminder over our eyes and everything is still too clear, like the effect when you fit new contact lenses- the clarity discombobulates.

I am really lucky. My job is a vast improvement on the last 3, and though the workload is pretty high there is room to lose concentration* for a few days and keep on track. We don't have a house yet, but we sure have enough money to get a house somewhere reasonable that would not be horrific to live in, so we're better off than millions. I have a beautiful family and, frankly, if I was working at Maccas and commuting from Werribee I still wouldn't pass a day without smiling at the antics of my cheeky kidlets and their amazing mum. And you need only hit the 'cats' tag to see the crazy love our guardcats sprinkle through the townhouse.

Anyway, such sap isn't the material of fine writing, but I'm just acknowledging before moving on. Love yooz all.

* I AM on lunchtime right now though, 7-11 junk packets still cluttering the space between chest and keyboard. No I am, dammit!

Meanwhile, as we looked the other way

Mr Mr Man got his first tooth. Yes folks, without you needing to scroll back through the archive, he's just under 5 months. Bear was about 2 weeks older when she got her first, and it was but an eyelid blink and a few bleeding nipples and she had a full set of choppers.

He's been coughing and scraping and I wonder if this is it. No other symptoms that would suggest swine flu, thankfully, although his dad commutes on a busy train through the heart of Clifton Hill, ground zero for the Victorian explosion in porcine influenza.

An empathetic boy, he sensed things were awry in the past few days. Long squeezes on my shoulder, looking out, thinking, pensive. A Mitta Man has depth beyond his months- although on reflection I baulked at sending his CV to The Monthly.

When he wakes he doesn't generally cry, he talks, warbles, a simple narrative that I'm sure weaves the wonders of breast milk, giggles and constant sleep into a tale worth telling. He often kicks off at 5am; we laugh, despite the time, then bring him in for a last nap between us. He always looks pretty impressed with this achievement.

I got home for bath time, via a detour through Northcote Shopping Centre. I cuddled each in turn, got them into jarmies, handed him over for a last feed, brought a Bear down to the couch where we watched Maggie and Simon making something ridiculous and chocolaty then put her to bed.

For Beloved I had Sparkling Shiraz, Seppelt, 2005, and a bag of hastily chosen lamb cutlets. These I rolled over and over in olive oil and rosemary and grilled on the BBQ with all the love one can muster when, um, grilling on the BBQ.

We crashed in front of the Wednesday funnies, more Shiraz, ploughing through a box of el cheapo ALDI choc bikkies. No, not doing a product endorsement for those, although they are ultra cheap and we did manage to put away the entire packet.

Both girls sleep now; Beloved snoring lightly on the couch. He is fusting upstairs, perhaps waking, perhaps not yet. The cats have stopped batting the pink hair band that's entertained them half the night. Mao has taken up a post, like a sentinel, on the arm of the couch. Minh is ambling and just moments ago needed reminding that no, cats aren't allowed on the kitchen table. She threw me a glance that said I'm too cute to be angry with and pottered away.

I cannot say too many times that this, my family, is a good thing.

'Mummy, you're a good mummy'

So said Bear as we sat eating breakfast. Beloved almost cried as she laughed. Bear is pushing boundaries and being a 2&abit, but there's no doubting she's got a big heart.

It's hard to be sure, but she may be acting out more now than she did when Mitt-Mitts first arrived. Long days fighting for the attention of a mum with an infant brother who needs feeding all the time, circled by angst-ridden cats and trapped in the modest confines of a townhouse that has what estate agents might euphemistically describe as 'low maintenance outdoor spaces', must take its toll. And not just on Bear.

Beloved is indeed 'a good mummy'; as I've mentioned before I remain in awe of her focus, staying power, and capacity for love under such pressure. Right now, I don't know how she does it. To see her holding Mitta on the boob with one hand and an open book with the other, reading to Bear, is to witness multi-tasking that would (or at least should) make Rudd's Chief of Staff wince.

She takes it in her stride, but her eyes show the tension of working constantly to maintain focus and sanity under such pressure and with so little sleep or support. I try, but working full time again means I just can't be present for the hardest bits.

As for Bear, well, she's doing ok but she lets us know. A girl is articulate and demanding, and balancing the need to push back and set boundaries with the need to reassure and give unconditional love is like removing ear wax from a sleeping moose.

(I have no idea where that simile came from, but I had to keep it.)

Last night she somehow crawled under her doona and woke to find herself trapped. She was screaming and shoving in all directions when I got to her room, head pressed against the side rail. She sobbed and sobbed with pulse racing as we stood there in the dark, my hugs and back-patting little consolation until Beloved arrived.

Sometimes reassurance can only come from a good mummy.

Bear Laid a Cable

What can I say, I'm proud as!

Of course she's been crapping since she was born, but this is the first in the real toilet, and she didn't even go through a phase of using the potty.

She does have her very own custom seat. Now as someone who enjoys his morning moments of quiet contemplation on the throne, this got me thinking. Could I too have a personalised seat, soft and well fitted, to carry in with me when I feel called to business? I already carry in a strong stovetop coffee (clears the air!).

The cats would also like a spot of their own. Both try to 'hang out' with me by climbing onto the edge of the bath and leaning forward in expectation of pats. Should they not have their own soft, embellished stand on which to perch?

But I'm digressing- it's Bear's moment and she's entitled to be the focus of the post. I cheered when, on Beloved's prompting, she told me what she'd done. Clever girl. She looked so proud. The challenges you can overcome now you know how to take a dump.

Tag this under "what do you mean life as a parent is less sophisticated??"

"I-iiiit's Daddy"

A nice way to be greeted at the door, after pounding the pavement a little too hard between the station and home.

I was shown to the chair where I throw my bag and coat: "Here daddy".

Bear started working the tea set, pouring the plastic pot into the plastic cup she'd selected with its matching saucer. She brought it across and explained that it was tea. Good to know, a girl's also brought me "daddy's mach-ee ARTO.'

I sipped and asked about her day, Beloved told me while Mr Man fed peacefully under her chin. Apparently at child care a girl stated that her dad was "fighting fires", to which Bear responded helpfully: "I saw the fires on the nueews".

My face relaxed for the first time since I woke this morning. I listened as she "dum dummed" through "boo da-moob" (by Strauss, in case you're wondering) while pushing the little island around her bath. After, wrapped in a towel, she smiled at me in the mirror and said "I love you daddy".

The cats wandered around the perimeter of the garden while I emptied Mr Man's bath and brought in some washing. The breeze was cooler than at any time in the past few days.

The cats are eating. Bear and Mr Man are both asleep. We sit. It's nice to just be.

Of sick cats, airport lounges, and the utility of relatives

The Chairman is fine; the chunk of his head removed by the vet was sufficient to include all of the malignant material. He is still getting extra pats.

We hit the airport early Saturday to fly to Canberra, but were to experience a string of cancelled flights and delays that took us through to mid afternoon before we finally took off. We went through the scanners, we came back out. A couple of times. We went on the escalators. Bear took over and we went on the escalators again. And again. I plonked Beloved in a cafe and followed Bear as she stumbled and whirlybirded through the entry lounge, past the pub, 15 minutes at a time on the trains, through the gift shop with an explosive expression of toddler emotion when I stopped her pulling all the fake koalas off the shelf...

(I stood over her, feet on either side to protect her from being stepped on, and waited patiently for the change of heart that meant we could move on)

... to the red ferrari which once again was worthy of being climbed on. And on. It went.

It seems it took Virgin Blue until about 2pm to realise they would be needing another plane. Still, when we were ready to board a stewardess who had fallen in love with Bear (they mostly do) came up with a Wiggles book she'd found and held onto all day. That was a nice touch.

We flew to Canberra and hung out with the rellos. We had some stupid idea that having been through a day of hell we might get some help with Bear in the evening, but after briefly checking her out they went back to their wine and conversation and we snuck around the bathroom and kitchen in a daze doing all the usual chores.

I've learned something about relatives, grandparents in particular, and the difference between the talk and talk about wanting grandkids and the actual walking of the walk when it comes to rolling up sleeves and being useful when it's messy and hard.

(A certain sister-in-law and her partner being a bit of an exception to this rant...)

That being said, Bear was brilliant and positive, even in the airport, and made what could have been a day from hell into a tolerable family bonding exercise. Thanks Bear.

So far so good for a world-weary cat

He is spending a lot of time sitting, legs tucked up under himself, looking displeased. He got the collar off once but Beloved managed to reattach it. He catches it on the wall, gets blocked from passing through narrow gaps, and has picked up a couple of choice brown bits from somewhere I prefer not to think about.

Bear is clearly concerned and has pointed out (and tried to touch) the stitches. Mao is tolerating the attention and not pulling away. She gave him a couple of cuddles that were received with some soft squinting and a cat smile. This experience may be a minor breakthrough in their relationship.

This morning he suddenly went a bit crazy trying to remove the collar, after catching it in the blinds. He shook around pretty wildly. Bear immediately became distressed and cried loudly, almost a scream. I cuddled her, then leaned out until I could reach Mao and also pat his back. I don't think she was scared, I think she was upset.

She's a good girl with a big heart. He's a highly affectionate and emotional cat. I think they'll end up a very good match.

Meanwhile we wait for the test results, but so far, so good.

Chairman Mao has a tumour

It is on top of his head. It looked like an innocuous wart or even some sort of small scar. It has been there several months, we intended to have it looked at but didn't think there was anything to panic about.

He is at the Vet now, about to go under general anaesthetic before it is removed along with some surrounding scalp.

Poor boy, we have not been attentive enough lately, as much as things have been improving in recent months. He is very special to us, a family member, a sibling to Minh-Minh, an elder statesman warming to Bear as she grows and learns to be respectful and gentle.

Although there is still some distance there, it wasn't on display this morning: when we put Mao in his carrying box Bear became distressed, pointed, said "Mao Mao" several times and stamped a foot. An intuitive girl, although she didn't explicitly know what is going on, she knew something that was not good was happening.

Soon, I told her, he'll be back soon.

I hope that was right. The prognosis is good, both for the operation and the tumour not having spread elsewhere. It is something called a Marcel Tumour, well that's what I heard though I think that is actually a Mast Cell Tumour. They can be bad, but not apparently in this case. I'm not completely comforted. I just want my boy home, safe.

2 minutes to midnight

I took my frustrations out on the washing up. Beating the stuck bits on a fork with a brush is surprisingly therapeutic, to a point. Water splashed around. I think I saw a film of a Chimp once sitting in some water beating it with a branch to make some kind of Chimp point; I suppose I looked a bit like that.

Work is dry and I am urgently needing stimulation. I took a drop in money and status to come here and things, although better, aren't panning out. It is starting to give me a mid-life crisis. I don't want tonnes of money, I just want to do something worthwhile. Currently I feel like my salary should be spent on a teacher or a nurse or someone we need more of.

The house was quiet, the girls asleep, cats curled up on the couch. I get a sense of company from their prescence and the sound of the rise and fall of Bear's breathing in the monitor. Pulling on a jacket I headed into the night.

The midnight chill had settled. No wind moved through the dark, locked-down streets. I hunched with my hands pushing the bottom of my pockets and my mind slowly unscrambled. In that peace I knew what to do.

Today I am going to get things moving again. Life is too short to be a waste of taxpayer's money.

Protecting Bear, protecting Cub

A petulant protective instinct has come to the fore lately for Beloved and I.

We visit friends with a newborn. All nice, naturally they are still getting their heads around it all. But newborn's aunt then arrives and clearly doesn't want us around.

Aunt is someone we know well, who has been cute with Bear in the past. She ignores us and uses body language akin to pulling her pants down and taking a crap in front of us.

Mildly annoying perhaps. But she also does this to Bear. She does not greet Bear. Bear tries to say hello and is rebuffed by the same passive-aggressive body language.

I feel hurt and angry on a deeper level to a personal slight. If you are rude to my Bear you are rude to me 5 times over. We leave and I am caught between wanting to give a second chance and wanting to delete this person out of our lives. A public facebook execution would be a start.

Beloved then articulated something to me along the lines of feeling deeply protective of Cub, because some friends and relatives are making less effort to keep track of his progress than they did with Bear.

Bear was the first, sure. But we are very conscious of wanting to make sure Cub feels just as loved. We became a bit indignant.

So when we found out he is a boy, there was no universal mail or text out, no general facebook spray. The hint was there to read the blog of course, and for those of you still making the effort to come here I was happy to share. But many other friends and relatives will find out via the long tail of information dissipation.

Unless they get on the phone and ask.

And seeing as you did- Cub and Beloved are both well, Bear is hurling herself around with spirit and abandon, and the cats are slowly but surely learning to sidle up and share cuddles.

One Cat, Two Cats, One Bear, Two....

In the beginning, there was a townhouse. Cold lonely corners sat idle as Beloved and I ground our teeth at work. Couches had unused spaces. When one went out, the other ate alone.

Then there was Chairman Mao the Burmese Cat. Mao brought love, perhaps an overwhelming amount of it. He was there in the morning, at the toilet, on the couch, as we walked from the couch to the kitchen, stood in the kitchen, walked back to the couch, usually sweet but always needing more.

We decided such an affectionate boy needed a friend, so we found a girly friend. To be precise, his half sister by breeding (an issue simplified through the snip). He snapped completely, and this blog still gets more google hits from people searching about hissing cats and kittens (still top of the Google world as I write this) than anything else.

He settled, they became close to inseparable. But there was damage. Mao has had a psycho streak ever since, culminating in a powerful bite to my wrist just a few months before Bear's arrival that had him mighty close to a visit to the vet or, almost as bad, being put in a plane and sent off to my parents in the tropics.

Since Bear he has largely controlled himself, something helped by the fact that when on occasion he's turned towards her with a tooth showing he's suddenly found himself flying across the living room. Unfortunately, love him dearly and completely understand his frustrations, but some things meet zero tolerance.

Minh-Minh is a sweet, sweet girly who has never hissed in anger. But she has been shaped by her strong older brother and is always a bit on edge- something I put down to being chased around and pounced on constantly as she grew up. She is touchy and nervy and her tail bushes up at the drop of a pin.

My advice, aside, for anyone looking to get a burmese or similar super-affectionate breed, is get two at the same time. Your life will be easier.

Then came a Bear. They have generally been good, and expressed very little outright hostility, but neither enjoyed the change and both still come running out for affection the moment she's off to sleep or child care. Minh-Minh went through some depression I think, and is still quite needy and vocal about it.

Now a Bear faces the same experience. I sincerely hope she doesn't snap like Mao!

We read and talked extensively before deciding on the 'sibling gap'. Closer means more overlap, competition, and jealousy potential, but also the ability to relate as something like friends when they are older. Further apart means greater separation, both good and bad, until at around 7 years the literature suggests they grow up much like only-children.

Selfishly, closer means getting the early period with lower earning and travel ability out of the way, while later means a good break, chance to have a life in between and get finances and health (especially for poor Beloved) back on track.

We opted for close for both reasons above. We also take nothing for granted, and will make hay while the sun shines. Readers of this blog may remember me posting about a certain lump- I don't assume the landing gear will still be in tip top shape in 5 years or even 2.

Close ages means potential jealousy, and for 'classic' sibling patterns to emerge strongly as the first and second vie to differentiate and find their place. We are both affectionate people and Bear, like Mao in a former life, is used to being 100% focus of everything.

I have a new job, I usually make it home for bath time now and I still have daddy day. I have capacity to help out next time around, to be there with Bear, or with her sibling so Beloved can share the love around. We will try, so hard, to get this right.

It's a little scary.

But I love them both so much, I think it can be done.

I have a good family. I don't know if I expected to be so happy with family, to have all my discontents located in the career and self actualisation side of life. I think I might have expected the opposite, if you asked me 10 years ago.

Wouldn't have it any other way though...

Nerves relax, tears well, and Bear is expecting a sibling

Says it all doesn't it?!

First trimester over and all is looking good. Some fine hand waving, a good strong pair of legs, a big head with 2 clearly visible hemispheres of brainage and a little heart beating at a million miles an hour.

Oh Bear, your life is about to change.

Oh Mao, oh Minh-Minh, here's hoping you've adapted to the first one by then.

Oh Beloved, you're a stronger person than I.

Oh my, feels like champagne-o'clock already!

"I am the feeling which became a daughter"

The mind boggles! For lovers of LOLCATS, enjoy this Engrish masterpiece:

CAT PRIN - The tailor for a cat you know....

Pleasure in simple Friday finishes

A Bear already sleeps when I get home.

Beloved kisses me, comes in close. We hold for a while. Lie on the bed, tempting sleep. My suit goes into weekend hibernation.

Easing the door open so a girl doesn't wake. A girl needs her sleep. She is there- one arm out and one behind her head. Dreamings of posings. I fust with her growing wisps, cup her entire head in my palm, tell her daddy loves her.

I'm sorry I didn't manage to catch the last dad train. I'm here now.

Many things happened and I can tell them to you says Beloved, and in her words I return to the family fold, become part of the day, no longer lost. She found wine and fish. I drink, rolling the flathead in cayenne, ginger and flour. She eats the liquorice I bought her from the sweets shop in the station as I awaited the already too late.

She falls asleep. A Bear still sleeps. I sit down before the computer and Chairman Mao leaps from the bed to my lap with barely 3 steps in between. He purrs, falls asleep. I complete sentences where I can. Minh, the princess, purrs deep in a blanket. Sometime around the start of this paragraph it became Saturday.

Buggles Vignettes

Waiting, on a poo, for to carry it home (sung to Waiting on an Angel, with feel). Over a week now and there've only been 2 small, moussy excretions. A Bear is mighty constipated. The potential energy welling within is fearsome.

Conversations extend. In particular she makes lively noises when I sing to her. Dorky shoulder movements to accompany the songs go down a treat as well. Her bald, goatee'd dad standing over her dancing like Pete Garrett and singing 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' prompts quasi-giggles.

When her face pulls into a smile I lose it. When I leave in the morning and she twists almost 180 degrees to watch me, with an anxious look on her face, I lose it. There have been some late starts recently.

I usually miss bath time. Total contact per day is about 20 minutes in the morning, 5 to 10 of them with her off the boob and playing, and about 30 or so minutes late at night when she's feeding while half asleep.

We allowed her out of either of our sights for the first time since hospital. There was an incident where the nurses took her out to weigh her or somesuch. I nearly had cardiac arrest with images of her being dropped, exchanged for another similar looking bub then sent interstate, having organs removed and sold on Ebay etc. The nurses did NOT succeed in removing her for a nanosecond after that.

We waved goodbye, as her extremely trustworthy (and indeed trusted) uncle and aunt wheeled her off in the pram. I walked back inside. I started walking around in circles while beloved patted me on the arm. Then it all just came out and I didn't stop bawling hysterically until about 3 minutes before they arrived back. From a 10 minute trip to the shops.

Sanity is just a construct.

I trust a few people in this world, but I know no-one loves my Bear the way beloved and I do. Still, she was fine. I've let her out of our sights since, I'm chilling. Not quickly.

I realise my mum has always been critical. I'm listening to renditions of what has happened during the day while she, beloved and Bear are hanging out at home. My first reaction is 'So?' The reason is I've gotten used to such constant digging. It's probably shaped me in ways that aren't wonderful. Words are had, criticism subsides.

Mao has become exceedingly affectionate. Minh-Minh however has taken to sitting at the top of the stairs, on the ledge in the visitors' room or on our bed when we aren't in it. She waits, giving us looks. When I pick her up she purrs instantly, it's a switch being flicked. As with a Bear, I wish I had more time for my furkids.

Still a bit of a nutter- watched Insight, some verminous trash were peddling falsehoods in defence of advertising, especially sexualised advertising, aimed at young girls. I hurled invective at them and made all sorts of rash promises to have every one of them locked up before a Bear hits the tweens. Offered beloved my unwelcome ideas as to what I would do if some West Coast player sledged me with graphic, paedophilic comments about family members. I think my suggested response involved use of thumbs and permanent incapacitation. And why did the tribunal throw the charges out after only 10 minutes? What sort of monkeys think they can make a decision on something where evidence is in contention in 10 effing minutes?

A Bear cares not. She slumbers. It is time she enjoys a (just before) midnight snack. I will have a single malt and watch my girls, at peace with the world.