And sometimes they all wear pink

For our eldest daughter’s first birthday, my husband bought her a truck.  And not just any truck.  An old-school, metal tray Tonka dump truck.

From the moment she opened it, she was in love.  Especially after her father sat her up in the back of it and proceeded to push her around the floor at speed, the pair of them cackling like fiends. 

It wasn’t always a truck, mind you.  Some days, it was a dolly bed.  Other days it was the easiest way to transport a pile of toys from one place to another.  At other times it was an ambulance with injured people (usually teddy bears) in the back.  At one point, it was even a mobile library for a week or so.  And a lot of the time, it was simply a truck.  There were many backing up and tray-lifting noises invented to go with the truck.  She worked out how to sit in the back and roll herself around the floor pretty early on.  She’s heading towards ten now, and her brother is the most likely to be playing with it these days, but she still loves it and calls it “my truck”.

Given the success of the first Tonka toy birthday present, the other two both got one on their first birthday too.  Our second daughter got a front end loader, our son a bulldozer.  Both were (and still are) well-loved, but neither was ever as successful as the truck.  I think it had something to do with the fact that a kid could sit in the tray of the truck and be pushed around or push themselves around.  Something that the girls still do with their brother, who is now perfectly capable of pushing himself around.

My husband buying a truck for our daughter’s first birthday seemed to give a lot of people the idea that he really wanted a son.  An acquaintance even said one day, “Well, would he have bought a dolly as a present if you had a son?”  For the record, my husband bought her a truck because he thought she’d love it, which was 100% correct.  The truck had nothing to do with him wanting a son.  And the answer to the dolly question is yes.  Our son got a doll for his second Christmas, and he wrapped it up and dragged it about everywhere, calling it “my baby”.  He would occasionally sit on the couch and pretend to breastfeed his baby, then swaddle it up and pat it on the bottom until it was “sleeping”, then tuck it into bed (often mine).  His baby is still a popular plaything, and is often pushed around in the back of the truck.  He also has a couple of Barbie-type dolls that he plays with, and it is not uncommon to see him with a Barbie in one hand and a small truck or other vehicle in the other hand.

And then there is the colour thing.  Personally, I don’t like the colour pink.  As a result, I actively encouraged everyone I know to buy my daughters things that were decidedly not pink.  Of course, this means that both my girls adore pink anything, particularly if it’s sparkly.  Over the years, they’ve accumulated pink towels, pink sheets, pink blankets and pink toys, as well as a selection of pink clothes and shoes.  I have become accustomed to the pinkness of our house, and having a son hasn’t changed this.  He had pink towels and sheets for the first year of his life because that’s what we had at home, having been gifted pink baby things when our daughters were born. 

Nowadays, he likes to go through anything (clothes, toys, games) that his sisters have outgrown to decide which things he’d like to keep for himself. And, by his own choice, pink remains in his life.  His bike (acquired from his younger sister) is pink.  His favourite pair of sneakers were originally bought for his eldest sister and are blue with pink stars on them.  He has a pair of unicorn slippers (with extra pink and a few sparkles) that he adores, and some days he’ll tell you that his favourite two colours are “rainbow and pink”.  He probably has more pink things right now than I’ve ever owned in my life.

People told me that I’d notice the difference when I had a son after two daughters, and that is true.  My son is far more physical and boisterous that his sisters are.  What is interesting is how some people treat boys versus girls.  Very few people ever raised an eyebrow at my daughters having trucks and Tonka toys, or thought it was unusual when they would wear clothes from the boys’ section (for their own practical reasons – boys’ shorts have proper pockets for keeping treasures in; boys’ t-shirts have sleeves that cover the shoulders and upper arms, which means better sun protection).  There are, however, occasional comments from others when my son wears his pink-star sneakers, or carries a dolly around with him.  It’s as though it is ok for girls to choose boys’ things, whereas a boy can’t like anything considered ‘girly’. 

Now, even though I don’t like pink myself, that’s got nothing to do with my kids.  If they all want to wear pink, I’m fine with that.  If they want sparkles or dinosaurs or emergency vehicles or unicorns, hoorah.  And if they want pink fairy wings today and a pirate costume tomorrow, all well and good.  And if they decide that the pirate costume needs fairy wings and a sparkly wand, that’s just fine.  Unless someone starts hitting others with the wand.  That’s when I intervene.

On the miracle of pregnancy

Pregnancy is an amazing thing.  I think this is something that we can all agree on – the fact that one complete, new human can be grown by another; that it takes only nine months to pull off this feat.  When you consider all the body parts that have to grow, all the nerves and the mental wiring and all the rest that have to link up just right to result in a functioning human, it’s pretty damn impressive that it happens so often.


I came to the parenthood game later than many of my friends, so by the time I was pregnant with my first, a majority of my friends had already had a baby or two (or three).  Of all my friends, I recall one having horrific morning sickness, and a second friend suffering what doctors determined was likely the miscarriage of one twin (she carried a singleton pregnancy to term after this); I don’t remember any other friends having any major dramas.  And I had a number of friends who commented on how much they adored being pregnant.  How pregnancy made them feel womanly, amazing, extra-ordinary.


Not me.  Pregnancy was not something that I enjoyed.  Please let me point out – I had dead boring pregnancies.  I did not suffer from any significant issues.  I fell pregnant quickly, I had a normal pregnancy, I had a baby.  All three times.  I had no miscarriages, no issues with conception, not pregnancy complications.  The conception of our third child was totally accidental – we just didn’t bother with a condom one night.  Once.  Just shy of forty, and I fell pregnant.  My obstetrician told me that I was the patient all obstetricians wish for – no issues, no dramas, no problems.


And yet . . . even with a boring, normal pregnancy, I didn’t really like growing another human.  I mean, yes, I was impressed by the fact that I was growing a person while going about my daily business, but it wasn’t really a fun experience.  All three of my pregnancies followed roughly the same pattern – approximately four months of no actual throwing up, but feeling constantly hung-over, with a side-order of being unable to stomach chocolate; followed by roughly four weeks of feeling pretty sparkly, actually, and with fabulous boobs; and then finally the run-down to labour, during which the baby seemed to bounce happily between my ribs and my bladder constantly, making me either short of breath or in desperate need to pee (or both).  I had cravings only with my first – a desire for Twisties and Cheezles (neither of which I actually like) and for bacon.  Now, bacon might not seem like a real “craving”, but given that I hadn’t eaten bacon for about 18 years, it was quite weird to really feel a desire to eat it.  A lot.


I remember being horribly tired with my first; rolling my ankle when I was about 30 weeks’ pregnant and limping for the next 10 weeks because it remained tender due to the extra weight I was carrying.  I don’t remember tiredness with the second, but I had a toddler at that point, and she still woke at least once a night, plus my husband was away a lot for work that year, which meant I was already tired, so I couldn’t tell where my “regular” tired ended and the pregnancy tired began J  With the third, I was always in bed by 8.30.  I had heartburn constantly with all three, and extremely vivid dreams, often about vampires (I was a mad Buffy and Angel fan back in the day).  Whenever I was thirsty, the only thing that would quench my thirst was either soda water or tonic water – it had to be bubbly, but not sweet.  And I was constantly hungry.  I put on 13kg with the first, 15kg with the second and 17kg with the third.  I felt constantly out-of-balance because my centre of gravity seemed unbalanced with the extra weight at my tummy.


I did love feeling them move about, even when the rocking and the rolling (and in the case of baby #3, the finally turning to head down at 37 weeks) was dead uncomfortable.  But, the lack of breath, the tiredness and the constant need to pee was not fun.  But let’s be frank, knowing that I was personally creating a brand new member of the human race was pretty damn cool.  So I could deal with all of the annoying aspects of pregnancy, even though I didn’t like it.


And while I didn’t really enjoy being pregnant, I do enjoy the three very individual humans who were the result of those pregnancies.  My eldest is a bit of a perfectionist, likely to be nervous about events yet to happen, yet thoughtful, caring and considerate.  She needs time to herself, loves to read and enjoys activities that are non-competitive and creative.  My middle child is dramatic, loud and entertaining, loves climbing and any sort of gymnastics, and hates to be ignored.  She wants to be involved in everything, doesn’t like to be left out and always talks back.  The youngest plays well by himself, but loves to be with his sisters.  He wants to be included in everything, and doesn’t like to be left behind.  He refuses to accept that being smaller and younger than the others should prevent him from doing the same stuff that they’re up to.


I see aspects of myself in all three of my children, particularly the oldest one.  I see my husband in them all as well, notably in the cheekiness of the youngest one.  And most entertainingly, my second daughter often mirrors my younger sister; my son frequently reminds me of my little brother as a boy.


I never imagined myself as mother in my younger years.  Even after my eldest was born, I didn’t realise just how much I was going to enjoy being a mother.  But motherhood has grown on me, and now I can’t imagine myself any other way.