Gardens of Integrated Delights

The first garden that we visited was a cosy place free of tiresome lawn with little paths wandering around a wonderful little plot with native plants bursting from the red soil of every bank at every opportunity. The owners were clearly very proud of their prizewinning garden and it wasn't long before Eloise was working her way into their affections, bit by bit, with Lyra incoherently working her way up the other flank, and caught between the pincers we were sent away with cuddles and a children's book of Oliver Twist that we are still reading.

In all we visited five gardens, yabbering away at each one: one beautifully manicured by an unlikely-looking muscle car enthusiastic; another by his father with an extraordinary garden with not a wasted centimetre; a child-friendly kitchen/cottage garden where we probably outstayed our welcome borrowing mulberries and bothering chickens; and another sculpted effort with bowers and avenues overflowing with blooking cliveas.

And at the end we visited a park for a rest where we drank coffee and ate ice cream in the Garden City of gardens.

Toowoomba

On a day such as this very one - only a Sunday - and Nicole's Birthday - we decided in our infinite wisdom to tip our hand towards the Toowoomba Festival of Flowers, which was competing in Nicole's Birthday Proirities with O'Reilly's Rainforest Thingummybob at Lamington National Park and any secret things she hadn't told us about.

Anyhow we decided that Toowoomba was the Place to Be and off we set down the Warrego Highway towards it, not really having much of an idea what to expect as we headed out across the Lockyer Valley along the Darren Lockyer Way, a road that strives in competition with only Steve Irwin Way for a name so inspirational and yet at the same time, or indeed simultaneously, so very original. See, the Steve Irwin Way goes past Australia Zoo, right? Whereas Darren Lockyer Way goes up the Lockyer Valley.

The valley that the road wends its wendy way across... well, you wouldn't call it a valley as you wended your way across it, in the sense that there aren't mountains that you can see on either side of it, but we're told it's a valley so a valley it is; and at the end of it, the road does ascend into what are some quite impressively steep and dare I say looming hills. At just the point where a child in the back - let's call her Eloise for the sake of illustration - might say "How much further is it, for flip's sake," just atop the retaining wall of hills in the distance you might spy a smattering of roofs glinting in the sunlight, and say "See those mountains up ahead, that's where we're headed."

And as the car laboured up the hill, with fuel economy obviously at the forefront of your thoughts, we exchanged a glance that says "Well we're here now, now what the hell do we do." And the obvious answer was to visit the Tourist Information Centre, an answer so obvious and obviously so often arrived at, that the police had been called in to manage traffic and the place was mobbed and maps sold out.

So we ended up marking up our own map from the Festival leaflet with random people's gardens that they had inexplicably opened up to the public.

Laughing

To get Lyra to think something is a really good idea, all you really have to do is laugh at her after she's done it, at which point her eyes light up and somewhere behind them cogs turn, very obviously.

Today the unlikely and potentially counterproductive behaviour that we have probably already ingrained into her is the act of sitting up quite straight, then falling over backwards.

So far she's only tried this on a nice soft bed.

Well-adjusted

Shall I paint you a picture of well-adjustment, of peaceful evenings spent over the Scrabble board, light and pleasant conversation over the dinner-table in the warm spring air, laughter exchanged around the piano, singing and dancing around the house, giggling play-fights, monosyllabic baby-conversation, prancing in the countryside beside a gamboling dog, never a cross word, but always a kind one?

Well things aren't that bad, but there isn't any singing around the piano. Mostly Eloise belts out the Les Mis favourites one-handed or Lyra bashes the notes indiscriminately; still I suppose she's only ten months old. We don't own Scrabble. Our play fights involve girls giggling and me being frankly assaulted. Eloise does sing and dance around the house, mostly when she's supposed to be doing other stuff. We don't prance in the countryside, and the dog is too old and senile to do anything approaching a gambol. Still the baby conversations are monosyllabic but fun, the cross words mixed with the kind ones, and the spring air is very, very warm.

Ma ma ma ma

Baby development update: Mas are in evidence, but das are not. There are las and blas, but the most important syllable is lacking. As far as the utterances go they are not words. Perhaps they will be soon, but probably not.

Four teeth are through, more on the way judging by the nocturnal inconvenience. Amber necklaces are ineffective against the pain of teething. Paracetamol is effective against the pain of teething. Tonight we may well have the opportunity to assess the efficacy of bonjela against the pain of teething.

Crawling is still going on, and getting up to standing with support. So-called chair-surfing is being done, though I don't really see it as an extreme sport.

In the Bleak Midwinter

It was Father's Day here and we went to the beach, which was nice, what with it being winter here and the beach being a nice place to go when it isn't too hot.

We are having something of a heat wave, and the air is warm but the sand cool and the water cooler, but it doesn't really feel wintery at all, and the beach was crowded with warm air fanatics but when we got past the people and settled down to do our usual sand-castle and tag playing we had a nice time.

Eloise made me get into the sea, but when the water got past a certain point she chose not to continue, understandably.

Insert Chicken-Related Pun Here

Eggcelent news - the chicken coop at the bottom of our garden is no longer an empty nest. With the arrival of three fine specimens (a complicated story the details of which are quarantined until further notice) - one Leghorn, one Isa Brown, and one Australorp hybrid - it is my pleasure and duty to inform you that we are official fowled up, and the run is coming up to speed.

Nicole has a big grin on her face and is spending not-quite-literally not-quite-every (but nearly) moment producing foodstuffs for the poultry. Now, by an amazing coincidence, we are treated to porridge every morning, which is lovely for us as well as the chickens who get our leftovers! There is an array of sprouts sprouting like clockwork to be delivered to their hungry beaks. It won't be long until they are a fully integrated part of the composting cycle and enriching every aspect of our lives from the soil in our garden to the eggs in our fridge.

Eloise is similarly delighted, and has, since the birds have been permitted to "free-range" - which has now become a verb, apparently! - become adept at catching the chickens and returning them to their quarters. I hesitate to say prison, however since they are clearly confined there, as evidenced by the clipping of their wings, I can see no other adequately descriptive word, although of course I could in a mealy-mouthed way assert that it is "protective custody" on account of their need for protection from our other, potentially murderous, animal resident, whose needs and freedoms now need to be delicately balanced against those of our newest arrivals. Anyway, to return briefly to the point, Eloise is not too bad, and much better than either of us, at grabbing the damned birds and putting them where they ought to be.

Matilda is disadvantaged and a little put out, as she must remain upstairs whilst the "chooks" (as they are quaintly refered to here in Australia) free-range (which has now become a verb, apparently!). Additionally, she has now for a significant proportion of her dietary spectrum, been demoted on the leftover ladder - which would, if only she had the intellect and awareness to have noticed, be a far graver issue for her I suspect.

Still, Clara, our two-year old adoptee, is still laying eggs, and lording (or ladying, if you prefer) it over Amy and Isabelle, our two-chick team of point-of-lay purebreds who are settling in and preparing themselves, no doubt, to keep us in eggs for the rest of their little lives.

Progress

So a couple of millstones just recently. Lyra has begun to crawl properly is number one. Lyra has a tooth poking its way through her gum (left foremost bottom incisor). Number one spells trouble because now she can quite easily crawl from on the bed to off the bed quite quickly, but with unfortunate results. Number two problematical because pain is involved, and crying.

Don't Feed the Animals

The weather being interesting in the morning at the moment - you know, warm in the day, down to a freezing 12 degrees or so at night - we have taken to eating our breakfast on the back deck where it is warmer in the sun that it is indoors.

Lyra is making an effort to retain food in her mouth and then actually swallow it, rather than dribble it pointlessly across herself. Not much of an effort; Matilda still gets the majority of it one way or another.

Lyra has these double-breasted all-in-ones which actually catch any misplaced food, so the dog is always on hand when Lyra is dismounted from the high chair and the costume opened up for removal, allowing a cascade of uneaten food to escape.

Dancing Fever

Eloise was struck down by a scorching fever the other night. She came through into our bed in the dark, burning up.

So it seems that Mr L was on the money when he said that she was actually under the weather at school and not herself.

And she spent the whole day on the sofa, watching telly and sleeping, which isn't like her at all. The sleeping part. She'd watch telly til the cows came home. When she's dosed up on the paracetamol, TV becomes achievable. Otherwise, sleeping.

Anyway, clearly not a well girl at all. So no dancing competitions for her this weekend... or so we thought.

For two competitions are scheduled, one for Friday when some style of dancing is to be performed, one on Saturday when some other style of performance is to be showcased.

Except when we get in touch with the dance teacher it seems to that Eloise is indispensible and if she can't make it, then the whole team must be pulled! Which leaves Nicole and I feeling quite outraged to be put in such a position - after all, to be honest, this is not the Bolshoi, they are not going to win the competition, and to have this pressure placed upon us is not really on.

However Eloise is determined now to go and so we dispense drugs and apply makeup and reluctantly drag ourselves down to Logan where the performance is performed, the competition is not won, and we retire home early.

After the competition it becomes apparent that Eloise is far from better and has probably been set back as further days off school become necessary, and an ear infection is contracted.