I buy new plants for the garden: velvet-leafed sage and a small pot of sharp-scented, leggy English lavender.
I love decanting Maggie from carseat to bed, easing her out from behind the straps, draping her, warm and heavy, over my shoulder, murmuring in her ear to keep her asleep. I love how when I put her into bed she flips over, reaches for her duck and clutches it fiercely to herself
After 10 years, I finally get around to framing my favourite of our wedding portraits. I place it on the centre of the mantelpiece.
Whanau over for a barbecue and to admire the unpacked house. Charlotte and baby Lucy arrive first with cherry tomato plants C has propagated herself: I'll plant them tomorrow, when I pot up the kowhai. Ben appears from the north on his bike, having cycled to us from the Aro Valley via Makara, and then Jack's mum Pam arrives and the granddaughters spend the evening vying for her attention. Becca plies her baby cousin with toys, and insists on giving her a Hairy McLary cloth book to take home.
I go down into the garden and stand on the deck overlooking the bush, listening to the stream I can't see through the dense foliage. Above me, the sun is dipping behind the pohutakawa at the top of the ridge, its rays making the deep red flowers glow pale scarlet.
I pop my head around the bedroom door to ask Jack something while he's reading Maggie her bedtime story. Mama, she says, go 'way! I reading a book!
In the dusk, the colours of the roses show more brightly, phosphorescent almost. I'd thought they were past their best, but closer examination shows there are bushes still in bud and every day a new colour emerges: tonight, a rich dark apricot.
We spend the evening putting up pictures, and the unpacking is done. Our art, photos and certificates make the place come alive. I enjoy deciding where to put our favourites: the two Tony Ogle landscapes in the living room, the Mary Taylor kowhai sketch in the kitchen, the Lemonjelly Dawn of the Ducks print above our bed, the almost International Klein Blue abstract our mate Clare painted for us in Cambridge in the music/spare room. And what's not to like about a couple of hours of hammering?
As I push Maggie around Pak N Save in the trolley, she keeps flinging her arms around me and declaring I love yooooooo!!
At the beach, she throws off her clothes and frolics stark naked in the tepid shallows, giggling with happiness.
Becca is asked at her holiday programme who her favourite band is and replies: The Klezmer Rebs.*
After a long, hot, busy day, a fake beer on the deck is as good as a real one.
*It later comes out that we're the only band she's actually heard of, apart from that one, you know, Mummy, with the brothers but just one girl? — The Jews Brothers? — Yes, that's right, Mum!
Jack: You know dear, you're averaging four Beautiful Things a day. Overachiever.
As I bend over her bed to sing her lullaby, Maggie reaches up with her soft little arms, pulls me close to her, and puts me in a headlock.
Deck. Sun. Bush. Cicadas. Book. Sorted.
Turns out we do have mint, cowering under the parsley that's gone leggily to seed. Some sunshine and water should sort it out.
As I deadhead the roses, I do a quick inventory of the garden and decide what will stay and what will go. It's in excellent shape, and as the roses fade, big yellow dahlias are coming out in the back garden. I don't think I'll change much, but am planning to pull the geraniums and scraggly lilies out of the circular brick planter out front and replace them with a kitchen garden.
Watching the kids enjoying the splendid rope and steel contrivances in the new playground around the corner. Am astonished by Maggie's ambition and agility as she climbs to the top of the equipment and then hangs by her hands, little feet dangling over my head, calling imperiously for assistance.
I have a music room! It will double as a spare room and has a foldout futon for guests. But it will be great to have a quiet place to go and practice, and read (and in extremis, as it has a large deep cupboard, hide...)
Unpacking yet another box of papers, I find a sheaf of email printouts from when Becca was born. I remember Jack bringing them in to the hospital for me to read, and being touched by how excited everyone was. I put them in a folder with the ones we got when Maggie was born.
The 53 bus into town is under a minute's walk from our house.
Today I have energy to burn, for some reason. Mine not to question why, but to spend the day churning through big piles of work.
Supermarket is an eight-minute downhill saunter away.
And a 12-minute, cardiovascular-fitness-enhancing plod back up again, under a backpack of groceries. Buying only as much as I can carry may prove to be a useful frugality measure.
In a box of papers I find a draft of our wedding ceremony, handwritten on the back of a printed draft of Chapter One of my PhD: a rather precise artefact of what I was up to exactly ten years ago.
*am still deciding whether it's worth the shelf space to classify NZLit as a separate genre...
We cross the Rimutakas and drive into Greytown and it's summer again. Sun beats down as we play two sets in the street outside the town hall. It's so hot I sweat off all my sunscreen and end up rather pink in places, but I don't care because a day in the Wairarapa makes me feel (and look) like I've had an entire week of summer.
I enjoy wearing my new hippy skirt: it's made from overlapping pieces of green and purple silk (recycled saris, apparently) and is cool and floaty – perfect for gig wear for a blazing hot day.
Jack brings the girls over out of rainy Wellington to come and watch the gig. Becca capers about happily to 'Zvezda Rok-N-Rolla', and joins in lustily with the callback on 'Ot Azoy'.
In the absence of our clarinettist Urs, I enjoy playing an unnaccustomed violin solo on 'Bei Mir Bist Du Sheyn' as well as singing: it's very satisfying weaving the two together and having it work well.
J: I just found out when rubbish day is without using the Internet! Me (incredulous): Really? But ... how? J: I just walked out into the street and saw that other people were putting their rubbish out! Beams proudly
For some reason the girls' lullaby has evolved into a version of the Geordie folk song 'When the Boat Comes In' performed, regardless of which parent's turn it is, in the manner of an Elvis impersonator. Thankyouverymuch
When Jack collects her from crèche, Maggie asks We go to different house?
Morning coffee in bed watching rain bluster over the bush and bedraggled birds fighting their way to shelter.
I unearth the fiddle from beneath a mound of boxes; Jack takes the girls out for the morning so I can practise for tomorrow's Greytown Festival gig. (We'll be outside the Town Hall at 11 and 3, weather permitting.)
We put up shelves and unpack books and slowly the house starts to turn into our place. Becca delightedly explores the long cupboard under the stairs.
Jack's sister Charlotte comes to see the new house, bringing baby Lucy, who gives me big gummy grins when I fuss over her. She also brings home made biccies, a bird feeder for the garden, and a bumper-sized box of Yorkshire Tea, because she remembers that I was pining for it.
We're in. Happy but somewhat buggered. Have been in Can't Stop Won't Stop mode for the past two days: always conducive to domestic harmony when combined with acute knackeredness. Fortunately the nice man from Telstra brought us broadband today and J has just unearthed the wireless router, bringing my unpacking frenzy to a screeching halt. Here are some beautiful things:
Early drizzle on moving day turns into brilliant sunshine by midmorning.
That evening, Jack's mother arrives with dinner, feeds us all and then bathes the children and puts them to bed.
Today my friend and bandmate Rose, God love her, took Maggie out and entertained her for the entire day so that I could unpack.
Just outside the front door is a large, flourishing rosemary bush: as you brush past on the way to the door, the scent rises off it.
Nestling under it, green and yellow, is a small clump of lemon thyme.
The previous owner was very keen on roses. The house is surrounded by them, and they're all blooming. One is a pale mauve, almost blue colour.
Packing up my dresser, I find the identity tags Wellington Hospital put around Maggie's ankles when she was born. They're as about big around as the circle of my thumb and forefinger; I remember that they kept slipping off over her tiny wee feet and getting lost in the blankets. I'm glad I retrieved and kept them.
Still here. Just got back from final inspection of new place. Met the vendors, a sweet couple from Chichester, agreed to capture the family moggie for them if it hasn't shown up by the time they move out, marvelled at the number of cupboards and rose bushes (me) and measured things (J). Our buyers don't move in until Thursday, which means we're not as pressed for time tomorrow: I can stay behind and finish cleaning while J directs proceedings at the new place. Woot. And the updated forecast for tomorrow is not quite as crap as the original one. It's all good. Meanwhile, the sun is shining, the cicadas are chirping, and J has packed all the forks. Further bulletins as events warrant.
Kenyan coffee from a recent Parliamentary delegation (best plunger coffee ever) plus a workmate who makes and delivers coffees for entire office = a brighter morning for all.
Walking Becca home from her holiday programme in the sunshine and listening to her jabber merrily about her day.
We sit on the slope and she teaches me how to make and fire a grass gun. My first attempt doesn't go so well. Never mind Mama, she reassures me, it was a Good Effort.
Getting in hot and bothered and remembering I made iced tea the other day and there's half a jug left.
More beautiful things when we've moved house and got our broadband back. Two more sleeps!
Becca composes a fan letter for our lead singer and trumpeter Dave. In it, she draws a picture of him singing with a microphone and, and for good measure, adds a close-up view of the microphone. She seals it carefully in an envelope, addresses it, and presents it to him when he comes to give me a ride to Palmerston North.
We play to two packed houses at Palmy: Saturday night at the Bent Horseshoe Café at Tokomaru and Sunday afternoon at the library. Punters are warm, receptive, and buy lots of our CDs.
Coming back to my girls after a night away. I bathe Maggie and wrap her towel around her and she rests her head on my shoulder as I carry her into her bedroom. I sit on her bed and rock her in my arms and she gazes up out of the towel at me and giggles.
As we lie in bed, we hear Maggie's sturdy and purposeful footfall as she approaches with a stack of books and an agenda.
I get up early and bring Jack breakfast in bed. He is happy.
Sorting through image folders I come across this vid, taken in December 2008, when Maggie was 18 months old:
The band's off to Palmerston North this afternoon: we're playing a gig at the Horseshoe Café at Tokomaru this evening and at the PN library tomorrow at 2pm. Come and see us if you're in that neck of the woods. Details and other cool stuff on the Klezmer Rebs web site.
A workmate offers me A Mighty Wind. I've seen it before, but am very happy to borrow it to watch again: it's a great film and reminds me (just a little) of my band, the Klezmer Rebs. 'Yeah, I thought that,' says Anita, grinning.
Naxos Music and Naxos Jazz are available on the Wellington City Libraries web site, and if you are the proud owner of a library card you spend a happy day meandering the databases for odd stuff listen to while you work. There's even some klez in there.
I get home an hour before Jack and the kids; the house is silent, and cold. I turn on the heat pump and crank it up; the silence I decide to enjoy for a while longer.
I love brushing Maggie's hair, when she'll let me: it's now nearly halfway down her back, a mass of waves and ringlets. Brushing makes it gleam and brings out the lovely chestnut colour.
Maggie loves her pirate dress so much that as soon as it's clean again, she takes it out of the laundry basket and clutches it to herself as she sleeps.
Her crèche rings offering a casual day: a whole, uninterrupted day to scrub out corners, make phone calls, pull weeds, run errands, tidy up loose ends, and think calmly about what needs doing next before we move next Wednesday.
Found in the comments of one of my favourite momblogs. I may paraphrase for Becca next time she starts asking tricky questions about God:
As for believing in God, well, the jackassness isn't in whether you believe or not, it's in what you do in God's name once you decide you do believe. Feed the hungry? Not jackass. Stand on the street as a funeral procession goes by, waving your God Hates Fags sign? Jackass. My Higher Power doesn't hate fags. God hates haters.
As for my kids, I just tell them that religion is like language. People who believe like to talk to God, but God understands all the languages. He doesn't care if you talk to him in Jewish or Hindu or Christian or Zoroastrian. He doesn't even care if you don't believe in Him.
He cares if you're kind to people and put the seat down when you're done peeing.
Jack informs me he's just booked flights to a Mystery Destination for our 10th wedding anniversary, and advises me to pack stout shoes.
Pukekura Park in New Plymouth is one of the most beautiful venues we've ever played at. It's strung with lights for the Festival and the city turns on a warm, still evening for us.
The gig goes smoothly, and eventually the crowd are persuaded onto their feet: two women and a toddler are joined by a group of German punks, who caper about enthusiastically, and then gradually, more and more people come forward to dance.
After the gig we go back to the hotel and have a beer together. We never usually do this as a band: usually the MO after gigs is to pack the kit and depart hastily. We agree that this way is much more civilised.
Travel to and from NP with Sue and Dave: I enjoy their company; we listen to Tom Lehrer and Balkan Beat Box; they teach me to play Ghost. We also end up, after much horse-trading and couple–room matching mathematics, sharing a room. The following morning we debate who snored the loudest. (Definitely Dave.)
Off to New Plymouth, where the Rebs are playing at the Festival of Lights. Will report back on BTs in the 'Naki on my return tomorrow. One of which will hopefully be the weather: NatRad forecast assures us that NP can expect fine and 20. A good day to get out of cold, rainy Wellington.
My friend and bandmate Rose takes Becca out on Sunday afternoon so we can pack and clean while Maggie naps in peace. While we work, we listen to Now Show podcasts and try not to laugh too loudly.
While I get ready for work, Maggie snuggles in bed with her dad and they read Hairy McLary. She likes to count the dogs' tails as they disappear onto the next page.
Becca is very excited about the gymnastics holiday programme we've enrolled her in this week. She appears at the breakfast table in shorts and a singlet, the red sash from her pirate costume tied Rambo-style around her head.
To prepare for a day of packing and shlepping, I start the morning with some yoga and light weights. Finish feeling warmed up, limber and very virtuous.
Becca holds her four-month-old cousin Lucy in her lap; they gaze at each other adoringly.
A new family game, called 'Chase each other around the playground and try to kick each other in the bum.'
Jack's idea of trash talk, which is to yell I've got an inhaler in my pocket, and you haven't!
I know I overdo things from time to time. But when I made last year's New Year Resolution, moving house was not quite how I planned to accomplish it. Have just cleared out the plastics cupboard: my word, we eat a lot of icecream.
Another BT: after over three years' exposure to klezmer, including in utero, Maggie has finally started chiming in on the Ot azoys.
The Muppets' setting of Robert Frost to the tango: And miles to go before I sleep, o-lé! With fond memories of the VUW Muppet Club, we're raising the girls as Muppet fans. My only concern is that Maggie might adopt Gonzo the Great and/or Crazy Harry as role models.
Starting a new Philip Roth. Reading-wise, he's my guilty pleasure: I somehow feel that as a feminist I oughtn't to enjoy his books quite as much as I do.
Down by the harbour, the the Len Lye Water Whirler flails and sparkles in the sunshine.
When the vivid scarlet helicopter takes off, Maggie yells HOPTER! This is her word for both helicopter and grasshopper; a brilliant bit of simultaneous semantic stretching and squashing that I'm sure there must be a linguistic term for.
A perfect peach: skin like burgundy velvet, flesh firm but soft, tart but sweet.
A new word: tête-bêche. It literally means 'head to tail', and is used in both philately and publishing. In philately, it decribes a joined pair of stamps with one inverted relative to the other (think of kids top and tail in a bed). In publishing, it describes means two works printed in a single edition back to back with one in 180 degree rotation relative to the other, so there are two front covers. Carol Shields's Happenstance is the only example I've come across, but I didn't know the name of the format until today.
Working under managers who are kind, understanding, and treat you like a grownup. (No, they don't read my blog as far as I know)
Jack brings me coffee and muesli in bed. This is not unusual: he does it most mornings, except the ones when I have to be the first up and out of the house to catch an early bus to work. But he does it on the days when I'm home by myself with the kids, giving me that extra half hour to wake up, collect my thoughts and steel myself.
A bearded man wearing a mad scientist helmet walks his Labrador while riding a Segway up Newlands Road.
Turns out Jack can't bear to part with the Piskie Fleece either. A well-worn favourite, it's a little pink jacket with a pointy hood first worn by Becca on our holiday to Cornwall (and therefore named after the legenday Cornish piskies) in 2005. Both girls wore it from around the time they were starting to walk. It's now a little frayed and stained, and is getting too small for Maggie, but we agree to grant it a reprieve from the St Vinnie's box.
Packing my clothes for the move, I take my wedding dress out of the back of the wardrobe and show it to Rebecca. She hasn't seen it before, except in photos; her eyes widen and she strokes the purple silk carefully, then asks me if I could please wear it when I take her to the movies that afternoon. Folding it into a box, I remember my friend Tsar in Lewisham fitting it on me in her front room while Jack held up the mirror, and then taking it back to Cambridge on the train in a Tesco bag.
I take Becca to The Princess and the Frog. It's lovely: lush visuals, Randy Newman soundtrack, and for a feminist mummy, a more palatable take on the Disney Princess trope. Thoroughly recommended.
Becca makes a book about trees. She carefully cuts out the pages, sellotapes them together and begins to write and illustrate her text, which is about a pohutawaka because she knows I like them. We agree that pohutakawa is a very long word, but I spell it out for her and she writes it beautifully. When it's finished, she comes and reads me her work.
Frugality prevails as I manage to resurrect two still-serviceable sports bags by patching them invisibly with gaffer tape.
A sunny afternoon at the zoo, just Becca and me. The otters are lolling on their backs in the sun; one of them is toying idly with a small rock, patting it from paw to paw and occasionally tossing it into its mouth for an experimental chew. A zoo keeper lets a pair of tortoises roam on a patch of lawn, enclosed by a very short paling fence. One of them keeps nosing its way under and making a stately break for freedom.
A couple more than 3BT today: it's been that sort of day, despite starting with me going to work by mistake. My very sweet manager was most understanding and has allowed me to finagle my leave; in itself a Beautiful Thing of sorts. Here are some more:
A coach arrives, instead of the anticipated bus. Morning commute is cushioned and stately.
Back-to-school fish and chips with workmates on the lawn in the sun. Everyone marvels at the pohutakawa.
Having the whole pool to myself
Recumbent monocoque trike on the Hutt Road. Bus passengers gawp and snigger. The driver gives him wide and cautious berth.
I walk through the front door. Becca checks me off on her clipboard.
Clare's lovely idea, a daily three beautiful things (3BT) blog , is catching on around the blogosphere. I've been reading it for a few months now and meaning to start one. So as it's a new year, I think I'll give it a go for a bit. Here are my 3BT for today:
Becca brings me a small bowl of snow peas she's just picked from the garden. They're crisp, sweet, and slightly warm from the sun.
After tumbling over, a howling Maggie runs straight past me and into her big sister's arms for consolation.
Pohutakawa blossom leaves crimson dust on the hard shoulder of State Highway One.
