A friend arrives and I ask her how she is. I'm pregnant! she replies, with joyful disbelief.
Becca spends the afternoon proudly leading expeditions through the bush up the steep bank at the back of our property.
Sun so strong that the deck is too hot for bare feet.
I give Amber the Ridgy cross a dish of water. Then 18-month-old Sam toddles over and helpfully tops it up from his bottle of bubble mixture.
Reb Jonathan arrives bearing a pie with a magnificent lattice-work crust. It's apple and blackberry, and all those lucky enough to get a piece devour it with exclamations of wonderment.
Cal presents the girls with little lavender pillows she has made from fairytale fabric and appliquéd their initials. The scent fills the house.
Our house feels well and truly warmed; while we wander around the house clearing the floor of popsicle sticks, cast-off dressups and crushed flowers, something of the day's sunburned, benevolent chaos lingers behind in the air.
My mother-in-law tells me that on our wedding anniversary she looked through our wedding photos: I'd forgotten what a beautiful bride you were, she says.
And I had forgotten how sharp J looks in a suit.
An evening spent making the sort of barbie food I'd normally buy in tiny tubs at the supermarket: mango and tomato salsas; baba ganouj; industrial quantities of hummus out of $3 worth of dried chickpeas.
When I drop Maggie at crèche, her best friend Georgina is there. Georgina was born the day after Maggie, in the same hospital; the two first met at when M started crèche. They beam with delight to see each other, and immediately start tussling.
I love shopping for new babies, and manage to find a very sweet red stripy (gender neutral) outfit for Urs and Em's wee boy.
Potting up two bushy, sweet-scented basil plants into a window box next to some rather timid coriander, hopefully to lead by example.
After school I greet Becca with the usual Hello, Stinky! – Stinky? Are you stinky? asks my mate Peter in mock horror. No, Becca corrects him firmly, she calls me Stinky and I like it.
Becca shows me what she's learned on her new (+ turquoise!) recorder. I tell her that in a year or so, she can pick another instrument to learn at Saturday morning school. I want to play the violin, like you, Mummy! she exclaims, seeming surprised that there should be any doubt about her choice.
Suzy is back from summer in South Africa. We meet at Mainly Music, and then she comes over to have lunch and admire the new house.
On stayhome days, running into my old mate Brian in the playground. Brian and I flatted together when I first moved down here, 15 years ago, and it was through him that I met Jack (in a typical Wellington, two-degrees-of-separation sort of way). Brian and I went our separate ways for the best part of a decade, intermittently catching up on one side of the globe or the other, between acquiring spouses (Brian took our wedding photos; I missed his nuptials by two weeks because I had to matriculate at Cambridge) and children. I couldn't have predicted back in 1995 that we'd be waiting for our daughters at the same primary school, but I enjoy seeing him there not only because he's a top bloke, but because it reminds me of what a lucky choice I made in coming to Wellington.
Ten years of happy marriage to my best friend and favourite person are a very Beautiful Thing indeed. Celebrating this involved many other beautiful things. Here are some edited highlights:
The long-awaited Mystery Destination turned out to be Christchurch, It's the closest I could get to Cambridge, explained Jack when we arrived there on Friday night. We spent a couple of days ambling about enjoying the sun, the gardens, watching punters on the Avon, finding good places to have a beer and generally enjoying being sprog- and schedule-free.
Mostly schedule-free, that is: the real reason for Christchurch emerged the next day. It was so that I could drive a Centurion tank over a car. Mere words alone are inadequate to convey the awesomeness of this experience; photos and footage will be supplied as soon as I get time to suck them off the camera. Suffice it to say: Best Anniversary Present Ever.
The spiny and rather Gigerian Nepenthes hamata at the Christchurch Botanic Gardens, and Jack's great pleasure in seeing a specimen for the first time in the flesh.
Sleeping in. Both of us, at the same time. Two days in a row.
Arrived home to a rapturous reception complete with shrieks of joy, bone-crunching embraces (for her size, the Magster packs a lot of wallop) and cries of Mummy! Daddy! – or in Maggie's case MummyDaddy! (apparently we are a collective.)
That night I rounded off the weekend by taking my mother along to band practice on Sunday night. She seemed to enjoy herself.
A morning to myself, as my parents take Maggie on an expedition. I spend it pottering, practising, cooking, reading, and even manage to sneak in some gardening between showers.
A yellow dahlia's razor-edged, hyperreal symmetry.
Becca very excited that her Gran walks her to and from school, and proudly introduces her to her teacher.
It's our wedding anniversary on Saturday. I'll be somewhere else, celebrating ten happy years with my amazing husband. Love you, dear.
A mix-up with an appointment gives me the chance to take Becca to Te Papa for the afternoon. When we arrive, an artist is putting the finishing touches on an installation on the forecourt. Giant Diamonds! Becca exclaims, although the work's real title – its 'pretentious, arty title' according to Peter, the artist – is Mimetic Brotherhood. But he agrees that Giant Diamonds is a pretty apt name.
As soon as we get into Te Papa we have to go straight to the colossal squid 3D movie because she loves being scared by it.
We run into Aunty C and baby Lucy on the waterfront. Lucy is grumping, but cheers up when she sees Becca, and gives her big gummy grins.
More and more hints about the forthcoming Mystery Weekend. Apparently I may need a cycle helmet, which sounds promising...
Becca's face lights up when we tell her that her grandparents will be waiting for her when she gets home from school.
First photos of Urs and Em's new baby, who is a splendid wee chap.
My Dad watches Becca assemble her Star Wars Lego, and kvells. I know it's sort of tryhard for a goy to use Yiddish, but 'kvell' really is the best word to describe what Dad's doing, bubbling over with pride and love.
The slow movement of Tchaikovsky's first string quartet. Brings back memories of playing it at a wedding in Brisbane, a million years ago. The bridesmaids wore shiny black satin dresses with huge Eighties peplums, and looked like a row of big black beetles lined up at the altar.
Distracted, I wander into a lady on Lambton Quay. She gives me a huge, friendly smile.
Becca insists that in lieu of a bedtime story she will get the spare room ready for her Gran and Grandad, who arrive tomorrow. She spreads her pink fluffy fleece blanket carefully over the futon for them.
In our morning team meeting/Dompost quiz, I get seven out of 10 FTW!
My parents are touchingly overjoyed to be asked to come down and look after the girls so we can have a weekend away.
Jack's greatly enjoying dropping hints about said weekend, whose destination remains a mystery: last time we spoke, he was muttering something about trackless wastes and giant killer penguins - I didn't catch all of it...
The Israeli ambassador passes as we launch into 'Bashana'; his face lights up, and he grabs a mic and joins in.
On the spur of the moment, I take Maggie into town on the train. She is intrigued, especially by the tunnels. Halfway there, a small boy and his mum get on; the two little ones spend the rest of the trip hollering TUNNEL! in unison.
I love to take Maggie to Te Papa, turn her loose in the natural history section and watch her trot excitedly from exhibit to exhibit.
As I wrangle Maggie + stroller off the train, the ticket inspector comes to my aid. Good helping! Maggie tells her.
On the crowded bus home, a young woman insisted I take her seat; thanked her and spent the commute wondering whether I looked pregnant or just old. Got to after-school care. Are you Rebecca's nana? asked a boy in a tree. So, that would be old, then. Still, there are beautiful things:
From the bus I glimpse Maggie, framed by our kitchen window: she's standing on a chair flicking her hair from her face in a combative fashion and looking as though she's about to deliver a diatribe.
The last movement of Prokofiev's Third Piano Concerto: in the midst of all the grandeur, the wry little passage that sounds like it's being picked out with one finger.
On the way up the hill, Becca apprises me of the grave responsibilities involved in being designated a Jump Jam leader.
There may be a fleeting hiatus: the Rebs are playing gigs for the next two nights. Tomorrow's is the official opening of the Anne Frank exhibition at Te Papa, to be attended by various eminent personages (including the PM, we're told).
Hot sun on my shoulderblades as I sit on the lawn during my lunchbreak.
Getting stuck into a stack of editing. I like editing.
When she gets home, Maggie insists on watering the herbs with her little blue watering can, coming into the kitchen every couple of minutes to demand a refill.
Sound of diligent piano practice drifts across from next door; Bach, I think.
Birthday yum char for Nana and Aunty C; Maggie stolidly consumes dumplings, then tries to peel a custard tart. Because all that annoying pastry is getting between her and custard.
The latest roses to start to open are small-budded (but not miniature) deep gold with an orange stripe on the outside petal.
Becca's new school friend lives next door. They wave to each other as we eat dinner outside. Then Becca goes to fetch Maggie, hauling her across the deck by her armpits and holding her up for inspection: This is my little sister. HELLO, LINDA!! bellows Maggie, cheerfully.
Becca brings Jack breakfast in bed. After a little prompting, she goes back and gets some for me some too.
Sunny backyard barbecue at friends' place; kids spend the entire afternoon in the paddling pool, trampoline and zoom slide. Fave sight: Maggie riding down the slide on her sister's back.
Realise this morning that we haven't used the car (or needed to) for two days.
Industrial-strength coffee combines with cold-related spacedoutness to produce an endorphin-like buzz.
A colleague stops at my desk to tell me how much she enjoyed our Greytown gig.
Lambton Quay at lunch a giant shambling dress-ups party for the Sevens. Favourite outfits: the Always Blow On The Pie cops. Safer communities together!
Waking from a nightmare, Maggie finds her way downstairs to us through the dark, still house. She climbs into our bed, and falls asleep in my arms.
Becca's first day at her new primary school. We meet her new teacher, Miss T, whom I instantly warm to. At first Becca is shy but self-possessed, answering questions clearly and politely. When she sees a large stuffed shark on the classroom floor she lies down in its jaws, looking suitably delighted.
At home for the day with Maggie, I decide to leave the computer alone, ignoring email, Twitter and anything else I usually sneak a look at during odd moments. And my day is calmer, steadier, more peaceful for it.
Maggie has a nap! She's been refusing them for the past week and I was starting to wonder whether she was outgrowing them. But she happily toddles off to bed after lunch and sleeps for an hour and a half, giving me time to potter, drink coffee, and read my book in the sun. And ignore the computer, of course.
It's a hot day. The local pool's within walking distance. Becca and I wander down for a swim, followed by a picnic lunch in the park.
I spend a happy hour in the garden, potting up tomatoes and kowhai and scorched-earthing the big round planter at the front. I free potbound herbs and give them a new home, and transplant the parsley so that its neighbour the mint, already showing signs of recovery, will have a chance to thrive.
I make a jug of iced tea, adding some of the aforementioned mint.
A modest win in the office sweepstake for the Wellington Cup: my horse, Manonamission [sic] came in second equal. OK, so I only made nine bucks, but still: winning stuff is cool.
A woman walks past in the corridor juggling three vases of flowers; the scent of Christmas lilies lingers faintly in her wake.
Learning to do whizzy things on a pirate-themed training course (my pirate username: Heather the Heartless) on our Byzantine document management system.
Eating my sandwich on a park bench outside a historic building in faint drizzle feels very English.
