September 13, 2010

THE APOLOGY AND THE PLUG

Please forgive the lateness of this blog, and accept my apology along with this audacious plug.

The apology and the plug are in fact closely related. You see, I have entered the overpopulated world of the entrepreneurial stay-at-home mum, and it has consumed me.

I considered glitzing over the cheekiness of this pathetic pitch, and masking this marketing in the body of a creative and distracting collection of words - but it all seemed too obvious.

So here it is, laid out stark and exposed: my brand, Monkey & Mum.

In the last year my little family - a beautiful partner, a fluffy pooch and two self-assertive felines - were blessed with another addition... little Harry (at least this presumptuous plug is not totally unrelated to the title of this blog page!).

Whilst I embraced all the changes that the sweet smelling bundle of rolls brought into my life, there was one that I struggled with: the inability to wear my much loved jewellery!

Attempts to do so resulted in bead indentations in my chest from an all too snugly bubba, and a floor full of stray beads that had suffered the merciless tug of ten surprisingly strong podgy baby fingers.

Combine this with an inability to keep my inquisitive baby focused during his breast feeds and you have the story behind how and why I created Monkey & Mum.

Monkey & Mum is a collection of interesting and unique pieces which are soft, washable, and made from entirely natural products... they are designed for mums, but can be worn by anyone!

Please check out my necklaces and bracelets at: www.monkeyandmum.etsy.com

I promise I will never use Harry's page for such a shameless promotion again.

August 2, 2010
LOVE YOU MUM. I HOPE YOU'RE SICK AGAIN TOMORROW.Woke up and mummy was sick.

I'm still not sure exactly what 'sick' means. I tried to ask mummy when she was preparing my breakfast but she didn't say much, and when she did she sounded more like dad.

She didn't do her normal singing today either, but instead did these nose songs that reminded me of splash time in the bath. She sounded more out of tune than usual too.

At lunchtime mummy started muttering something about no baby fruit. The next thing I know we were at that place with all the colours and bright lights.

I don't know how mummy was still not smiling.

We went to a place that had more baby food than I had ever seen before. I think mummy got excited because she started nose singing again – but this time really loudly. Other mums thought she was so good that they stopped to watch her perform.

But this still didn't make mummy smile.

We went home and I got to eat the yummy food that mummy called 'devil food'. She said fruit isn't supposed to come from a jar, but I thought it tasted better than any of the stuff she has ever made for me. I decided it was not a good time to tell her this though.

I had an afternoon nap – a long one today because mummy asked me to – and when I woke I noticed the house looked different than usual. More fun. Like an extra large jungle gym with little obstacles all over the place.

When daddy came home mummy said 'sorry it's so messy'. I don't know what that word 'messy' means, but I think it must be the adult word for fun.

I'm not sure why mummy apologised, because I had a great afternoon trying to crawl over the fun piles on the floor. I am so close to crawling properly, and I really want to crawl before my buddy Alex does. There's this girl called Olivia who we're both trying to impress, but I'm pretty sure she likes me more anyway.

I'm lying in bed now ready for my big sleep, and I'm pretty chuffed with the day I've had.

I got to watch heaps of TV, go to the bright colourful place and eat yummy devil food, crawl through a giant jungle gym of fun piles, and listen to a new kind of nose song from my mummy.

I was sad for a while because mummy was not smiling much, but tonight when she put me into bed I gave her a big grinner and she gave me a chapped red smile back.

I love you mum. I hope you're sick again tomorrow.

July 27, 2010
BIRTHDAY CHEERS TO BABIES OVER BOURBON

Give me Harry over a bottle of bourbon any day.

As my birthday ticked nearer and plans for the day were laid, I couldn't help smile to myself as I began to plan my perfect birthday.

How perfection for me has changed over the years.

What once would have been a night drinking to oblivion and wondering post birthday why my right knee hurt so much and how I ended up with a stamp on my hand from a nightclub I'd never heard of, has turned into a pathetic soppy kind of happiness.

The kind of happiness that would make a passer by do a little vomit in their mouth.

The kind of happiness that I once believed was fictional - created by writers to make an overwhelming portion of the population feel inadequate and discontent with their lives.

The kind of happiness that when described, is greeted with a roll of the eyes, a raised eyebrow and an unwillingness to believe that anyone could derive that much satisfaction from a movie, a home cooked meal, and a baby.

Having ascertained the face you are most likely to exhibit upon reading this, perhaps take a moment now to breath, relax, and loosen those tightly constricted facial muscles.

It is really not that hard to believe.

Never have presents been so fun to open, than with the clumsy help of 10 podgy little baby boy fingers.

Never have I felt like I have accomplished more in a year, than now with the little life I created looking up at me from the floor.

Never has a birthday night been so enjoyable, than with my two boys to cuddle, a glass of wine to sip, a movie I couldn't stay awake for...

...and let's not forget a baby that sleeps through the night.

Cheers to another year.

July 18, 2010
THE LIGHT OF MY LIFE, NOW SLEEPS THROUGH THE NIGHT

To all those who judged me, please enjoy swallowing the bitter bile of your discontent.

Seven days ago I began controlled crying, and today baby, mum, and dad are well slept and sporting smiles that could make the sternest opposer doubt their conviction, if only for a second.

I have endured the darkness of those first few nights and come out at the glorious seven o'clock sun on the other side (yes, he now sleeps until seven!).

I won't lie, it was far from easy. I have tried it before and fallen short of the discipline needed to succeed, but like so many people had told me, it really is only a few nights in hell for a lifetime in heaven (here's hoping).

Harry knows the routine now - what times he has solids, a breastfeed and a nap. He is content knowing what comes next, and sleep is no longer a losing battle. The icing on the cake is he is very rarely tired now, which means our time together is spent giggling and playing rather than pacing hallways patting his bottom and listening to the pained cords of his cries.

To all those who remain sceptics, I understand. Up until seven days ago I too toyed with the idea that controlled crying was a brutally cruel concept created by sadistic baby haters.

Let me assure you, it's not.

Harry is happier now than he ever was, and has 12 uninterrupted hours of sleep a night! Dan and I have left the night walkers to there broken sleep and grumpy moods and are once again enjoying the blissful feeling that comes from snuggling into your warm bed and knowing you will not rise again until after the sun.

I know you won't believe me until you try, and supposing that you never do, please at least try to be kinder to the mother's that do.

At the end of the night we are all just trying to do the best for our bubs, it's just that for some of us those nights run a little smoother.

To all those tired mum's reading this and hating me, please know I understand how you feel. But after seven months of broken sleep and endless rocking, I think I've earned the right to gloat just a little.

Ok, I'm done now.

July 11, 2010
MY WAR ON SLEEP CONTINUES. MUM 1. HARRY 1.
Dear Harry, forgive me.

Imagine a plaster being ripped from an open wound. This is how much it hurt, and no, I'm not referring to labour.

Controlled crying. It saddens me to say, but last night we tried it. Seems an ironic name considering I was anything but controlled.

An hour and a half. Like a spur digging into my chest and twisting, each heart breaking cry made me whimper a little more. For an hour and a half my muscles scrunched up tighter and my thick choking breath grew heavy in my chest.

Poor Harry, I can only imagine what your little muscles must have felt like.

Every 10 minutes I ran to your room to comfort your cries and wipe the tears from your flushed cheeks, only to have to pull myself away a minute later. I lay face buried in the cushions as I willed the minutes to pass quickly so I could hold you once again.

For your own good I told myself. I was doing this for your own good.

Those cries did not say “mummy where are you?”, no they said “I want to sleep but I can't, mummy why can't I sleep?”.

Too many sleepless nights, and a sad little boy who fought shut eye to the tip of exhaustion and back is what led me to consider more drastic actions.

Actions for your own good my little Harry. I promise it was all for your own good.

To be able to shut your eyes with a smile on your face and an excited anticipation for the dreams that will follow, this is what I wanted to give you.

I used to curse the concept of control crying like so many of you out there will be cursing me now.

I endured it last night, and doubted my ability to ever do it again.

To my pleasant surprise as I carried my little boy to bed tonight, I noticed a smile on his face. He fell asleep in his cot without uttering a single cry.

Three hours later the house still sits in a strange silence, and I struggle to believe that my war with sleep is over. It could not have been that easy.

I hope that it was.

Until morning, goodnight and hopefully...sleep tight.

July 1, 2010
MY BOY THE BUBBLE-BUTT

I'm the proud mum of a bubble-butt son.

We have dared to ditch the disposable diaper, and join the growing crowd of elite cloth nappy users.

I know, shock horror!

A few decades ago a disposable diaper was a guilty privilege rarely indulged in by the average mother – or so my mum tells me.

The popularity of the disposable grew until the words 'cloth nappy' were so foreign that when muttered in a circle of mums, they would be greeted with nothing but blank expressions and looks of confusion.

It appears the winds have changed once again, and are now being caught more often by the cushion comfort of the cloth nappy.

Today cloth is the new cool crowd (this is not why I switched...I swear), and the colours, shapes and styles are mind boggling! Yet so very exciting.

To all you childless folk out there with your mouths open in disgust, you can shut them now. I know what you are thinking! No amount of pretty patterns and trendy studs could make the idea of washing poo off a soiled diaper any less cringe worthy.

To that I can say only one thing. You have obviously never had to buy disposable diapers.

Disposable nappies are so expensive that when I used to change Harry's nappy, I actually took my time in the hope that he'd do a wee on me! This way he'd soil me instead of a nappy, and save me a whopping 48 cents.

Hey it adds up, trust me.

Granted I would then smell like wee, but these are the sacrifices we unemployed mums have to make! That was however, until I found the glorious cloth nappy.

Ok, so I may need to use cloth nappies for a little more than a few weeks before publicly shouting my excitement from this blog page. But if nothing else, damn his butt looks cute in those nappies!

I have a feeling this cloth nappy thing will be a piece of piss! Sorry, I couldn't help myself.

June 23, 2010
RIPPED PYJAMA PANTS AND A CUP OF TEA
What a week; Harry has barely slept a peep, and consequently neither have I.

There is a feeling that comes from having an inconsolable screaming baby in the middle of the night; you begin to feel a little loopy. It feels as though the whole world is sleeping, and that sleep is a sweet drug you cannot afford.

Like a drug addict you begin to think crazy thoughts; your mind wanders to the lengths you'd venture to get your fix.

When you do go to bed you are expecting to be woken at any minute. The concept of falling asleep would be laughable if only you weren't so damn tired.

Your eyelids touch at the same moment baby whimpers creep into your consciousness. Like a beam of sunlight through the bedroom curtain, they mark the end of any dreams you'd hoped to have that night.

An unwashed quilt cover and three week old sheets never felt so soft and inviting against your cheek, Dan's snoring so soothing, nor the bed so warm.

You peel yourself away and prepare for a night of walking the dark cool lounge room floor in your ripped pink star pyjama pants and fluffy bunny slippers.

The next day when you're feeling broken and all used up, your savours appear.

Cake is dished out and tea is poured, a crying Harry is passed into well slept arms whilst yours settle down for a rest.

Once again you are reminded of how wrong you were about mother's groups, and you can't help but wonder how you ever survived before.

Thank you mummies!

June 16, 2010
LET MY SON SHINE THROUGH

My family and some of my closest friends don't know this yet, for that I am sorry.

Only now that I have begun to admit it to myself do I feel strong enough to admit it to others.

That's not to say that I feel strong. No, this is very hard.

I had depression.

What a yucky stigma there is attached to that word. Depression. A stigma that makes you feel a little less than those around you.

Depression is a heavy blanket to burden, and from beneath it the world looks a little hazy. I don't think it is a blanket I could have lifted on my own, and for that I wish to thank Dan with all my heart.

He was the hand that picked up the corner and allowed a little sunlight in. He gave me the taste of life I had forgotten, and the hand I needed to rise from my slump in the corner.

That blanket looks very different from the outside.

I used to think postnatal depression meant you hated your baby, you were suicidal or crazy.

It very rarely means this.

I think we are so quick to make assumptions on that blanket and those beneath it. For me, it was knowing that others made these assumptions that made coming out from under my blanket that much harder.

I felt like I was living someone else's life. I was playing mum and hoping my act was convincing. I could tell no one. When I finally began to admit this to myself I felt lighter.

For every person I told a little weight lifted, and my blanket became easier to bare.

Thank you to everyone who helped a little more light shine in, and for letting me see that in so many cases you were carrying a blanket of your own.

To my beautiful Harry, please know I never stopped loving you. You have and always will be the sunshine that sparkles through my day, I just needed a little help to make a sparkle that would match yours.

And I did.

June 10, 2010
THE FUN POLICE WITH BREASTS
I am the Fun Police and all because I have boobs!

Like many a small chested girl, I relished in the fact that as my belly grew so would my bust, but I gave little thought to the responsibility that would come with my new cleavage.

See it seems that boobs are the only thing that comfort my crying baby. My boobs are the tools used to quieten his cries, be it day or night, in a packed restaurant or a supermarket aisle.

Like a spanner or a hammer my boobs are just tools, and given Dan's lack of mammary glands, the onus on comforting Harry often falls on my sore, forever exposed boobs.

The responsibility however, of NEVER waking Harry, has fallen like a loud chiming church bell in Dan's ears... that I have made sure of.

A flush of the toilet is sometimes all it takes to spin a peacefully sleeping house into a baby screaming fiasco, and send a sleepy mother to the nursery with her tools out and ready to go.

So with this in mind, if in his sleepy stupor Dan accidentally flushes the toilet, I am up like a bolt of lightening, whisper cursing in the poor man's ear. Peeking out at me from behind sleep crusted eyes, and with the fogginess of dreams still floating in his mind, one might forgive his bemused scared expression....not me though.

Nope, I am the Fun Police.

The same reaction, but on a louder scale and with a more clear minded Dan, can be seen during our car trips. A familiar cord is all it takes for Dan to turn the volume nob up and brace his vocals for a tune he loves. I am quick to chastise him for nearly stirring a sleeping Harry.

Yep, I am definitely the Fun Police.

It seems ironic to think that my baby, who's incapable of self soothing – a product of my failed parenting I'm sure – seeks comfort in the exact thing that helped lead to his creation.

Given the responsibility attached to my newly found chest, I am no longer so sure about my desire to have big boobs.

They may have been small before, but at least when I got them out in a car park they weren't greeted with the same nonchalance usually reserved for a carton of milk.

I'm sure as Dan eagerly awaited my growing bust line, he never anticipated the enormous change that would follow.

They may have been small before, but at least I was fun and they didn't leak when he touched them.

Sorry Dan. Sorry.

June 2, 2010
THE WAR ON SLEEP. MUM 0. HARRY 1.

Don't. Move. Too. Quickly. He is sleeping.

As I write this he sleeps in my arms. So the war on sleep continues.

It's funny the reasons we mums create to explain why our babies won't sleep - “Oh he's just over tired, over stimulated, has colic, is teething, he's hungry, he's too full...” – they are all just band aid conditions used to conveniently cover the fact that we have no god damn clue!

But we super mums can't admit to that. Surely not.

Instead we talk about how teething can last for months before there is even any sign of a tooth, we say this can happen anywhere between four and 10 months of age. We like to give ourselves a nice big window.

We talk about colic which is not even understood by doctors, and is best described as a sort of reflux, upset tummy, windy type condition. We like to keep it vague and open to interpretation.

We have created enough band aid conditions so that no mum need ever again admit to having a difficult baby.

Well I am going to rip off the band aids I have been layering over my sleep deprived child in a bid to mask my unattractive parenting failures. If I do it quickly maybe the social judgement might not hurt so much.

My baby hates to sleep.

It is a constant war. If I am to win a battle, it is only because I've spent half an hour pacing the house, bopping him up and down, and humming in his ear.

I guess you could say that I never really win.

Damn those Huggies ads where a mother looks lovingly at a sleeping child whilst wind softly blows her styled hair.

Firstly, new mums don't have styled hair. Secondly, babies don't sleep if there is a soft wind.

I ran into a dad the other day whose two month old breastfed baby already sleeps 10 straight hours a night. In all seriousness I wanted to head butt him.

Are these advertisements and parents just cruel torturous tools sent to rub salt into our poorly covered wounds?

As a friend kindly pointed out, perhaps the mother of that two month old breastfed baby might not have agreed with dad's 10 hours consecutive sleep claim – but that is another issue entirely.

I may be fighting a losing battle, but never has defeat smelt so sweet, and never has snoring in my ear sounded so delightful.

Goodnight for now.

May 27, 2010
A TEETHING BABY, AN ESCAPEE CAT, AND A MISCHIEVOUS DOG

While Dan is away, Harry will play...up!

… and so will the cat and the dog.

This week any nostalgic thought I was clinging to about being the baby of my family has been thrown like a dead weight off the roof. My responsibility as a parent now lies splattered on the front porch, unavoidable to anyone who comes to my house and has to step over the mess as they enter the front door, and my god is there mess...and noise!

Harry is teething, the dog is escaping, and the cat is trying to. I tell myself 'I can do this'.

When did I grow up?

I feel like one minute I am begging to go to Kim Harrison's high school party, the next I am chasing my cat through neighbouring yards at night wearing little more than a nightgown and oversized male slippers.

My cat has just discovered if she twists this way and throws her body that way she can clumsily mush her body through the verandah slats, making me look like a crazy woman as I pace the elderly neighbour's yard at night trying to catch her without setting off the sensor lights and sending the poor woman into cardiac arrest. Why couldn't she have figured this out before Dan went away?

I repeat my affirmation; 'I can do this'.

I try to hang the washing out this morning and the dog escapes. I change out of my nightgown this time, load a screaming grumpy Harry into the car and prepare to go looking for him. As I turn from my unimpressed baby, who should be lying panting at my feet? The dog.

'I can do this'.

Harry has developed a cry that sounds like an old man who has smoked most his life, and he has a face to go with it (a sad face that is, not an old man's face, that would just be weird). He has begun to jut out a trembling bottom lip and let a few tears trickle down his fat baby cheeks. It is his prelude to the agonising baby screams. It gets me every time.

Waking 2 to 3 times a night to his pained cries, and with no-one else here, I can't help but think I. AM. IT. It's a pretty sobering thought.

Then in the middle of all this chaos the cat curls up on my chest and purrs. The dog greets me with a big old sloppy kiss from beside the bed. Harry with his little red face and pouting lip looks up at me, and with baby tears still rolling over his flushed cheeks he pauses for a second, and gives me an ear to ear smile.

I realise then that a second is all it takes. A second is all it takes to know I can do this!

At least for 2 more nights...

May 25, 2010
PREGNANT WOMEN ARE SO NAIVE
I was wrong. There I said it.

I thought I knew it all; how to breastfeed, how to put a baby into a routine, how to be a mum . Then I gave birth.

Turns out most pregnant women are cocky and confident when it comes to the question of how to best raise a child, that is until they become mums.

My advice to pregnant women? Forget antenatal classes and baby books, go to a mum's group.

All the breathing techniques and baby routines in the world will never measure up against the brutally honest tongue of a new mother. If you want the truth about what to expect post pregnancy, a tired, sexually deprived new mum who hasn't had a chance to shave her legs let alone have an uninterrupted shower in weeks will be sure to deliver. She will slap the truth down like a cold fish in a fine restaurant; forget etiquette, if she has something to say she will damn well say it.

I think schools should abolish sexual education and instead make it mandatory for students to attend a mum's group. I guarantee that after hearing about botched caesarian, stretch marks, and baby faeces (in detail) there would be a reduction in the amount of parents who had to hear their daughters mutter the words “Woopsy, I'm pregnant”.

Perhaps if I had not been such a cocky and confident pregnant woman myself, I would not have been so adamant about certain things, like thinking mum's groups were lame.

Once again I was wrong.

I have now had to eat those words. I have had to force their pointy hypocritical corners between my tight lips, down my presumptuous throat and into the guilty depths of my unforgiving stomach. I have had to admit that mum's groups were in fact my savour.

They opened doors for me into a wonderful world full of other irate, over protective mothers who helped to validate my own sense of sanity, however false that may be.

They understand what it's like to have a child that won't stop screaming, to be thrown up on while trying to dine in a cafe like a civilised person, and the humiliation of discovering 20 minutes into a supermarket trip that your top is undone and your breast exposed.

Mum's groups have led me to the conclusion that in the same way pregnant women don't really want to know what lies around that birthing suite corner, nor do new mums really want advice on how to best tackle their parenthood issues. New mums just want to share in the company of other sympathetic mums who struggle at parenthood just as hard as they do.

Preferably, more so.

May 20, 2010
GETTING TO KNOW MY SON WASN'T EASY
When Harry was born he was a stranger to me. Nobody told me that could happen. That this little man who'd gone everywhere with me the past eight months could be so unfamiliar.

When Harry came there was no pushing, instead there was panic.

He was not placed onto my chest, instead his was compressed as they tried to get his little heart beating again.

When his heart did start his cot was not placed beside my bed for me to watch over him, instead he lay alone in a bright sterile room with only midwives to watch on.

We didn't leave the hospital that week with our new son, instead we went home alone.

That night and for many more after, our two kilo Harry lay in a room that did not know night from day, whilst we lay in our bed trying not to think of the empty nursery on the other side of the wall.

When he finally came home it wasn't much easier. I tried to love breastfeeding, but it felt like a job that robbed me of sleep and made my nipples hurt. People would stare at me feeding him, and with soft far away voices and glazed over eyes they would reminisce about their breastfeeding days.

I thought there was something wrong with me. I felt so alone.

It was never about not loving my son; I loved him from the moment I saw those double lines on that supermarket pregnancy test. It was about getting to know him, and getting to know myself as a mum.

Now when I look at Harry, if I am very quite I can almost hear my heart sigh. When he nuzzles in to my neck and I smell the milk that has pooled in his baby rolls, my legs feel as awkward as a child's beneath me. When he turns towards the sound of my voice and smiles because he recognises his mum, my blood runs a little faster through my veins.

I know I have no right to feel disappointed about a birth that gave me a healthy little boy, and a hospital that cared for him in the beginning in a way that I was not equipped to, but I do.

These things are not supposed to be said, which I presume is why no-one ever said them to me.

But I wish they had.

May 16, 2010
INTRODUCING MY BOY

Daniel was preparing to jump into a tank full of sharks. Our baby was due in six weeks. I still wonder if these two events were mere coincidence.

It began like so many labour stories do, but with one difference. I was convinced the excruciating contractions which sent spasms up my back and around my pelvis, had me breathless and clambering for a sturdy shoulder to lean on, were nothing but a figment of my imagination.

That and we were at Underwater World.

It took 24 hours of this – the contractions that is, not Underwater World – for me to admit it might be the real deal.

Why did it take an entire day to come to this conclusion? Let me explain.

As a child I was a hypochondriac.

I once wanted crutches so badly that I tried to cut my ankle open with a small blunt blade that came in my 54 piece children's art kit. My brother caught me.

When I had a sore leg (which may have been more often than not), I would pull out my dad's squash rackets and use them as crutches. I would hop in full seriousness down our hallway past some very amused older siblings and slightly concerned parents who still to this day feel the need to remind me (and every boyfriend I have ever had) about my embarrassing obsession with squash rackets.

My mum once washed my hair with lice shampoo, disregarding my cries of pain because they were an all too common sound in our house. The next day I woke with no skin on the back of my neck. Mum hates when I tell that story, but not as much as I hate it when she tells the squash racket one.

Needless to say, I have been brought up to think that I sometimes (only sometimes) over exaggerate my condition.

So 24 hours later I finally made the hospital call, and two days, three nights, countless positions, several cocktails of drugs, an emergency caesarian, a hysterical family, and two proud parents later, little Harry Freund was welcomed into my world.

It wasn't pretty and it wasn't planned, but the delivery of our baby boy marked the beginning of something special.

The next month was marred with a monotone lactation consultant, a scar that resembled a crooked smile, and a dog with a dislocated hip, but I might leave all that for another night.

May 15, 2010
THE MAKING OF HARRY FREUND
To Harry. My little man. My son.

My son.

Your mother.

That word, mother, still evokes an emotion within me that I find exciting.

It's as if I am in a room full of people and I am trying to convince them all I am a doctor or an acclaimed author, except I have no idea how either of those people would act. I have had no training for this role, and feel it is only a matter of time before the curtains fall at my feet exposing me and the charade I so unconvincingly uphold.

Let's pull that curtain down now and paint the picture of who I really am.

I am a 25 year old girl who fell in love with a 27 year old boy. I have no idea how to be a mum, but I know exactly how to love, and my gosh do I love you and your daddy.

I always wanted to be a young mum, to not have forgotten how to dance, sing and play with my babies. If you have laughter and love, surely the rest will come naturally.

I hope I am right. I know they say not to put all your eggs in the one basket, but heck, I'm not that partial to eggs anyway.

So how do I begin the story of Harry? As cliché and predictable as it may be, I guess the best place to start would be at the beginning.

The Normanby. Respectable heritage listed pub by day, overcrowded sweaty meat market by night (hey, if I am going to tell this story, I am going to be honest). To be fair, it is only Sunday nights that respectability jumps down a notch or two, and it just so happens that this story begins at the Normanby on a Sunday night.

It was January 2009, I was single and having the time of my life. The past month had been a blur of parties, music festivals, friends, and lets be honest, a little too much alcohol (and little Harry, you are not to use these words against me as a teenager trying to justify the bourbon in the bottom of your wardrobe – ha! To think of you as a teenager blows my mind). This night in particular I was eager for a dance, and my friend Sophie begrudgingly indulged me my wish.

It would be a good time now to make it clear that I was not there to pick-up, get laid, score, or whatever other phrase your generation may come to use for sex... I can only imagine!

I was there to have fun.

Whilst standing under a beautiful old tree, whose huge twisting trunk fought up through the tiled bricks and loomed over the intoxicated youths that stood smoking at it's base, I noticed a young man who looked over at me from his seat and smiled.

That smile changed everything. That smile was the beginning of Harry Freund.

The young man came over and said “Hi” and conversation could not have flowed smoother had it been scripted.

The second I met Dan I knew I liked him. I asked him to come dancing with me at the Down Under Bar, an equally seedy, but much more lively backpackers bar in the city. No more than 10 minutes after meeting, I hopped into a taxi with a relative stranger and headed for the wild and gritty underbelly of Brisbane.

We entered the bar to find a disappointingly mediocre atmosphere. The usual scene of scantily clad travellers dancing on tables, cheeky boys too busy ogling fellow backpackers to notice their cheap beers spilling on the sticky lino underfoot and ridiculous bar comps like throw the hoop over the bulls horns, had given way to a desolate dance floor and too many self conscious tourists. It seemed the tourists needed some locals to show them how it was done, and we were happy to comply.

We looked at each other and knew what we had to do. We agreed to meet on the dance floor in 10 minutes.

Frantically we rushed around the dimly lit bar, encouraging anyone we could to join us. True to our word, we reconvened on the dance floor 10 minutes later, this time accompanied by an entourage of tourists who seemed befuddled as to how they had ended up thrashing their hips and screaming along to the trashy tunes.

Proud that we had accomplished our endeavour to get the better part of Europe jiving to the beat of Jessica Simpson, we came together to share our first dance and our first kiss.

It was a terribly romantic scene.

Your dad took the next day off work (once again, this is not to be used to condone any love induced sick days taken by a teenage Harry Freund) and we went to the beach.

I felt I had known him forever.

The similarities were uncanny. We both had a sister and a brother, had had a dog called Billy, had long term exes who we'd broken up with the year before and who had both moved to London, we'd both worked in video shops, and most importantly we both loved to laugh.

We were inseparable from this day forward.

Within a week we'd met the parents.

By one month we were holidaying in Fiji.

Two months we were sharing a mortgage.

Three months we were pregnant.

10 months we were engaged.

One year later we were parents... and so the story of Harry Freund begins.

Love
T