Tiny talismans

These two little onesies are all I have left of all the clothes my children wore, up until today.

On the weekend we completed an enormous and much-overdue sort-and-clean of our front room. Previously, I'd gone through the children's old clothes, those that didn't fit them any more, and sorted out some to give to friends, others to donate to charity, and the stained and tattered ones to throw out. These made a gigantic pile in the front room and, since Emily will shortly arrive to spend the summer holidays with us, I needed to get them out of the way - along with all the other junk stored in that room - so that she could actually see floor space. Mr B took three car-fulls of clothes, blankets, toys and other homewares to charity that day.

Unfortunately, he accidentally also took the items we'd reserved to give to friends. Even more unfortunately, somehow he took the one little bag of tangible memories I'd kept aside for my babies.

Do you know the bag I mean? Most parents have one. Inside it, the soft, star-patterned muslin wraps that Ralph had slept in every day for the first 18 months of his life, that still smelled like him. Milestone outfits: the red, knitted poncho that was the first item we bought for Scout, ever, while I was still pregnant; the cream cardigan and matching bonnet with crimson ribbons, crocheted by my mother, that was Scout's "coming home from hospital" outfit. The pale yellow onesie with the drawing of an elephant that my friend gave Ralph: he always looked extra tiny and precious when he wore it. The blue gingham dress that perfectly matched Scout's eyes, which she wore from the age of three months to as recently as six months ago, translated into a top, because she (and we) loved it so much. The matching Piccolini "hot dog, pretzel, NY" t-shirt and onesie that were gifts to the children from my dear friend and surrogate sister Misha, in New York.

There were more. Not so many, but enough to fill a small bag. Clothes that dressed my memories, so vividly that just holding them or, better still, pressing them to my face and breathing them in, could transport me instantly back to my children's babyhoods. To those tiny, milk-soaked, sleep-deprived, heady days, when time was somehow suspended in a flood of exhaustion and "new things," and every step dragged, as heavy with overwhelm as with abundant love.

But as slow as those minutes were, cupping tiny life in my arms at 3am, sitting propped against my pillows and feeding a hungry infant for the umpteenth time in 24 hours, time was racing cruelly and relentlessly, even then. And now, well, every age is the best age. I can't decide whether I want to stop time, fast-forward time, or roll it backwards. But those clothes were my time-machine, the key to temporarily rolling time backwards, when I needed to.

And I needed to. I need to. They say smell is the most emotionally powerful of the senses. I miss the sight of those clothes. But the smell, oh, the smell. I will never again bury my nose into those muslin wraps.

I'm not ashamed to tell you I sobbed pathetically when I realised they had gone. I made Mr B race back to the charity to see if they were still there. "You do it," he said. "You know what you're looking for." But I couldn't. "Look at me," I wailed pathetically, pointing to my red and swollen eyes. We both knew that as soon as I got there, sorting through hundreds of boxes for the most precious mementos from both of my children's babyhoods, I'd probably fall apart.

Mr B loves me and so he went back to search, but the bag was gone. Its contents sorted, loaded into a semitrailer, and taken off somewhere. To a charity store, maybe? Or to be given to families in need, or to be used as rags. I don't know.

I cried so hard, Mr B grew frustrated. "You haven't lost your babies," he said, exasperated. "They're upstairs sleeping right now!"

And he was completely right, of course. Later when I recovered my equilibrium, it got me thinking about the value of "things" in our life. I felt a bit guilty. After all, if there was a fire in my house, I'd save my children, not the clothes they wore.

But there is a power, a potency, to the things we associate with those we hold dear. That's why, every summer when I was growing up, my mother packed a suitcase with a change of clothes and our photo albums, nothing else, and kept them near the door in case of bush fire. When my friends' apartment burnt down, they were left with nothing: only the clothes (pyjamas!) on their backs. But they didn't lament their computers, jewellery, art, clothes, refrigerators or anything else of practical or monetary value lost from their lives. It was for their wedding photos, and gifts from loved-ones, that my friend Annie cried. People as far back as the neolithic era have been found buried with small, personal items: talismans of emotional and spiritual significance so important that they choose to take with them into the afterlife.

It was by pure chance that the two onesies in this photograph survived our clean-out. I don't even know how. They must have fallen out of the bag when Mr B picked them up and, of all things, they happened to be the first clothes that each of my children wore, ever. Scout's onesie, the yellow one, swam on her. Her tiny arms were comically lost inside the sleeves, and her adorable little feet reached to about where the knees were meant to be. But I hadn't known how big or small she would be at birth, and this was the little suit I'd chosen to take with me into the delivery room, to dress her in it, moments after she was born. Ralph wore the bow-tie onesie, teamed with cute little white pants, and he looked so dapper and unearthly and darling in it. That one was a gift from my parents.

These two are the precious talismans I will carry with me, maybe not into death, but at least through my children's lives as they grow and flourish. The only fabric left to me that their tiny hands touched, that their baby-breath coloured. If I have to leave this house in a hurry, and after saving my family (of course), I will probably grab these as I run.

Fairy snail-mail

Look what arrived in the mail for Scout and Ralph last week! The tiniest envelope you've ever seen, complete with a minuscule stamp (of a snail, because snail-mail, natch), and an adorable wax seal.

Inside was a teeny tiny card, with a letter to the children written inside. The letter was from the Elves and Fairies, who confessed that they had secretly been playing in the children's garden every night, and particularly enjoyed the new cubby house. They hoped that this was ok, and promised to put all the toys back exactly where they had found them so nothing would get lost.

The Elves and Fairies also promised that if the children left them a letter in their toy postbox, they would write back. And would Ralph and Scout like the Elves and Fairies to send them a present? They would be happy to do that, as long as the children understood that the present would have to be very, very small (or else it would be too heavy to post).

This was an adorable little letter, with attention paid even to the tiniest detail. It came in a little glassine envelope (with its own wax seal) alongside a magnifying glass for reading the letter. I ordered it from Leafcutter Designs, and the whole thing cost $US9.75 plus postage, which I think was quite the bargain.

Wooden letterbox with a WiFi-connected printer inside

Hold onto your hats because I think I have found the best child's toy ever invented. It's fun, it's educational, it builds relationships, it uses technology to create real connections, and it's super cute!

Meet Turtle Mail, a wooden letterbox that can deliver real-time printed messages to your children. It contains an embedded thermal printer and is WiFi connected, so family and friends can send the children they love special messages from their mobiles or computers.

For us, this would be amazing! Mr B works very long hours, and is most often at work before our children wake up, and home long after they are in bed. Both sets of grandparents live a long way away, and the kids adore them but rarely get to see them. To enable parents and grandparents to surprise the children by sending little messages to their own "postbox" at any time during the day would be incredibly special, not to mention a lot of fun for the kids.

For security, parents have complete control over who will be allowed to send content to their children. They can send both text and images, and there are other apps that extend the play experience, like interactive Turtle Mail activities and characters, and a super-cute function with which you can "register" your child's favourite toy, and the toy can then send them messages.

Turtle Mail is part of a crowd-funding campaign that's about half way through, and half way towards its financial target. In case you don't know, crowd funding is when you pledge to make a donation to help a great idea achieve fruition - in this case the manufacture and distribution of Turtle Mail - but you only actually pay the money if the full target is reached within the stated timeframe. In return for your pledge, you also get a number of rewards.

Mr B and I made a pledge as soon as we saw this campaign, because we could easily see how incredible this toy would be for our family. So I really, REALLY hope the campaign reaches its target, so we can get our hands on our own Turtle Mail! If you want to take a look and maybe help support this exciting new, interactive toy, all the details are on their Kickstarter page (but be quick because there are only a couple of weeks left).