Tuesday 20 December 2011

Farewell for 2011


The festive season is upon us. Christmas is a few days away and just around the corner from that, a new year beckons. Like many lucky Australians I'll spend the last days of 2011 and the first of 2012 at the beach - with a two-night stopover in the Southern Highlands for a wedding in between. Wedding jaunt aside, I'll be at a coastal town in northern New South Wales where I've had the great fortune to have spent virtually every Christmas holiday of my life with a clan of extended family and friends, spanning several generations, who do the same. It is a time and place I treasure every year.

Among the unforgettable friendships I've forged in Yamba is one that sparked seven years ago with a lovely man who I went on to marry. As I say, it's a lucky place. And the luck continues as the clan expands and we can now watch a new generation of beach babies making it their own. Having spent many years being among the resident babysitters, it's lovely and mind-boggling, to be engaging babysitters to mind babies that belong to us. Mind. Boggling. At least we know what to expect.

2011 has been a big year. Oppressive regimes have been toppled in Tunisia, Egypt and Libya, inspiring citizens of Syria, Yemen, Jordon and Algeria to fight the same cause in their own countries. Death prevailed for dictators Osama bin Laden, Muammar Gaddafi and Kim Jong Il. Great minds in Steve Jobs and Christopher Hitchens were lost. There was a beautiful royal wedding and my other favourite royal gave birth to twins.

On a personal note I gained a darling new niece, acquired a sister-in law, got a wave from the Duchess of Cambridge and had two close friends meet their beautiful sons. Another BFF discovered she is carrying not one, but two, precious peas. My own baby started walking, talking, turned one, lost her toys, learned to sing and finally sprouted a tooth. In that order.

I started a blog, started back at work and started saying the F word. I blogged in Barcelona, survived the motorways in France, roamed Rome and bid Oxford farewell. I avoided packing up our little home for as long as I could, survived the long haul flight and battled bureaucracy to re-establish life on this side of the world.

But, the beauty of a blog is you might already know that. And if you don't, but you want to, simply click through the pretty pink links.

I'm taking a break from technology and will sign off from Not Another Blogging Mother until I return to Sydney in January. Thank you so much for reading, commenting on and encouraging this little project. I wish you a fabulous festive season, the happiest of new years and a relaxing break. Who knows what 2012 will bring.

Georgie

Friday 16 December 2011

High fives, a water bottle and buckets of gratitude


Today was Miss I's last day for the year at her Sydney nursery* and because it was only a half day we're already home and she is sleeping soundly while I type. Earlier in the week we took in little Christmas presents for each of her teachers and as I wrapped them and wrote on their cards I was struck by the fact my homemade rocky road** seemed rather inadequate. Yummy, yes. Indicative of my gratitude, no. How could it – or any other object – reflect my appreciation for the lovely, kind, patient, caring and fun women who entertain and look after our darling girl?

My gratitude swelled once again today as we bid them farewell for the break. "You must be looking forward to having some time off," I said to several. More than one replied "Yes but I'll miss the children so much." That may read like a flippant platitude but having watched them with Miss I and all her teeny peers for five months now, I know it's completely sincere. And it is touching beyond belief.

I can't imagine many jobs that would be as physically exhausting, mentally trying and emotionally draining as looking after a roomful of small children. Sometimes being there for ten minutes makes my head spin. Yet I've never got the impression they'd rather be anywhere else. I get the impression every time that we arrive that they're delighted to see Miss I. And at the end of the day when they give her high fives, kiss her little hands and say 'bye bye' as many times as she likes (generally five times to each) they seem sad to see her go.

Recently I replaced one of Miss I's water bottles, a minor detail, yet two of her teachers immediately noticed and exclaimed with delight because they know it's one of her favourite things. She beamed back at them and my heart melted.

I'd be lying if I said there haven't been moments where I've wondered if having Miss I in daycare in the city four days a week is the best thing for her. Usually when we're stuck in traffic on the bus at 5.45pm I conclude that it's not. But I'd also be lying if I said I ever spend my work days worrying about her. I genuinely don't. I see the smiles she gives them, I see the way they delight in her and I'm confident the arrangement is so much better than fine.

I blogged recently that being able to combine work with motherhood is a dream for me. A big part of that dream is possible because of six lovely teachers. And for that, I am so much more thankful to them than any quantity of rocky road could possibly convey. But it's a start.

What, or whom, are you thankful for at the moment?

*I say Sydney nursery because next week she is having an excursion with Mr G and will attend a nursery in Wagga for four days.

**Making rocky road wasn't entirely selfless. I thoroughly enjoyed taste-testing throughout production and may have kept a few bits for myself.

Sunday 11 December 2011

A feeding rut


In the space of six months my world has changed in big and little ways. Relocating back to Sydney and starting work have been among the bigger changes whilst forgoing my beloved café in Oxford, for example, is one of the more minor adjustments. Though it's something I still miss terribly. Not because I can't track down a decent coffee here – quality caffeine abounds - but because there is no exact substitute for the friends and free time with which I frequented it. Once my domain, free time with friends is now a rarity.

But I've digressed, sorry! Somewhere in the middle of all that's changed, something has transpired that I wasn't expecting. I've developed a reluctance to cook. My love for food hasn't dwindled but my love for preparing it has vanished. This is unusual because although I'm no cordon bleur chef and wouldn't survive an audition on MasterChef Kids, cooking is one of my favourite pastimes. And this was especially true while we lived in England. Until I started blogging, cooking was as close to a hobby as I had in Oxford. Unless drinking coffee and discussing the Royal Wedding counts?

I loved picking out different meals, planning the week's menu, doing the shop and then preparing each of the dishes. I loved having friends over to try new dishes on. It never felt like a chore because I genuinely liked doing it. At this point you might be thinking I had too much time on my hands. Which is true. But as anyone with lots of free time will tell you, any diversion which provides enjoyment, entertainment AND nourishment, is the holy grail. So I indulged myself and counted cooking as my creative outlet. Mr G would have to wrangle with me to get the kitchen for even one night a week*.

A few beloved recipe books were on constant rotation on my bedside table for a nightly flip through. I had a subscription to Delicious. magazine which I treasured and devoured every month. I bookmarked foodie blogs which I visited often, as much for mid-week meal inspiration as entertaining. I remember thinking cooking was such a good thing to enjoy. Given the frequency at which mealtimes pop around I figured deriving more pleasure than punish from the task was positive. And clichéd as it is, feeding friends and family IS fulfilling and lovely. So I happily fed my family and friends and revelled in doing it.

Now? I don't even know who that crazy woman is. She's nowhere to be found. I'd rather eat the same dish six nights a week than venture anywhere near my pile of well-worn-and-now-forgotten cookbooks and experiment with a new recipe. Let alone compile a shopping list which requires additional research. Which is why I eat spaghetti bolognese as regularly as some people eat weetbix, because I know the ingredients off by heart**. As for feeding friends, I'm embarrassed to say that ordering takeaway has become de rigueur when we, um, 'entertain' friends.

I expected to lose interest in all things culinary when I had Miss I but, give or take the foggy first few weeks, I didn't. Cooking remained a passion. I dearly hope it returns soon. Because I have to admit spag bol is beginning to grate.

*It's only fair that I add that I now wrangle Mr G into the kitchen every weekend to prepare as many meals for the week as he possibly can in a few hours. 

**The other reason is spaghetti bolognese is freezes beautifully. Freezing meals requires less cooking and less washing up.

 

Sunday 4 December 2011

A capsule of clothes


You know those glamorous spreads in glossy magazines that espouse the virtues of a capsule wardrobe? You buy a few classic pieces with a couple of up-to-date accessories to create a suite of versatile, chic and sophisticated looks that will take you from the office, to the cocktail bar, to the fashion show, to the country retreat and back to the office, effortlessly? Well, normally I read them and wonder whom, aside from the magazine's editor, has a life to match the clothes. Let alone the disposable income.

But earlier this year I actually bought myself a capsule wardrobe. And, I have to say, it ranks among my sartorial successes. It doesn't take me from glossy event to even-glossier event but it takes me from workday to workday with a combination of outfits, with ease, not too much ironing and – hopefully - a scintilla of style. As far as work wardrobes go, I think that's a solid accomplishment.

A combination of factors led me to my capsule. Most significantly I was offered a job and my work clothes of old no longer fit worked and, in any case, were sitting on a ship somewhere destined to reach Australia's shores by 2023. Familiar readers might recall I got news of my job while roaming Rome*. Joy. So after sharing some Prosecco with Mum over lunch, I set off down the Via de Corso in search of some work threads. Joy of joys of joys.

It was one of those halcyon shopping experiences. There were lots of things I loved. Everything I loved was available in my size. Everything fitted and – best of all – the garments were interchangeable. I inadvertently created a capsule. This is what I bought: navy cigarette pants, a cream blouse, a caramel and navy pencil skirt, a fitted navy blazer, a coral and navy striped top, a caramel cardigan, an emerald green silk dress, a navy belt, nude patent court shoes and a vibrant 'statement' necklace.

Being Europe (but not being Prada or Chanel) everything I loved was affordable. Truly. And, after four months on constant rotation, on a cost per wear basis, each garment is practically paying me. In fact, I might check my pockets. My work colleagues – if asked – could attest that I wear these clothes. Every. Single. Day.

It might have been beginner's luck but I'm now a capsule convert. I've got to hand it to those fashion bibles - they know a thing or two about shopping. That even mere mortals like me, without a life as glossy as their pages, can learn from. The only issue I now face is when on earth will I ever be back in Rome to replicate the success?

Are you a capsule shopper? Or more of a one-item-at-a-time type?

*Familiar readers may recall there was a brief time in my life when being in places like Rome, Barcelona and the south of France was a reasonable possibility. Current readers might find this hard to reconcile with my current life as a quasi-single mother. I am with them.

Sunday 27 November 2011

A house of dreams


To covet thy neighbour's home is a sin. I think. But in my neighbourhood, to not covet thy neighbour's home is impossible. So I sin often. Surely we all agree the desire to own something that belongs to someone else is quite human, hard to resist and innocent fun? Presuming, of course, one doesn't go too far down the garden path and steal the goods in question. I imagine that could very quickly end up not being fun. But I refuse to believe a sideways glance over my neighbours' fence hurts.

Almost every day – often twice – I walk past a particular terrace home that I adore. I look at it longingly and wish it was mine. Tucked away in Paddington's streets, it's painted a sublime shade of cream with a stylish and slightly bold olive green trim. It is framed by a sweet picket fence and manicured trees.

Each time I walk by I imagine what it would be like to live there. It is frustratingly discreet but I just know if – when! - I ever catch a peep behind its elegant façade, it will be as perfectly to my taste on the inside as it from the outside. And if I lived there, obviously, I'd love the very privacy that currently drives me to distraction.

It is my dream home. Which is convenient because it's just around the corner from where I live now so it will be a manageable move.
Realistically my life wouldn't change much if I lived in the terrace of my dreams. Well, aside from the fact, I'd be a wholly contented woman - smarter, more organised, better dressed, funnier - without a worry in the world. Only joking, Mum! Clearly I'd still just be me, but living in a really tasteful and cool space.

The point is, my lingering looks across the street make me wonder. Do you think the people who live in my dream home, covet someone else's home? Obviously, not mine. (Unless they have some perverse hankering to take part in a social experiment to see how the other half makes cramped apartment living work.) But is there a house they walk or drive past that they can't help but watch in wonder? Or do they love their own home so much their eyes never stray?

Sydney has its fair share of positively dreamy real estate so I suspect it's probably impossible for them not to, at least occasionally, succumb to the sinful act of fancying another's. I'm convinced it's out there so I now wander the streets consumed with the task of finding it. The sooner I find it, the sooner I can relocate them and the sooner we can inhabit their old digs.

Now am I the only person who finds fantasising about other people's houses quite fun? Do you have a dream home? Or do you live in your dream home? If you happen to live in my dream home would you like to swap?

Tuesday 22 November 2011

Breaking in Brisbane


This weekend I had a short but, oh, so sweet break in beautiful Brisvegas. I was only away 27 hours but I managed to fit in a wedding celebration, a christening, a delicious brunch*, a spot of lipstick shopping**, several decent catch ups with treasured friends, a too-short catch up with my brother, cuddles with multiple adorable babies, a sleep-in and a comprehensive read of the weekend papers.

Travelling unencumbered by Miss I is nothing if not efficient. And, in my humble opinion, a totally deserved experience.

I very nearly missed my 10am flight on Saturday morning, which given the brevity of my trip would have been tragic. I was so excited to have Mr G back in residence, relishing the fact I had relinquished all parental responsibilities, that I totally lost track of time.

I was luxuriating in a long shower when Mr G asked what time I'd like to leave. I called out that a little bit before nine would be fine. Unfortunately it was already nine. And I still hadn't packed. Oops. Cue some frantic dressing and packing and we were off.

Thankfully we're close to the airport so I made it in time and without a stroller I breezed through without delay. I cursed myself for not leaving extra time purely because a spot of airport shopping would have been sublime. But alas! I'll summarise the rest of my break in highs and lows.

The highlights

 
-Sitting on a plane, without being responsible for anything other than my very small handbag. Reading, napping, thinking, listening to music. Bliss.

- Seeing several of my very best friends. There's little in the world as lovely as old friends and Brisbane - very generously - houses many of mine.

-Getting dressed up – leisurely - with one of the above-mentioned friends.

-Applying make-up without having to fend off a lovely pair of little hands from my bronzer, blush, lipgloss and mascara. With the added bonus of not needing to retrieve any of those items from the bin after the fact.

-Waking at 7am on Sunday, closing my eyes and falling back asleep til 8.

-Being collected from the airport by the two smiliest people in my life.

The lowlights
 
-Receiving a picture message featuring Mr G and Miss I thoroughly enjoying the hospitality in the Veuve Clicquot marquee at the Polo in the Park, which they just happened to stumble across. It's a little childish but I would have preferred a picture of them both covered in food, a few tears, with clothes, dishes and toys piled up in the background as if Cyclone Yasi had hit our apartment, with a message saying 'I don't know how you do this'.

-Misplacing my phone, frantically assigning the task of relocating it to Mr G – via my brother's phone - only to discover it was in my pocket all along. Actually that was probably the lowlight of Mr G's weekend.

-Very nearly missing my flight home because I spent too long chatting to my brother outside.

-Arriving home, realising the weekend was over but my typical weekend tasks – blogging, catching up with Mr G, getting work clothes organised, planning meals - remained outstanding. There's just never enough time these days.

How was your weekend?

*We went to Brewbakers in Albion which was delicious.

**I chose a very bright and cheerful fuschia shade Fire & Ice from Revlon.

Monday 14 November 2011

A moody moment


Recently I succumbed to the most unpleasant of moods. It descended over me like a thick, dark, impenetrable curtain and was at an hour before I was able to peep from beneath my fury to find a shadow of reason.

It began at the airport. It was before Alan Joyce unleashed the full force of his powers by grounding the entire Qantas fleet but I hold him vicariously responsible because it was a few of his Jetstar staff who conspired against me.

I was at the check-in desk with Miss I who was sitting in her stroller. After checking in my bag and receiving our boarding pass the lady asked me if I would like to check in the stroller. I thought it was an odd question. I was travelling solo so if I checked in the stroller how would I navigate myself and Miss I through security and along to our boarding gate? Whilst also inevitably having to variously retrieve my wallet, a dummy, sultanas, and wipes from the depths of my bag?

Miss I is now too big for the Baby Bjorn, she is too heavy and wriggly to carry long distances and far too unruly to walk alone. And, therein lies the genius invention for parents on solo missions with toddlers the whole world over. A stroller! A lightweight, travel-friendly, airport-ready, stroller! It's hard to imagine a setting that requires a stroller MORE than a large airport terminal.

So I said I didn't want to check it in. The Jetstar attendant said if I took it to the gate there was the possibility it wouldn't fit on the plane so I would have to get there early to see. This exchange gave me the impression that I had a choice. There was an hour before boarding so I said I would take my chances. Quite honestly, I thought without the stroller there was the possibility I wouldn't make it to the plane at all.

I'd be stuck at the security gates trying to chase Miss I whilst removing my shoes, watch and emptying the contents of my bag on the conveyor belt. And I figured I'd need the stroller at the airport more than I was going to need it for our five day holiday simply because I'd be accompanied by lovely grand-parenting hands at our destination. Fortunately, this theory proved true.

With stroller on hand, off, we pushed. At the gate I asked if there was room on the plane for the stroller. I was met with thinly veiled disdain. 'You had to check that in upstairs', a lady barked. 'It's not allowed'. I explained that I was given the option of coming early to see if it could fit. Another lady, as uninterested in customer service as the first, came over. Together they rolled their eyes, growled into their walkie-talkies and berated me for bringing it. As if I was on a little folly of my own with a frivolous accessory like a stroller just for the fun of it.

Eventually a crew member took the folded stroller and a few minutes later we boarded the flight. (What then ensued merits its very own post). After disembarking the plane, several rotations of the luggage carousel confirmed the stroller had not accompanied us. When I finally tracked down a staff member I was told it had been "confiscated" because I had "refused" to check it in and consequently I would have to collect it at "my expense".

I was so many shades of angry and I lost my cool. Steam flew out my ears and a few cross words flew from my mouth. Admittedly the staff in Ballina were not responsible for the situation but, my goodness, they didn't make it any better. They just kept repeating the words 'confiscated', 'refused' and 'my expense', as if I was a criminal who had smuggled contraband on the aircraft, not a mother who was bringing along an essential tool of the trade. I know it's a low cost carrier but I thought the low cost bit was because they don't give you food or have fancy interiors, not because they don't carry prams. I now know it does.

The whole episode made my blood boil and it made me wonder what makes you angry? Have you had any moments of fury lately?

Sunday 6 November 2011

One week down...

Despite my misgivings about the solo parenting expedition that has unwittingly been thrust upon me, I am happy to report that I survived the first week. Both myself and Miss I have emerged unscathed. And with the exception of a block of cheese that I stored in the bread bin as opposed to the fridge all week, the household is pretty much in order.

I wouldn't say I relished it but, thankfully, it wasn't the ordeal I was anticipating. I suspect my expectations were so low that I was always going to be pleasantly surprised. Unless Miss I and I had both contracted a nasty bout of the ebola virus - rendering us both miserable and intolerable - in which case my fears probably would have been realised. Though, if that had happened, I guess we'd have to go to hospital in which case we could aim for Wagga and have a family reunion with Mr G. How romantic! 

Anyway. The fact nothing remotely bad happened all week, made it bearable. By Friday I had a spring in my step. I was practically on a high. I had survived! And I'd actually enjoyed it. The weekend beckoned, bringing with it the missing piece in my family trio. I can't explain how happy this made me without breaching the acceptable standards of public declarations of affection. Suffice to say there were big smiles. And for the first time (almost) since we've been back in Sydney we've had a whole weekend together. That looks set to be the silver lining of the next three months.

It is early days and I would like to reserve the right to complain freely and bitterly in the coming weeks as my ability to cope wanes. But for now, it's ok. I got through week one. Surely that fact alone will buoy me through the second. If not, the words of one kind, fellow mother on Saturday will. She said someone should give me an award. I've always liked those...  

Sunday 30 October 2011

Not another solo mother

It's been three months since I embarked on any major life changes so it's obviously time to turn things upside down. Having now settled back into life in Sydney it would be dull to meander on, enjoying this stability. Imagine how complacent I might become if I just continued to familiarise myself with my new life??

So it's extremely fortunate that the bigger powers that be have determined it's time for a fresh challenge to keep me on my toes. Actually it was a hospital board that laid down this contest, but that's apt in itself because hospital administrators are set to be the 'biggest powers that be' in my life for quite some time.

As of today Mr G is living in Wagga for a three-month rotation. This means he will be living five hours' drive away from our house. This means I will be single mothering in Sydney for a quarter of a whole year (which in real terms equates to several years*). This means I may go insane. 

Parenting can be testing at times even with the physical presence and support of another parent-in-crime. In the parenting arena I consider myself a strong team player and a terribly weak solo competitor. The wounds have only just healed from my first foray into single motherhood when Miss I was twelve weeks old and Mr G flew off to Russia for six years**.

Anyway. Instead of dwelling on all the disastrous ramifications of this arrangement, I thought it might be useful to turn my mind to the possible advantages. Except I tried that and there are none. At. All. I've spent weeks contemplating and have come up with nothing.

Briefly I thought this arrangement might guarantee the longevity of our marriage for at least ten eternities. After a few weeks doing the single mother thing, I doubted I would ever so much as argue with Mr G again lest he opts to up and leave. Of course, I then realised my efforts to be a totally agreeable and un-leavable wife would have little bearing on any hospital administrator plotting Mr G's next rural posting.

For now I will console myself in the knowledge that the calorific consequences of  ice-cream, chocolate and wine are nullified in the face of solo parenting. At least that's what I'm running with.  Have you got any better ideas?

*I've done some rough calculations and each week as a single parent, translates to approximately one month of dual parenting so I may as well be on my own for a few years.

**See above. Each day as a single parent to a three month old baby who refuses to sleep translates roughly to six months.

Monday 24 October 2011

A well-timed break


I arrived home on Thursday night with every intention of sitting down to blog. I've had a thousand ideas flying around my head for weeks now and was eager to put fingers to the keyboard. In spite of my intentions, after putting Miss I down to sleep, I couldn't bring myself to face the computer. Instead, I was drawn to the book beside my bed. I couldn't help it. I was exhausted. I lay down and relished the chance to be very still and very quiet. I couldn't summons the energy to stay on my feet to eat, let alone formulate a sentence. So reading it was.

I was frustrated because I knew the background noise would continue humming. Blogging is a relaxing pursuit for me; a hobby that helps me unwind. But it requires my mind to be switched on and lately I'm constantly looking for the off-switch. I still scan conversations, newspaper articles, websites, blogs and all my idle thoughts, for topics on which to blog. It's a subconscious habit. But because I'm having trouble finding the energy to convert my thoughts into actual blogs, they fly around getting noisier and noisier. 


On Thursday night, before I got too frustrated, I had a little think. I remembered what I'd been doing at work and very quickly my mind's desire for blank space made sense. It made me want to lie very still for even longer. One of the highlights of my job is that I spend quite a bit of time interviewing very clever people who tend to be pretty knowledgeable in their chosen fields. Now, obviously, I don't need to be as clever or knowledgeable as them. (If I was, no doubt I would be running companies, presiding over courts and presenting at conferences, like they do.)

But for my conversations to be of any value to our magazine's readers, I need to understand their field at least to the extent that I can ask one or two relevant questions. And preferably be able to follow their conversation to shape it into an article. Dipping in and out of foreign topics, quickly trying to understand the subtleties of whatever the interview requires, is tiring.

Last week between Wednesday and Thursday I interviewed two American judges, a US professor, an English Lord, the managing partner of a global law firm visiting from London, the chief executive of a software developer, three partners and a director of strategy and innovation at a large company. I spent between 20 minutes and an hour with each of these clever cats who talked to me about everything from litigation support technology, to the rule of law, to the financial correlation between productivity and creativity, to the economic and political climate in India, China, England, Europe, Japan and Australia. And many other things I am still trying to understand.


It left me shattered. I thought back to when I started blogging, when the chance to write a coherent sentence was the only exercise my brain would get. Towards the end of my two years out of the workforce, I relished having a chance to think. Now, I relish the chance not to think. It reminded me of the joy of television at the end of a working day. And the even greater joy of holidays. Fortunately my mental capacity has coincided with a few days off from work. Perfect timing. What do you do when you reach your mental limit?

Tuesday 18 October 2011

Guilty pleasures


I'm not sure whether these small pleasures really deserve to be deemed guilty. They're certainly not necessities but they're hardly harmful. My life would be perfectly happy without them but it is a smidgen, sometimes even a splash, happier for my occasional indulgence. These are my slightly-guilty pleasures.

Chinese Massages
They are advertised as 'Traditional Chinese Massages', but having not visited China myself, I can't verify how steeped in tradition these actually are. In Australia, they're on offer in foodcourts, pedestrian malls and in Sydney, at least, along bustling streets. It costs roughly $1 per minute, can be given in convenient 20 minute blocks and is usually given in a plastic chair. It involves no aromatherapy oil or rainforest music, fluorescent lighting is often above head and the masseuses talk very loudly to each other throughout the treatment.

It lacks all the ambience of a day spa but my goodness it is a treat I love. If I am ever truly rich, immediately after I hire a butler, I will hire my own personal masseuse who specialises in Australia's take on the Chinese tradition.

My personal favourite is neck and shoulders. The trick is that the masseuse kneads their hands – and sometimes elbows - into such a frenzy that it triggers a level of discomfort just a few sensations away from eye-watering pain. It's not particularly relaxing but I am magnetically attracted to those little plastic seats. Having described it like this I would understand if you don't see the appeal. Maybe that's why I think it's guilty. It all seems so wrong, and yet, it feels so right.

RockLea Road*

 
This is my all-time confection of choice and given its calorific density it is legitimately guilty when consumed more than once a month. Darrell Lea has nailed this heavenly concoction of marshmallow, coconut, milk chocolate and peanuts. Though to be fair, with that combination of ingredients, anyone could probably nail it. I mean with chocolate and marshmallows it's hard to go wrong. I've never met a rocky-road I didn't like or didn't want to eat.

I embrace all variations on the original recipe so long as chocolate and marshmallow feature prominently. I'm yet to encounter a situation that couldn't be rectified, at least momentarily, by a little rocky road.

Something glashy

Somewhere between trash and gloss in the newsagents lies my favourite class of magazine. The Glashy. Not a bible like Vogue or Harpers Bazaar which can easily intimidate a girl without access to a six-figure wardrobe allowance or a working knowledge of Erdam's newest collection. Or even who Erdam is. And not something totally flimsy that preys on cellulite and rounded abdomens to fill its pages.

I find the void is filled by Who, Grazia and Hello! They don't enrich my life or fulfil any intellectual purpose but, oh how I love them, when I lay my hands on them.

In a previous life I used to flip through them religiously at the supermarket check-out each week but these days my regular grocery companion is rarely patient enough to indulge me. It is a joy I can only enjoy solo. Perhaps that's part of the fun.

What little things do you really love? Do you enjoy them guilt free?

*Alas this is not a sponsored post from Darrel Lea. If it was I would take payment in RockLea Road.

Tuesday 11 October 2011

A dream in progress


At the moment I am living a dream. It's obviously not the dream where I attend The Wedding because sadly that time has passed. It's also not the dream where Mr G and I win the lottery and employ a butler and a driver to ensure the cogs of our daily life are perfectly oiled. But it is a dream nonetheless. It is the dream where I have a baby as well as a job. To some I realise that might sound like a nightmare. For me, being a working mother, is a dream.

I don't say this to gloat so please bear with me. Over the past decade I've spent a good number of minutes thinking and talking about combining a career with a family. Like many women my age, I've invested a lot of time and energy into creating a professional life. I've also always wanted to start my own family and have children. I often wondered - and more often worried - how those two worlds would collide. When I now reflect that they have, I want to pinch myself. Not just because they've collided but because the result is more satisfying than I imagined.

I feel the need to type very carefully at this point. I realise that for many parents, not working is their preference which I absolutely respect. I don't think that working or not working, makes anyone a better or worse parent. I think the best any of us can do, is whatever works best for us as individuals and families. My experience is exactly that - what works for me and my family. And right now, it's a dream in progress.

 I like work itself more than I ever have and I treasure my time with Miss I more than ever before. My priorities have obviously changed and I guess partly because work isn't everything I can enjoy it more. And in some ways the same goes with my daughter. Because I don't do either of them one hundred per cent of the time, I'm free to appreciate each of them - differently - in their glory. Combining motherhood with work seems to give me better perspective on a daily basis. Compared to the health and wellbeing of my daughter, work doesn't rate but I'm also completely aware of the valuable and fulfilling role work plays in my life. I love going into work and I love collecting Miss I at the end of each work day.

There are days where I don't feel this way. Where work is stressful. Where I don't want to tear out the door or race to the bus. But for the most part I love doing both. There are definitely caveats though. I'm not sure I would enjoy this balance if I worked in a corporate role which demanded long hours. Or if I worked five days, or if I didn't enjoy my job itself, or if I didn't work with other parents who understood the realities of young children. Or if Miss I wasn't settled and happy at her daycare. There are numerous factors that make it work for me. My point is it can work and it can be satisfying.

Last week a friend at work who doesn't have any children yet said to me that a lot she hears and reads about motherhood sounds utterly terrifying. I immediately gave her a blow by blow account of my childbirth experience to illustrate that, in fact, some of it is even more terrifying than it sounds. Of course I didn't really say that. I understood what she meant. I tried to explain that wonderful cliché that the good bits are so overwhelming rewarding and life affirming, that it really does make the difficult moments and days tolerable. She smiled but her eyes gave away her fear.

It made me stop and think about my situation. I think we do ourselves, our friends and our families, a great disservice by painting motherhood as one big, long, soft and cuddly advertisement. But equally I think we do ourselves just as few favours by painting it as an impossibly hard slog. I realise my life might seem wholly unenviable to a great number of mothers and fathers. But for anyone who wants or needs to work, I suppose I hope it might give hope that it need not be a nightmare.

Sunday 2 October 2011

A game of discovery


A while back I told you about Miss I's adjustment to daycare. We are now pros on the bus*, we have the morning farewell ironed out and the afternoon reunion sorted. Which, I might add, is the most life-affirming moment of my day. The way her little face lights up when she catches a glimpse of me is unbelievably lovely. It's fair to say, until now, my mere presence has never garnered quite that much joy in anyone. It's a perfectly timed surge of affection to push us through the journey home.

But anyway. When I collect Miss I there is plenty of information about her day. I can see when she slept, what she ate, what the main activities were, what they painted, what they made, what they read, what she played with. Her teachers tell me if she was especially happy or sleepy or hungry or grumpy. Understandably though, I don't get a transcript of her day. So I don't know exactly what she sees, hears and learns. And because she can't yet tell me, I'm a little in the dark. The upshot is she now knows things that I don't know she knows.

The other night we were reading a Peter Rabbit book when I remembered the little nursery rhyme about Peter having a fly on his nose. I hadn't sung it to her before and when I started to sing Miss I went berserk. Given my singing voice, it would be completely plausible for her reaction to be along the lines of 'Mum please would you stop making that racket'. But, amazingly enough, she loved it. So much that she didn't want me to stop. So I kept singing. She hopped up, waved her arms, danced like only uninhibited toddlers can and gestured towards her nose. I was quite amazed.

The next day I asked her teachers and they said they sing the Peter Rabbit song, complete with hand motions, all the time. And she loves it. The same morning her teacher asked her where her teeth were. Miss I immediately pointed towards her mouth and burst out laughing. I'm not entirely sure if she laughed because she knows the irony (despite being the ripe old age of 16 months she still hasn't sprouted a single tooth). More likely she thinks it's funny simply because she's learned that's where teeth belong. In any case, I was exhilarated. I started to wonder what else she knew, that I didn't know she knew. The possibilities are endless**.

We now have this game where Mr G and I ask her all sorts of questions. When she knows what we're talking about she 'answers' in some shape or form, before falling about giggling, visibly uplifted at the chance to share her newly acquired knowledge. We've since discovered she knows where her ears, eyes, nose, shoulders and knees are. She loves trying the hand motions for Incy Wincy Spider and she knows how to touch her toes, put her bib in the sink, signal for milk, put her teddy back in her cot, and lots of other tiny advancements in her plight towards fully fledged toddlerhood. She seems to enjoy showing off her knowledge almost as much as I love discovering it.

*Except some days where I make amateur errors like not having the bus ticket, a water bottle, sultanas, a toy and a dummy at the ready, at the precise moment each prop is required. This failure occasionally results in very long and painful trips, which never end soon enough and always trigger loud and relieved sighs from our fellow passengers when we disembark.

**Endless is probably inaccurate. Her knowledge is likely to end somewhere between nursery rhymes finishing and advanced mathematics starting.

Tuesday 27 September 2011

Handbag envy


I desperately want my sister's handbag. I want it to be mine. I want to own it. To treasure, to carry and to possibly even live in. Ever since I laid eyes on it last weekend I've been imagining just how good it would feel to own that bag. Not simply because it's beautiful but because it is beautifully and immaculately organised.

Whereas my handbag* is an overflowing receptacle of misplaced receipts, lipsticks, nappies, tissues, wipes, toys, bibs and tummies, my sister's is like a Kikki-K shop. An oasis of calm, perfectly-ordered life. Where everything is compartmentalised and chic. Where objects live in designated spaces, where clutter is non-existent, where whatever you need is always at your fingertips, where organisation prevails. Basically, the polar opposite of my own.

My envy reached fever pitch on Saturday as I was scrambling through the catastrophe which is my current handbag. I couldn't for the life of me find anything I needed, when I needed it. My wallet, which I swear, thirty seconds earlier was on top, was now buried somewhere beneath nappies, a packet of wipes, sultanas, a cardigan and a soft book. Then the sultanas, that just a minute earlier were blocking my wallet, were nowhere to be found. And then as a result of the banana I had to give in lieu of the missing sultanas, I needed the wipes. And of course the wipes were then buried somewhere between my sanity and a thousand plastic spoons.

Forty-five minutes into this game and it took all my resolve not to melt down then and there, tip the entire bag upside down and sit amid the contents and cry. My sister's bag would never cause this much trouble, I thought to myself. At this point, the psychologists and enlightened readers among you might be thinking 'Isn't that a slight overreaction?' They would be spot on. It was.

But you see I wasn't just upset because my handbag was making a straightforward trip to the shops hellish. Somehow in the last few weeks the disastrous state of my handbag had come to reflect the level of disorganisation in my life. Or vice versa. Whichever order in which it happened, the upshot is, I've had no order.

And, as my handbag so stubbornly showed, there is only so much chaos one can endure before it's time to tidy up. Frankly, it's the same message my saucepan cupboards have been trying torturously - in vain - to teach me for many years. There are only so many times that you can shove the pots and pans in, whack the door closed and hope for the best, before retrieving any particular pan becomes totally unfeasible and simply opening the door poses a significant health and safety risk.

So. I acquiesced. I spent Sunday rectifying the key offending messes – my desk, my wardrobe, the saucepan cupboard, the Tupperware drawer and, of course, my handbag. Two days in and it's making the simple things all that more simple. If the order doesn't last I might revert to the tried and true method of my childhood and just steal my sister's bag while she's not looking.

*When I say 'handbag' I refer to the collection of handbags I have in rotation at any given time. This collection builds as I move from bag to bag, slowly transforming them from perfectly functional, to completely catastrophic.

Saturday 24 September 2011

Great expectations


Sometimes I expect adult behaviour from my daughter. I don't wake up and expect her to engage in a long and considered discussion, quietly watch the ABC news on television, entertain a group of friends or clear up after the evening meal. I'm not entirely deluded. But, occasionally, I find myself anticipating a level of composure that frankly I've got at least a decade – possibly two - before she is likely to achieve.

These expectations are subconscious. They inevitably arise when we've been in the car too long, she's waiting in her highchair too long, she's been in the supermarket trolley too long. You know? When she is grumpy and irritated and acts accordingly. And then I get grumpy and irritated too. I wish she would be more patient and realise order will soon be restored. I mean, does she think I like sitting in traffic or waiting at Woolworths, anymore than she does?

At the time, I don't really verbalise these thoughts. Not even inside my head. I just become a bit agitated and mentally will her threshold to stretch a bit further. It's only when I later reflect that I realise it's my threshold that needs to stretch a bit further. Because, unlike her, I'm an adult. Technically* I'm not entitled to behave childishly, but for Miss I childish conduct is totally and utterly her domain. And will be for quite some time.

She is within her rights to tire easily, become frustrated quickly, flip between ecstatically happy and hysterically sad within minutes, voice her every discomfort, have no concept of time and certainly have no appreciation for her mother's patience. And more. Most of which sounds pretty self-explanatory. And yet it seems to slip my mind in the crucial moments when I need to remember it most.

When I do manage to remind myself that she is a small child and adjust my expectations accordingly, we're both far better off. If I remind myself before we arrive at a café, that unless she is asleep, I cannot reasonably expect her to sit quietly and enjoy a hot beverage without throwing cutlery, knocking glasses, racing for the door and emptying sugar bowls, I'm nonplussed when it occurs. Likewise, if I expect a meltdown at the cash register, when it inevitably transpires I'm less irritated than I am prepared. And so on. Having realistic expectations really seems to be the surest way to enjoy my tornedo toddler.

I suppose it's one of the big lessons – and small tragedies – I'm learning about parenthood. Maturity and patience are two of my greatest allies. If I want to maintain my sanity and have any hope of instilling these qualities in my daughter, I need to live them. Which means there's not a whole lot of room for impulsive conduct on my part anymore. Which, frankly, gets a little tiring. The good thing is she goes to bed at 7pm after which I can be as impulsive and immature as I like. The bad thing is there is another member of our household who also expects rational behaviour from me. Being an adult really is a full time job.

*Technicalities have always bothered me.

Wednesday 14 September 2011

R U OK?


Just a few days ago a much loved young man took his own life, leaving in his wake a shattered family, heartbroken friends and a devastated community. The anguish now endured by everyone who knew and loved my cousin, especially his parents and sisters, is agonising. And yet, tragically, the only comparable torment is probably what he himself suffered. It is inexplicably sad. The darkest of clouds with no silver lining.

It is a wretched reminder that mental health is the most precious blessing any of us can count. Without it, nothing else matters. Without the anchor of mental health to guide us through trouble, each one of us is vulnerable to languish in the depths of depression. In a place more lonely and isolated than anywhere on earth. In the grips of depression, judgement is compromised.

My understanding is that the decision to end your own life cannot be viewed through the prism of rational thought. It is not an emotional choice or a logical decision. It is the resolution when someone feels there is no resolution. Because they can't see beyond their torture. In that moment, for them, an alternative is impossible to imagine. And yet to everyone else, the only impossible, unimaginable scenario is the very one they carry out.

For anyone with uncompromised mental health, there are so many options. But for those who suffer, there are none. At least none they can see. One of the infinite cruelties of suicide is that it marks the end of one tragedy with the beginning of another. And neither really ever ends. And so there is sadness and grief and despair and pain. There is anger and frustration and fury. There is disbelief and sorrow and many many tears. There is no peace.

As I mourn for my cousin, and his family, I remember him. As a larrikin, as my little brother's hero, as my funny, likeable and much-loved cousin. Most of my memories transpired on the property where he grew up. Where we would spend many school holidays, learning precisely how unprepared and incompetent us 'city' dwelling cousins were for life on the land.

We played countless games of Round-The-World in their garden, entertained ourselves with motorbikes, horses, fences and other farming implements we were not really equipped to handle. We made him take part in our silly pretend games of hotels inside the house. I remember how he let my little brother, young enough to display unadulterated admiration, shadow his every move, all day long. I remember how he made us all laugh always. I remember him as the cousin we all loved.

The last few times I saw him, we had all grown up and real life had stumbled upon us. I can't fathom that it's now no longer upon him. I wish more than anything I have ever wished that we could turn the clock back a few days and erase all of this. But we can't. Instead we will miss and mourn a man who was loved. Whose life was too short.

Tomorrow is R U Ok? Day. It is a suicide prevention initiative that started last year and the idea is to ask someone you love, if they're ok. To give them an opportunity to open up, to start a conversation that might change their life. If you know anyone that you suspect is struggling, please ask if they're ok. And if they say they are ok, and you suspect they're not, just keep talking. And don't just do it tomorrow. Ask every time you suspect someone isn't doing ok. Because these conversations don't need to be difficult to start. And they could start the end of real difficulty.

And most importantly, if you're not feeling ok yourself, please tell someone. Call a friend and tell them you're not ok. That sentence will likely be incredibly hard to utter but if you reach out you will discover there is a queue of people a mile long who will do whatever you need them to, to help you through. No one will want you not to be ok.

Thursday 8 September 2011

Polygamy: not such a bad idea after all?


Last week I caught a little glimpse of a different existence. For a single day I saw how life might have looked through the eyes of a married man in the fifties or sixties. Even without any of Mad Men's glamour it looked pretty jolly dazzling.

There was something rather pleasant about arriving home from work to a spouse who had spent the day cooking, cleaning, doing the groceries and caring for Miss I. All I needed was a whiskey poured, a cigarette lit and I was right there in the midst of sixties-style paradise. Well, except for the fact I don't drink whiskey or smoke. But perhaps I'd take them both up if at the end of a working day that was all that was left to do.

Truthfully it made me see some merit in the old-fashioned domestic arrangements. Unenlightened as it sounds, it made me want a wife. Of sorts. Not because I want to shackle any gender with a disproportionate share of familial responsibilities or deprive any individual of economic independence. But because as far as logistics go, the stereotypical wife strikes me as unbelievably useful. There's a lot to be done in the running of a household, even in a small apartment. It really does warrant fulltime attention.

This dawned on me a few months ago when I became engrossed in Downton Abbey, a television series set in a large English estate in 1912. It opened my eyes to a world far beyond the reality of anyone I've ever met. They have staff to do everything. To wash, iron and prepare wardrobes. To dress and groom. To clean, polish and dust. To plan meals, stock cupboards and arrange dinner parties. There are cleaners, footmen, drivers, assistant footmen, a butler, a seamstress.

The twenty or so employees ensure every tiny domestic cog is perfectly oiled so the family can get on with the important and apparently busy business of being incredibly rich. Which funnily enough takes up quite a bit of time.

Obviously none of us has a household that grand* but what needs to be done in a day hasn't changed all that much. We might not sit down for three-course meals or after-dinner tipples in the drawing room and we might not need staff to polish the non-existent silverware. But the big ticket tasks are the same.

We still get dressed, buy food, go to work, feed our families, clean the house, wash clothes, iron, bathe children, cook meals, clean up after meals, shop, pay bills, book appointments, drive to appointments, arrange social engagements, attend social engagements. Spending a good part of the day working outside the home compounds this. And then we wake up and do it all again. The difference is, rather than having a (valued, respected, well-paid and well-oiled) team to help, we do it alone. It made me think perhaps we've downsized too far. And upsized our expectations for what can be done in 24 hours, exponentially.

So I wish Mr G and I had a wife. Or could afford a housekeeper. Obviously the latter's completely out of the budget, so I'm wondering whether we need to recruit an additional member to our marriage. A hardworking individual with a penchant for housekeeping, grocery shopping, pantry-stocking, meal preparation and household administration. I think we could both get used to arriving home to domestic order and goodness knows how much we would value their contribution. Any takers?

*If by chance you do have a household as grand as Downton Abbey can I please come and visit? It'll just be me, my husband and our loud and adorable daughter. (And possibly an incredibly efficient, kind and productive person we're hoping to recruit to our marriage. It could be an excellent training opportunity.)

Saturday 3 September 2011

Shifting what?


I wrote this a while ago and it ran on Mamamia yesterday so I thought I'd give it a whirl here.

Through high school my version of success was embarrassingly simple. I had a vague image picked out from any number of bad movies of a girl returning to her home town for Christmas or some family reunion, dressed in a suit. It was that simple. Success was wearing a well-cut suit. I extrapolated out from there and figured jobs requiring suits required good marks at school and getting into university. From there I figured a suited job would await and success would be a wrap. A suited job did await but success was not alongside.

I can't recall whether I was in a doctor's waiting room or the non-descript reception of a legal office but either is possible. Whichever waiting room it was, that was the place where I finally twigged that my suited job did not feel anything like success. I felt ripped off.

For so long I had chased one version of success – oblivious to any other adaptations - which came to equate my personal worth with external acknowledgements like being awarded a good mark or landing a job at a reputable law firm or wearing a suit to work. It helped through university but out in the wide world I could suddenly see its failings.

I realised that outside the confines of school there was no teacher and no one was awarding me marks. I was on my own. In that moment the expression shifting paradigms finally made sense. I realised success was however I chose to define it. And it was far more complex than my girl-in-a-well-cut-suit version. That version suddenly felt terribly misguided and naive.

As terrifying as this discovery was, it also felt exhilarating to wrest myself from the imaginary grip of report cards. I was momentarily cross at my school and at the movies for failing to broaden my definition of success from achievement - academic or suit-wearing - but I let it go as I had more pressing matters at hand. For example, what the hell kind of life did I want??? As opposed to what kind of life did I think I'd get good marks for.

As a solicitor I spent every many waking minutes wondering exactly what it was that made me feel so uncomfortable in my job. I worked with some exceptionally difficult characters who certainly contributed but I also worked with some exceptionally wonderful people who evened things out. Eventually – in that same waiting room - I realised I was miserable because I was living a life that didn't fit me. I felt like I was having an affair. Like I was betraying my work colleagues because in my head and heart I wanted a different life. In the office I looked around and as much as I tried I couldn't see lives I wanted to emulate.

This was difficult to reconcile. These were people who the high school version of myself would have nominated as being highly successful. Occupying prestigious positions, undertaking major roles, leading big teams of driven lawyers, earning large sums of money, many of whom I really really liked … but I looked and looked and looked and I couldn't drum up a modicum of envy. I didn't want their lives. That's not demeaning. I battled myself on that point for months but eventually I accepted it was my version of success versus another's. Not like for like. Success is in the eye of the beholder.

I wish in that moment – when it truly sunk in that the world (or at least my definition of success) was my oyster – I resigned and grabbed my other dreams with open arms. I didn't. Fortunately a whack of illness eventually conspired in my favour. It enforced a break and then prompted my resignation. That break gave me some blank space to properly re-think my take on success. And it looked nothing like a girl in a suit.

The short of the long of it was realising internal factors like my personal enjoyment, health, fulfilment and sanity are far better indictors of my success than the external acknowledgements I so used to love.

So. That's how I got my head around success. I feel like I made these realisations quite late in the piece and I wonder how and when other people determine their versions of success, which I appreciate are moving targets. How does success look and feel to you?

Thursday 25 August 2011

Mistaken identity

Have you ever been mistaken for someone else? I have and each time has been terrifying and hilarious in equal measure. In that order. Terrifying while I scramble through my mind struggling to understand exactly what is going on and then hilarious – and relieving – when it dawns on me that I am not the person, who the person talking to me, thinks I am. On Sunday night I was scrolling through twitter on my phone when I saw that Rupert Guinness, a sports journalist with the Sydney Morning Herald, had sent me a message. He asked if I was looking forward to starting new horizons tomorrow, being Monday.
A few minutes earlier I had posted a link to this blog about adjusting to childcare. I thought it seemed a long bow to draw as I really hadn’t pictured Rupert as a reader of this blog, but ‘What else could he possibly mean? I thought to myself. So I replied. I tweeted ‘Fortunately things on my new horizon are getting smoother now’. Which in hindsight, he must have thought was very odd. But not as odd as his next message seemed to me. He wrote ‘No I mean about your desk change tomorrow. I see you’re coming to sit with us’.
At this point I found myself laughing with unease and confusion. See, there were desk changes happening at my work over the weekend. I just didn’t think I was among them. And while it seemed odd that either the sports team was moving to our level, or that I was moving to the sports team, we do work in the same building so there was a tiny thread of possibility. Strange? Very. Unlikely? Certainly. But not completely outside the realm of possibility. So here I was at 10pm on Sunday night wondering where on earth I would be sitting the next day. And why I hadn’t heard anything sooner.
And then order was restored. Rupert thought he’d been tweeting Georgina Robinson, a Herald reporter who was starting with the sports team on Monday (who reasonably enough was moving desks). Once clarified, the three of us found the exchange very funny.
Strangely enough it’s not the worst case of mistaken identity I’ve experienced. Back when I started my first job as a writer, the big editor, who was my boss’s boss, tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to go to his office. This editor rarely ventured outside his office and particularly not to our side of the floor, so his presence in itself caused a stir. Eyes were firmly on me as I walked across the floor into his office.  I assumed I must be getting fired which I thought was a real shame because I had barely been there a few weeks.
But in we went. He started quizzing me on my job. How it was going. What I was working on. If I was enjoying it. And, then, a query from leftfield. ‘How are your hands?’ he asked. Momentarily, I was stumped.  I looked down at them and wondered. I’m not a gifted pianist, I’m hardly handy around the house and I don’t even have nice handwriting. But it was also probably the first time I’d ever given my hands much thought. Surely that means they’re pretty reliable which has to count for something? I muttered something about having no complaints.
He continued on about a new role he thought would be more suitable for me. Bearing in mind I’d only been in my current role thirty seconds I thought this seemed odd. And then I had a flicker of sense. I realised the editor thought I was my colleague who was suffering RSI and needed a new role. I suggested that perhaps he wanted to talk to her. At which point he stared straight at me, with an exquisite look of fear and confusion in his eyes, obviously wondering who the hell I was. We continued awkwardly until I was dismissed. Back at my desk there were many questions and much laughter as I explained the situation. Not long afterwards my own boss approached me. He had it on fairly good authority that his own boss was unlikely to venture across to our side of the floor again. Ever.
Have you ever been mistaken for someone else?

Sunday 21 August 2011

Not another guilty mother


So. Now that we're through the acute phase I'm finally ready to talk about Miss I's adjustment to being the child of working parents. This is a significant development. Until recently, neither of her parents were engaged in the workforce. Now we both are, and, as a result, so is she. In a way.

For four of her seven days, there's no longer time for lounging in her cot, leisurely enjoying a long breakfast or having the luxury of time to select an outfit for the day. No. There's no room for spontaneity in our house on school day mornings. Our routine is precise, almost-military like and completely foreign.

The night before is my new best friend. I lay clothes out for me and Miss I before bed. Our coats hang on the front door, where her backpack and my handbag sit ready to be scooped up as we scoot out the door. Lunch is ready in the fridge.

If it were at all feasible I'd feed us both breakfast, dress Miss I and apply my makeup the night before too. Because every detail that is finalised the evening before saves us precious minutes getting out the door, each morning. Which, in turns, saves us precious minutes waiting in traffic, on the bus. Which in turn, saves my precious sanity and that of my fellow passengers and the bus driver. (Too long cooped up in a stationary bus tends to bring out the worst in Miss I). So being organised is practically a health and safety measure.

At the end of our bus ride I walk Miss I to her daycare. These days this particular aspect of the routine is a piece of cake. But for the first week or so it left me needing cake. Which before 8am is pretty dire. And hard to come by.

Before Miss I started I was adamant that I was not going to feel guilty about working or her going to daycare. I am fortunate to have a job I love, I found not having a job for a long period of time quite difficult and financially having a job is essential. So, really, I decided, there is no room or need for guilt. After many long internal dialogues I concluded it would be sensible to devote my emotional time and energy into my daughter herself, instead of feeding any feelings of guilt.

Which was all good and well until it was time for me to leave. At which point her tiny face crumpled, she gripped onto my leg and sobbed. And then the guilt I was meant to subdue, engulfed me. It wasn't intellectual. It was primal, emotional and impossible to ignore. My heart didn't seem to care for the broader logical imperatives for me going to work. All it saw was me leaving my darling girl - the bundle of life that bewilders me every day - in tears. This time she was bewildered by me. By the fact that I would leave her. And, it hurt. I felt cruel and selfish and mean.

They* say the best thing to do in this situation is to just eat cake and drink gin say goodbye and walk away. The longer you stay, the more confused and shocked the little person will be, when you do finally leave. So for a few days I would wave goodbye, walk out and make a beeline for the office where I would quiz my colleagues on how on earth they coped and survived this treacherous ritual. And then I'd spend a good part of my day wondering whether working is the single most evil thing a parent can do.

I am happy to report it's probably not. (Surely stealing their toys and flying across the world is worse?) Our morning farewell is no longer loaded. It's now a matter of picking out a toy or someone else's breakfast and Miss I happily plays as I say goodbye. Which is excellent because had it proceeded much longer, I suspect I would now be unemployed, overweight from cake consumption and racked with guilt.

*'They' being the holders of all baby wisdom – authors, friends, strangers, childcare workers, taxi drivers and anyone else who would listen.

Sunday 14 August 2011

An unlikely topic


A few weeks back Mia Freedman inadvertently created a furore when she expressed reservations about Cadel Evans being declared a hero for winning the Tour de France. It got me thinking. Not because I think what she said was hugely contentious. I don't. I think she made a valid point – that we elevate sporting prowess above other valuable pursuits. But her comments made me think she underestimated the power of sport. And that, my lovely readers, is the strangest, most-unlikely, sentence I've ever typed.

Sunday 7 August 2011

Arm swinging days


Yesterday I met a friend for coffee who is truly and madly in the midst of something quite special. The last time we caught up was a few weeks ago and although she didn't want to jinx anything by saying too much, she mentioned that she'd met someone that week at a dinner party. Actually she'd probably met several people that week in the course of her daily life but there was only one someone. Fast forward several weeks, it's really shaping up as something.

Thursday 4 August 2011

Unwritten words


Lately I've written some fabulous posts. A combination of funny, poignant, astute observations wittily tied together in coherent, flowing form that I'm just bursting to share with you. You would love them!! If only they existed!! I am very sad to report that my radio silence here is directly proportional with the amount of time I have found to write posts. That is none at all.

Sunday 31 July 2011

The wonders of work


What a week. After two years in the wilderness, my reign as an unemployed entity came to an end. I am working once again. I need to start with Monday because it was excellent. And I'm conscious that my recent (and infrequent) posts have been rather disparaging about life in general. Which is not how I aim to be, but is an accurate reflection of my attitude in recent weeks. I've been feeling pretty over it. All of it.

But enough of that. Because on Monday all of that melted away. It was like all my Christmases had come at once. For a start, Sydney put on a glorious sunny show so compared to my waterlogged initiation the week before, getting myself and Miss I on the bus and into the city was a breeze. Easy peasy. The drop off at nursery wasn't quite so dry but we both survived.

I got myself to the office, picked up a coffee and made my way to my desk. Frankly I've always thought that the biggest drawcard of any office job is being able to start the day with a warm and delicious coffee in hand. But even from there my day improved. Not only did I have no contact with any bureaucratic body, no boxes to unpack and no forms to fill in, I sat uninterrupted at my desk for hours at a time.

I got myself reacquainted with the magazine. I had civilised conversations with colleagues, both new and old. I was assigned interesting articles to research and start writing. I called some old contacts. I did some computer training. The simple fact this training felt almost joyful gives you some indication of my enthusiasm for being back in the working world*.

I was half expecting someone to tap me on the shoulder and say there's been a big mistake. That I was required somewhere else to answer phones and make tea, or look after my toddler while simultaneously conducting interviews and writing copy. But the tap never came. I smiled inside and out as it dawned on me that it was all real. That at work I just get to be me. I don't have to juggle hats to get things done. I just have to do my work.

It felt easy. And fun. And overwhelmingly familiar. I had forgotten how many people I would recognise. A floor of faces that I know, not because I work with them directly but because we shared an office floor for a couple of years. So I'm used to seeing them in the kitchen, at their printer, in the lifts, in the coffee queue. In some respects, since I left, a lot has changed. But, at work, everything's pretty much the same. From my vantage point, nothing could be better.

*My enthusiasm for the new software program waned very quickly when I discovered on Wednesday that I have very little ability to navigate it. Further training is scheduled.

Saturday 23 July 2011

Administrative anguish


You know how occasionally all the little things fall into place? You get the green light, the bus turns up, you get a great park, you don't get lost, your phone is charged when you need it, you're on time. Sometimes it lasts just for a day. Other times it can make a week, or even a few weeks, blessedly straightforward. I'm not in one those phases.

In the larger scheme of life all is well. Health, family, shelter, food. All the big ticks are there and for that I'm grateful. But the small things? Not so gratifying. I've had the kind of fortnight which might be comical if it wasn't so trying.

I've already told you about the ordeal of finding somewhere to rent. The good news on that front is my shouty answers landed us a lovely apartment. Actually my shouty answers didn't help but we now have a place to live.

Unfortunately I'm yet to sit on my couch and feel smug about it though. Because in between finding somewhere to live and being able to enjoy it, lies a wide expanse of time and space called administrative anguish. A special kind of torment. There is so much to do before somewhere becomes a functioning home. Little details that you don't even notice when you're happily ensconced in a place, that make daily life implausibly complicated when you're not.

Small things. Like not having any bins, not being able to locate any kitchen utensils, not having a washing machine, having a washing machine but not having the plumbing set up to use the washing machine, not having coathangers, buying more coathangers and still not having enough, having shampoo but no conditioner, unpacking 20 plates when what I really need is one bowl. It's resulted in endless trips to Target and Woolworths, only to arrive home and realise I'm still several objects short of a functioning home.

A lot of this is to be expected. It comes with the territory of moving. However, where the wheels have really come off is my attempts to manage the administration of life outside the not-yet-working home. The RTA, Medicare, Telstra, Centrelink, Family Assistance, Vodaphone, MBF, IKEA, Customs and Quarantine are just some of the places (on top of Woolworths and Target) that have gobbled up my time, sanity and patience this week.

That particular combination of bureaucratic and commercial service providers really should never be seen in the one week. Even the one year sounds too close together. If you get the option take my advice. SPACE. IT. OUT.

No task has been simple. Each interaction has been more complicated than necessary. I'm always one piece of identification or paperwork short of the requirements. Most of this I would have known had I been online. But of course getting online was a case in point. Anything but straightforward. Despite the promises it took two trips, three days and 45 minutes of tech assistance to finally get connected.

Naturally because it's been one of those weeks, I've also locked myself out, forgotten my phone, been stuck in multiple traffic jams, missed buses, hopped on the wrong bus, been caught in torrential rain and discovered some vital documents are stuck in our shipped goods, thus further delaying and complicating my dealings with the aforementioned offices. Happy days.

There's also been the minor matter of inducting Miss I into her nursery*. Which is in the CBD. Which we reach by bus. In the RAIN. The TORRENTIAL, CYCLONIC, UMBRELLA-BREAKING, SOUL-DESTROYING WETTEST-JULY-IN-60-YEARS RAIN. The very same rain which incidentally has made all my chores and fumbles, that much more painful than they were always going to be.

For the record pushing a pram one-handed, while wielding a handbag, a child's backpack, a bent-backwards umbrella in pouring rain whilst negotiating your way onto a bus, madly trying to find a ticket, is every bit as horrid as it looks. Battling the elements doesn't begin to describe it. On the bright side, the week is done.

*It's been a uniquely emotional and confronting exercise which probably warrants its own post. Fortunately it appears to have been more emotional and confronting for me than Miss I.