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.

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?

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.

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.

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.