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

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.

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.

 

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.