Season's greetings

Hello!! Remember me?

I used to write here quite frequently but since welcoming Miss L into the world I have been neglecting my dearly beloved blog and all of the lovely people who take the time to read it. I promise this is not because I have forgotten it or you. I can't tell you how many witty, sharp and insightful missives I have composed in my head these past few weeks while feeding my blossoming baby. Sadly, though, I can tell you how many have made it to the computer. Because that count is nil. If only there was an iDevice I could plug into my head that would automatically download, edit and format my thoughts into neat and entertaining posts to publish? Actually that might not work. The truth is not all of my thoughts are fit for public consumption.

Anyway. In the weeks between finishing work and having Miss L I had every intention of writing like a mad thing to have some posts in the wings (which have been in my head for months). I was then planning to impose a six week amnesty on blogging which I would explain to you all in advance. I figured any spare time I could find in those early weeks should be spent napping and that's the only part of the plan that's held. There were no 'weeks' between finishing work and having a baby, I still have those unwritten posts in my head and I didn't ever explain my blogging plans.

And now, the day before Christmas, a month since I last wrote, I sit with my seven week old baby in my arms while I tap this out on my iPad with one finger, to wish you all a happy festive season. (There is nothing like feeding a baby to develop proficiency in 'life skills that can be completed with one hand'. I am yet to master the act of buttering toast with one hand but I will persist). And, in addition to sending you the season's greetings, it's also time for me to close down for the year. After almost eight weeks' off can you even believe my audacity?? 

I have now made my annual pilgrimage to Yamba (a post on that experience will be forthcoming in the new year) where we'll spend a few weeks with my extended family. It is a sacred time and a holiday that need not mix with technology. Yamba is a computer free zone for me and it's a rule I refuse to compromise*.

So until next year NABM will lie dormant. I will be back with a vengeance from the 10th of January, from which date you will struggle to ignore me. At least that's what I hope will happen. I wish you all a very merry end to 2012 and hope that, however you spend the next few weeks, your days are filled with laughs and loved ones. Thank you for continuing to indulge me by visiting this tiny corner in cyber space. It brings me more joy than I can say. 

Happy eating, beaching and resting!

*With the glaring exception of posting this blog which has taken me several attempts to complete. 

A Royal bebe to be

I woke up on Tuesday morning to the splendid news that my favourite duchess is with child. At first I was slightly irritated she hadn't called me herself but then I remembered that she doesn't have my number. Nor my name. Such a shame. Throughout the morning my phone beeped, inbox pinged and my twitter feed filled up with commentary on the royal bebe in waiting, or indeed bebes as many are speculating, and I have to admit my heart sunk a little. And not just because I didn't hear the news from the royals themselves.

I am thrilled that a baby is on Will and Kate's immediate horizon. The blessing of a baby is something I'm reminded of regularly in the blissful, albeit sleep-deprived, bubble from which I'm writing.(From this bubble I'm also often reminded of the breathtaking ability of a certain toddler to mimic a terrorist who is zealously committed to holding her subjects parents hostage but that, my dear readers, is a post for another day).

Having children is something I wish upon anyone for whom the experience appeals and Will and Kate have both expressed such a desire. News they're expecting is joyful, lovely and exciting so why the sinking heart you ask?  I feel dreadful that Kate is so ill and I'm a tad devastated that their happy news emerged the way it has. The trouble with my imagined royal friendship is that I feel oddly protective of them. And dour as it might seem, right now, they have my sympathy.

The early weeks of pregnancy are precarious and peculiar enough without being violently unwell or heavily scrutinised. I don't think it's uncommon for even the least queasy pregnant woman to wish, even temporarily, she could just sit out the first loong 12 weeks of gestation without having to stage all manner of masquerades to hide the speck of life inside. Pretending to sip wine when in actual fact you're struggling to stomach lemonade, fronting up to work with your regular enthusiasm, finding enough foundation to mask the grey pallor discolouring your skin, assembling outfits that hide any sign of a bump and generally participating in normal life, is quite exhausting in those early months when, really, all you want to do is sleep. 

Imagine being one of the most visible, photographed women in the world during that strange time? Then, add in not just mild nausea but illness so severe that it requires hospitalisation, which in turn means your secret is out. To the entire world. Instead of enjoying even 12 weeks knowing your secret is safe in the privacy of your own marriage, news programs and betting agencies alike are speculating as to whether you are 8,9,10 or 11 weeks along. And to fill time  they're also using your public schedule to guess where the new life may have been conceived. All of which they're doing while camped outside your hospital room. It's enough to make a woman violently ill. 

So while I am overjoyed that my favourite royals are in the family way I am sad that it has come out this way. A private pregnancy was never going to be possible but I do wish their plans to share the news with their families on Christmas Day had been possible. Not just because it would have been on their own terms but it would have bought them another month of privacy. Which would have saved us all another month's worth of magazine covers running a variation of the story that Kate is pregnant. Because not even their most loyal friend, ok fan, wants that.

Answering big questions

Some questions are perfectly suited to explore during an ad break on tv. A few of my personal favourites include “Would you like me to get you a tim-tam and a blanket?” or “Would you like me to massage your shoulders until the show comes back on?” or “Gosh it’s amazing how much you fit into every day.” Ok the last one is actually a statement but I really like the sentiment. Perfect tv questions are generally conducive to short conversations that can easily cease the minute Homeland returns.  And then there are other questions. Questions so big that answering them requires turning the television off, boiling the jug and settling in for the long haul.

And so it was when Mr G recently asked “How are you feeling about having another baby?” The long and detailed response I gave then is moot now so rather than mulling the hypothetical I can tell you, at this early stage, how I am actually feeling about being a mother of two gorgeous girls. Lots of words immediately spring to mind. Grateful. Happy. Tired. Lucky. Relieved. Empowered. Did I say tired??? For your benefit I’m going to put my fogginess aside to try writing some actual sentences now because I’m guessing a post full of single, unrelated words would make for uninspiring reading material?

First up, a few weeks ago I celebrated the existence of maternity leave and  it is now time to give a very warm round of applause to its lovely sibling; paternity leave. How any new parent could get through the early days and weeks without a partner on hand is beyond me. If you have done that or know anyone who has please give yourself, or them, a HUGE hug from me and then shout yourself a Chinese massage and a large slab of Rocklea Road. Because you deserve it and more. For now paternity leave means Mr G is on hand in the NABM household for another few weeks which makes for a happy home. It means we have some time to enjoy our new family and get to know the lovely Miss L without the reality of work.  

And let me tell you, in the eyes of her besotted and biased mum, Miss L is just lovely. She is a tiny, soft, sweet and adorable bundle with whom we have fallen utterly in love. I am reliving my awe at newborn babies all over again; I still find it bewildering that anyone’s body is capable of growing a perfectly formed little baby, let alone, my own. And then there is that truly remarkable moment when you meet the tiny person who blossomed in your bump. For me the bond with each of my baby girls wasn’t strong or real until I actually met them. Then it was different; there was a face, a name and a person to whom my love could attach. 

It’s like my heart undergoes a spontaneous, slap-dash renovation and quickly erects a large new wing ready to be filled with love. It’s obviously not furnished or decorated because the finer details of the love are yet to take form but it’s there and it’s lovely. And it grows with every feed, with every stroke of their soft skin, with every bath and every interaction.

Lots of people warned me that having two children is a big step up in terms of logistics. That family life gets very real when the number of children equals, or exceeds, the number of adults in the household. We are at adult to child equilibrium now and whilst I wouldn’t describe it as a leisure lifestyle I will say this; going from one child to two is NOTHING compared to going from no children to one. Bringing Miss I home for the first time was terrifying.  Everything about being responsible for a baby for the first time was daunting. Second time around is different. The task itself isn’t any different – feed, bathe, dress, feed, change, settle, feed and repeat every few hours for a few months – but the angst and fear is no longer a big deal. I guess the fact we are already accustomed to caring for another small person around the clock has helped makes this transition easier*.

Having said that it also means this time we have the adjustment and well-being of another little person to consider which throws a different dynamic in the mix. How Miss I would handle the new addition was something I thought about a lot towards the end of my pregnancy. My thoughts didn’t achieve much but my suspicions that it would probably be one of the harder parts of bringing a new baby home were well founded. Miss I is madly in love with her new sister; her eyes light up when she sees her, she forever asks for cuddles and kisses which she bestows with varying degrees of force affection and she tells her “We’re nearly home L” if we’re in the car and Miss L is crying. It is heart-bursting stuff. But. Remember that see-saw I talk about when looking after little people? That. On steroids. The highs and lows are faster and less predictable than ever before which, funnily enough, creates something of a see-saw for my own emotions.

But so far we are all in one piece and despite the odd bump when the see-saw thrashes us downwards life is a lot like Miss L. Just lovely.   

*For now. Naturally I reserve the right to re-evaluate my views when I am regularly responsible for looking after both girls on my own.

Then three became four...

My dear readers I am thrilled to report that you are in good company. It appears Mother Nature, or at least the purveyor of civilised and no-fuss labours, does in fact read this blog. And best of all she takes requests! So cast your wish below and you might just be rewarded like I was.

On Friday our second darling daughter, Miss L, made her way into this world with minimal fuss and maximum ease. She is completely divine and has already forced me to eat my earlier envious words. Her birth was so calm and straightforward that I found it, err, empowering. Truly! What's even more telling is that since Miss L's arrival i have thought to myself - more than once - that a really bad knee reconstruction would be a lot worse. I kid you not.  Can you believe this is really me???

I sort of can't. For a start it happened two weeks earlier than I expected. Last week when I waxed lyrical about the joy of maternity leave I did not expect the baby bit to kick in quite so soon. At least not consciously.

In hindsight, however, it seems on some level I knew what was coming. When Mr G and Miss I went to visit his family in the country for two days I weighed up my options. Embrace the break and do absolutely nothing or go absolutely nuts on the home front and use the remaining two weeks to slowly get prepared? Now ordinarily when 
faced with two such options I would be horizontal on the couch inhaling rocky road and Vanity Fair faster than you can say bliss. But this time I went with the latter. 

I was possessed; I washed and sorted all the baby clothes, i finalised the last details in the nursery and I then proceeded to attack every corner, cupboard and crevice in our flat with unprecedented fervour. I tidied, I scrubbed, I cleaned, I sorted and I shopped. Nothing was safe. When I found myself outside scrubbing our courtyard  I realised something was odd. I was nesting like a crazy woman.

Mr G and I laughed during my first pregnancy about this whole 'nesting' concept we read about; we both knew it was highly unlikely the affliction would strike me. Ever. And first time around we were right.

This time around we weren't because this time was different. In every single way. From the minute we arrived at the hospital to the moment i had a beautiful baby in my arms, the experience was serene and stress free. An epidural administered at the right time certainly contributed to this but so too did the fact my body seemed to have read up on all the textbooks and followed the steps set out to a tee.

We relaxed while my body did its thing: if you watched video footage of Mr G and I kicking back in the delivery suite I swear you would not guess I was in labour. Well, except for the telltale sign that we were in a delivery suite. We chatted, laughed, read the papers, did sudoku, debated what variety of baby might be joining our clan...and frankly had quite a bit of fun. Seriously. Mr G played with every contraption in the room while I contemplated marrying every person who came in my vicinity.

In my blissed-out state I was ready to marry the anaesthetist, the midwife, my obstetrician and Mr G in one big happy polygamous ceremony. Because all together we were having my baby and we were cool, calm and collected. Mother Nature had picked me!!!

My high was compounded exponentially when everything culminated in the swift and peaceful arrival of a healthy bundle of baby girl. Could this world be any more amazing??? I'm afraid I can't see how. Having any healthy baby arrive in your arms is no small miracle so having two feels akin to winning one of life's great lotteries. And when the second comes with ease? Well that feels like  it was one of the really big mega pick, lottery bonanzas so right now I'm feeling pretty darn lucky.

I had planned on spending some quality time blogging over the next two weeks but obviously that is now most unlikely. Which is a tiny shame because I had a few timely topics I needed to canvass with you - such as how I was feeling before the imminent birth of my second child!! - but alas. For the next  little bit  I'm going to play NABM by baby. If time and mental capacity permits I'll be here with bells on but if not I will be ensconced in baby land. But if you ever want to talk uplifting childbirth stories I am your woman and for that topic I will forever be available.

Cold watermelon and maternity leave

So it is Tuesday* morning and I am blogging, coffee in hand, in one of my favourite outdoor cafes. I slept in, I’ve browsed the  newspapers, scanned Twitter and I'm not even wagging. I am just making the most of what are certain to be the least labour-intensive days of my maternity leave; without a baby or a toddler in my care. Mr G and Miss I are enjoying a farm break together and I thought I'd take a break from swimming through a pile of wondersuits and muslin wraps to stop by here.

I finished work on Friday with mixed emotions. Excited at the prospect of what the next few weeks will bring but also sad to bid farewell, albeit temporarily, to work. It's one of the reasons I am currently overwhelmed with gratitude for the privilege which is maternity leave. Some of which is even paid!! It was not on the table when I had Miss I so it is a new thing for me and what peace of mind it brings.

At the risk of inducing nausea I quite truly love my job. Of course there are days when it’s a grind, when my motivation wanes or when words simply fail to materialise and I’d rather be on a beach with a gin and tonic. But, on the whole, I love going to work. I like what I’m paid to do, I l really enjoy the company of the people I’m paid to work with and, of course, as I’ve canvassed before, I love the platform it provides for a work wardrobe.

On the brink of such a large break it is easy for me to don rose tinted glasses and only recall the good bits about work….because for the next twelve months any bad bits will be a distant memory. But even without a break forthcoming I try to be grateful for the simple fact that I enjoy my job. Because my first proper job was not like that (not even close) and neither were my ‘professional’ pursuits whilst we were living overseas.

So today’s post is a short one. I’m grateful not only to have a job that I love but to have a job that also gives me the opportunity to pursue an even greater love; my growing family. On a lighter note I am also overwhelmed with appreciation for my late-stage pregnancy crack; cold pineapple and watermelon. Taken together, or separately, they never fail to bring me joy.  

Now it's your turn. What are you especially thankful for at the moment?  Big or small, share what is making you smile.

*I got distracted and napped for so long yesterday afternoon that I didn’t post this earlier. 

Pangs of envy

Listen I know jealousy is not a flattering shade. On anyone. We’re all old and wise enough to know that envy achieves very little. But, of course, knowing that doesn’t actually stop the old green eyed monster from stopping by once in a while. At least not for me. And lately? I’m big enough to admit it’s been stopping by quite a bit.

It’s always triggered by the same thing. Childbirth. Which is a pretty relevant topic for me, being 37 weeks’ pregnant and all. In recent weeks I have heard of three instances where friends’ of friends’ have had their babies so quickly that it’s happened at home or in the car on the way to hospital. In all three cases, mother and baby were healthy and thriving despite the circumstances. My reaction has been identical each time; relief everyone was ok quickly followed by intense and frequent pangs of jealousy. Insane, visceral jealousy. Why were they so anatomically well equipped to deliver a baby so fast? What kind of sweet deal did they strike with mother nature?? AND WHERE WAS I WHEN THEY WERE DIVVYING OUT THOSE ARRANGEMENTS?

It’s the same whenever I hear of someone delivering their baby in under five hours, or anyone who describes their childbirth as empowering or says, as another did, that delivering her child wasn’t as bad as a knee reconstruction she had had earlier.  Now I’m sorry but to my mind that begs one very pertinent question. What the hell kind of knee reconstruction did she endure?? Was she awake while they chipped away at her joint to realign the ligaments?? Did they skip that bit where a nice anaesthetist arrives and dispenses a GENERAL ANAESTHETIC???

At this point you may be wondering why I am so ungracious in the face of such happy and straightforward baby deliveries. As callous as I may sound I don’t actually begrudge anyone for having a fast or empowering birth and I would never EVER wish a long or difficult birth on anyone. Nonetheless I am overcome with envy when I hear of bodies which deliver babies so easily. And, seeing as though you asked - didn’t you? – I’ll tell you why. Because my experience with childbirth was not fast or empowering.

Theoretically I could have driven from Sydney to Perth and still have made it to a hospital in plenty of time to deliver Miss I. Considering my body was experiencing violent spasms every few minutes I couldn’t have actually driven anywhere but, the point is, there was no chance of me delivering at home or in the car. Because I was in labour for 38 hours. That’s right. Thirty. Eight. Hours. And before you even think about dismissing my description of ‘labour’ as ‘labour’ let me tell you more.

My contractions started at five minute intervals. They were strong from the get go and they never got further apart. Every childbirth book and antenatal teacher will tell you that the point at which contractions are just five minutes apart is the time to get to hospital. It’s not uncommon for contractions to begin at 30 minutes apart and whittle their way down to five minutes and then as the final stage approaches just a minute or less apart. So when mine started that close together I could only conclude one thing; my baby was coming fast.

How. Wrong. I. Was. My baby was coming but, my god, she was going to take her time. After 12 hours’ I assumed I’d be raring to go. And, yet, I had not dilated. Not one bit. After 24 hours and still no progress I was exhausted and disheartened. By 28 hours I was barely lucid an,  after suggesting someone put me down like an animal, an anaesthetist promptly arrived to put me out of my misery. Fortunately he dismissed my dramatic suggestion and opted for the less drastic injection; an epidural. And, like great swathes of child-delivering women all over this world before me, I was instantly grateful. For his very existence as much as the marvels of modern medicine.

Ten hours later I was the proud, shattered and positively delirious mother of Miss I. And by delirious I mean truly delirious. Not in any romantic use of the word – I actually felt like I was inhabiting a distant and unfamiliar planet and I remained in that state for a few days. This state was naturally compounded by the fact I was now responsible for feeding a living breathing baby around the clock.  (Our seasoned antenatal teacher shared one piece of wisdom in this regard that I will never forget; childbirth would be much easier if you didn’t become responsible for a newborn baby immediately afterwards and equally that caring for a newborn baby would be much easier if you weren’t recovering from the physical demands of delivering that newborn).

One silver lining of Miss I’s birth (apart from the adorable bundle herself) was that I was on the other side of the world to most of our family and friends; I wasn’t exactly fit for public consumption. Two lovely friends who visited us the morning after Miss I’s birth left so wide-eyed that I still feel seeing me that way may have had a strong contraceptive effect.  A few days later, after clasping her eyes on Miss I for the first time, another friend commented that if there was ever a baby worth waiting 38 hours for she was lying in my arms. I agreed. But, with my hand on my heart, let me say this. I wouldn’t love her any less if she had come in 3 hours. I promise!

So Mother Nature if you’re listening (or reading) and you’re having one of those days where you hand out coupons for fast births in the next few weeks PICK ME! PLEASE PICK ME!! I promise I’ll work on my jealousy issues.

What makes you insanely jealous? And please don’t say nothing. Tell me I’m not alone in succumbing to the occasional pang of envy??

A heartening speech. In disheartening circumstances.

I rarely blog about politics because it’s not a topic I believe I can offer a particularly nuanced or sophisticated take on. Unlike, for example, my favourite royals. But after last week? I can’t not venture there. In all honesty my views on this matter are more about principles than they are about politics anyway. So. Let’s talk about Julia Gillard’s performance in parliament. She came out firing in acknowledging and condemning sexist and offensive conduct from Tony Abbott.  And, politics aside, I couldn’t agree more.

In my view she nailed it; she spoke with conviction and eloquence, her argument was cogent and the passionate delivery of those words – long overdue – felt cathartic to watch. Internationally it was an instant hit. Some said she excoriated him, others suggested Barack Obama follow her lead and, well, my favourite UK writer, Caitlin Moran, in her own inimitable fashion, suggested Gillard had torn Abbott a new orifice. And I’m not even going to say what most of the mainstream press said. Because some of it made my want to cry and because I sincerely believe they missed the point entirely.

The circumstances in which her speech was delivered were not ideal, and whilst it might seem naïve to say that didn’t impact the power of her words, in my view, it didn’t.

The government’s handling of Peter Slipper and the lewd scandal in which he stars has been tardy; there is no hiding from that. But the opposition cannot wipe their hands of him; from 1993 until just last year he was one of their own. At the 2010 election Tony Abbott stood beside Mr Slipper declaring him not only a valued politician but a valued friend.

That is relevant not in relation to the government’s response to the broader situation but because it puts Julia Gillard’s direct response to Tony Abbott in context. Like so many of the cheap political points Abbott constantly seeks to score against Gillard, it is hypocritical. It is hypocritical to slight the government on the basis of its affiliation with Peter Slipper when for decades and decades, the liberal party supported him and Abbott counted him a personal friend. If they were in the reverse situation, there is every likelihood, if not certainty, that an Abbott-led government would have acted similarly in not disposing of Slipper immediately. They, too, would have afforded him the luxury of due process.

Many of the concessions Gillard has made in office were required to form a government at all. Because no party won a majority at the last election, the government was up for grabs with three independent ministers calling the shots.  Those ministers met with both Gillard and Abbott and those ministers have made it explicitly clear, on the parliamentary record, that had they given the mandate to Abbott he would have made the same concessions. He told them as much. And yet Gillard is constantly goaded by Abbott for being a liar who can’t be trusted. But worse than that he regularly uses her gender, explicitly and implicitly, to attack her.  

So, last week, when Abbott so provokingly recalled Alan Jones’ revolting words and said the government’s handling of Slipper would cause it to ‘die of shame’ the scene was set for a showdown.  And it was less about Slipper than it was about Abbott. Gillard had had enough and was ready to take him on. And that meant raising the inevitable; her gender and the offensive way she is treated.

Despite some now saying she is using her gender as a shield I disagree. Vehemently.  I think she has avoided mentioning gender for so long because for so long I believe, she believed, it was irrelevant. And yet? It hasn’t been. She has been called barren, she has been told to make an honest woman of herself, she has been called a witch and a bitch and as Anne Summers so comprehensively covered, she has been discriminated against and persecuted, on the basis of her gender.

Sexism and misogyny are ugly words but what is even uglier is the fact they remain alive and well. And, uglier still, the fact we’re not supposed to say that. And that’s what made Gillard’s words so powerful. She broke the unwritten rule of staying silent. We have reached an insidious point in the quest for gender equality where the mere suggestion of ill treatment on the basis of your own anatomy is deemed irritating at best and vexatious at worst. It is why instances of discrimination or blatant sexism are most often dismissed out of hand by the target as much as anyone else. The treatment of women who do pursue action for sexual harassment or sexist conduct is a persuasive case in point. They are always cast as money-grabbing, troublemakers, disrupting the status quo.  Against that backdrop why would anyone speak out?

I know from my own personal experience that I have always opted for silence over confrontation when I have encountered less than acceptable behaviour on the basis of my gender. And I can hazard a solid guess that the women among you have too. And the question I now ask is why? This isn’t 1930 or 1960 or even 1980. It is 2012.  

And it’s the reason why I thought having our prime minister, regardless of her political affiliation, stand up and call time on being subject to insulting and offensive treatment on the basis of her being a woman was so heartening. In the most disheartening of ways

My favourite reading material on the matter

Words many have rehearsed yet never spoken

An apology to Paul Sheehan

Corinne Grant on The Hoopla

Why Gillard’s speech was brilliant

Jessica Irvine on The Punch

Living on a see-saw

Someone who reads this blog recently confessed that reading it makes her not want to have children. In fairness she said she finds the whole idea of parenting quite frightening anyway, but, even still I was sad to hear my words have had that effect. Like every parent I know I am constantly amazed and overwhelmed by my love for Miss I. She blows me away. She is only two but the two years since she made her foray into this wild old world have, hands down, been the most rewarding, rich and happy of my life.

As I suspect is the case with all toddlers a day doesn’t go by that isn’t enriched with more joy than you could ever imagine. And I don’t mean joy in an abstract fashion. I mean joy that manifests itself daily in all manner of simple ways and is blissfully inescapable; toddlers live every moment the way greeting cards encourage us all too. They dance like no-one is watching and they sing like no-one is listening but of course if there is an audience they’re happier still. Their love and affection knows no bounds nor does their constant quest to seek out fun and laughter. Whether it’s a tap in the park, a watering can in the garden or discovering a funny new word like ‘smelly’, they’re capable of squeezing every ounce of life out of it. And it’s a pretty fabulous journey to be part of.

I feel utterly blessed to have Miss I in my life and I could write about that week in, week out, but I don’t for a few reasons. For one thing, I suspect I would lose your interest very quickly if I posted about the love, joy and wonder Miss I unfailingly brings to every day. Because it happens in much the same way. Every day. And that would make for a very repetitious blog. And, aside from getting repetitive, writing glowing reports about Miss I every week would overlook two glaring realities of parenting.

First, I don’t expect the whole world to rejoice in my darling girl’s every milestone the way Mr G and I do. Fortunately I can spare you those details because, instead, we subject grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends to whenever they’re within earshot. Secondly, as every parent knows, the flipside to the highly charged mini love affair that is raising toddlers is the hard stuff. I didn’t study physics but I suspect it’s the whole “for every action there’s a reaction” dynamic at play.

Daily life takes on a greater intensity when living with a little person. It just does. There are mornings when simply sharing a bowl of weetbix is the funniest, most entertaining ten minutes of your day courtesy of your toddler’s delightful mood. There are other mornings when sharing weetbix is like some form of torture, where the weetbix are the wrong shape, the milk’s come from the wrong bottle, the bowl is wrong, the spoon is wrong, the cup is wrong and ten minutes very quickly feels like three hours. This funny little see-saw act somehow just becomes a way of life.

And truthfully? It is frustrating at times. I don’t say that to fear monger or put any one off having kids. I say it because, for me, it’s the way it is and to say otherwise would be disingenuous. But it would be equally disingenuous to say that the see-saw makes me question having children. It doesn’t. Not even close.

One of the extraordinary twists I’ve discovered about parenting is that the hard bits, the tough days and the impossible moments, are powerless in the face of my love. At times Miss I is incredibly effective at testing my patience, challenging my sanity and even compromising my perspective, but, somehow nothing she ever does gets close to my love. It’s immutable. Absolute and unchallengeable. And an absolute pleasure. It is completely different to romantic love but falling in love with a little person is every bit as lovely. And it comes with the added bonus of them unashamedly worshipping the space you occupy*. There is a photograph of Mr G and I in Miss I’s bedroom and no words will ever do her reaction to it justice; she lights up as if she is carrying the secret to life, love and endless happiness right there in the palms of her hands.  

That look alone is enough to make me recommend having children to anyone who wants them in a heartbeat. You will be astounded. Daily. Having said that, I’m not sure making any decision about childrearing on the basis of this blog alone, is wise. I am but one mother in this big world and as we explored recently I am not exactly a pin up for how it is done.  But I wouldn’t change that for the world.

*I am aware this window is limited. I believe in years to come “worship” may be the polar opposite of Miss I’s reaction to any space I occupy. Until that day, however, I will drink up her adoration while it lasts.

Artistic differences

The NABM household headed west on a roadtrip for the long weekend. We had a ball catching up with family and as we made our way back to Sydney on Monday Mr G and I had a funny little conversation. I was (and remain) completely flabbergast by my sister and brother in law. We all stayed at the cottage they've been renovating for the past year and the results are amazing. Not because of an extravagant budget, the help of an architect and interior designer or a team of tradesmen. They have done virtually everything themselves on a tiny budget and have almost transformed a dilapidated country cottage into a lush family home. The results are ridiculous.

The colours, the finishes, the furniture, the lay out...it is a fabulous visual feast. Among other things, I was immediately struck by various pieces of art hung around the home. I can't do them justice in words but the walls are adorned with all manner of bold and beautiful bits and pieces. From a gorgeous poem printed on distressed wood, to a large canvass dotted with small hearts, to bright animal prints, to photo frames filled with paper butterflies, to vintage mirrors spray painted glossy black....all the various pieces make the space sing. I walked around staring at each one wondering where on earth my sister B could source such fabulous things without spending a fortune. Naturally I nearly fell over when she admitted she was the artist. She had conceived and created every single piece. And therein lies my awe.

It blows my mind that someone - particularly someone closely related to me - can do such things. Every step of the process...which I insisted B explain to me in minute detail...from coming up with her ideas, to sourcing the materials, to actually creating it...is foreign to me. And I am not being at all modest. I genuinely don't have any artistic aptitude whereas B is filled with it. To her colour, design, decor and art are the easiest things in the world. Which is why it blows my mind.I explained this fascination at great length to Mr G during our trip home. He was also mightily impressed by the handiwork and talents of B and her husband but he was also blown away by someone else.

My tech-savvy, iPad-toting, Facebook-using, Tweeting, octogenarian Pa was with us for the weekend. His social media prowess is light years ahead of Mr G's but it wasn't that that caught his attention. Over dinner one night Pa  was recalling the various developments in technology during the 70s and 80s when he was running a large regional department store. He remembers basically every piece of technology that came out and told us about how he used each development in various parts of the business. His ability to recall facts, figures and dates about pretty much anything is uncanny and to Mr G that is completely foreign.

Whereas Mr G could conceivably renovate a house or build a piece of furniture, he cannot conceivably imagine being able to remember details a year on, let alone, three decades later. Which is different to me. Whilst I have a knack for remembering names and dates, even the idea of  attempting a piece of art or a renovation project is so far beyond my skill set that it intrigues me. 

And I think it's one of the things that makes us humans so very interesting. Each of us has a completely different set of natural skills and talents. Obviously with education and training you can improve them or develop completely new ones but I don't think there is any escaping what comes to you naturally. What are you good at without trying? And what skills do other people have that blow you away?

Err, I'm back. Briefly.

Forgive me if this gives you whiplash. No sooner had I pressed publish on my last post,  signalling time for a blogging break, that I realised my mind was swirling with thoughts that I couldn’t possibly not blog about. So here I am.

You see a friend has recently suffered an indecent and flagrant invasion of her privacy and I am incensed and saddened on her behalf. It matters not that this friend knows nothing about me or indeed that I exist. Because none of those minor details have dimmed my horror and sorrow over the past few days. It is hard to watch someone you care about, however odd or misguided that care may seem, be let down.

I am, of course, referring to the Duchess of Cambridge. And I will say from the outset I think she has been let down. Badly. Let's start with the facts. Whilst on a private holiday with her husband, in a private home, she enjoyed some private pool time. During that time she removed her bikini top. Little did she know that 1.6 miles or 2 kilometres away there was a photographer hiding in the trees, snapping away at her every move with a super lens. I have heard many people say 'She should have been more careful!', 'She should always expect photographers to be there', and even 'She would have known'.

I disagree. As a bystander, admittedly one with an unfounded level of familiarity and inexplicable perceived affinity with the Duchess and her Duke, my take is this. They are a private couple with a very public life. From the outside it looks like they manage this dichotomy adeptly. When duty calls, and it frequently does, they are smiling, gracious and professional. They execute their public responsibilities with warmth and enthusiasm. And, I understand that the rest of the time they seek out privacy and relative normalcy. Since they got married the public component of their lives has obviously increased as has the insatiable appetite to scrutinise their every move. But even with that they have avoided controversy.

The Duchess has now been in the public eye for nearly nine years. In that time, even with photographers tailing her every move, there has not been one scandalous image of her taken. No drunken antics, no nudity, no drug taking, nothing remotely illicit. And I don't think that is by accident. Which is precisely why I refuse to entertain the possibility that she was aware a photographer might be capturing her by the pool in France.

And neither should she have. I absolutely believe they are entitled to privacy; to have time when they can live like no one is watching. If they chose to cavort by a pool in a plush resort open to the public (albeit at a very high cost) I would understand photographers being there to capture the moment. But they weren't. They were in a private home enjoying what they thought was some time to themselves before embarking on their joint tour of Asia and the pacific. How humiliated and violated they must have felt after discovering their private time was nothing of the sort.

I can't imagine how heavy the burden of public scrutiny feels on the shoulders of two people my age, particularly knowing that interest is never ever going to subside. I can only imagine the way they manage it is by courting and relishing their privacy whenever they can. And in that regard my final point is this. 

Remember when you were little and you stayed with, or even just visited, family friends or relatives who were really strict and formal? And do you remember the utter liberation you felt on returning home or going outside, being free to roam, run amok and frankly let it all hang out? I remember that feeling very clearly. I can only hazard a guess that it is multiplied exponentially for Kate and Will, when they have just finished three million formal functions in a week and they realise they can escape the public gaze for a few days. 

Frankly if I was them I would be so deliriously drunk with joy every time a blank space came up in my diary, that if photographers were there to capture the moment it might not be pretty. Wouldn’t you do something a bit crazy? At the very least, eat ice cream in your underwear while dancing to Roxette???

If you are tempted to indict my friend for being reckless I just ask for a modicum of sympathy. As far as public humiliation goes, can you visualise anything worse than discovering your private time had been photographed and shared with the world? And not just that but instead of being able to quietly retreat with your family or friends, you have to continue on a very public tour, fronting the media and great crowds, for every waking minute for the next week?  

Ok. That’s me. Where do you stand? 

Taking time

I am a bit sad about this post. A big bit sad actually. It is time for me to take a little break from regular blogging. It is not a break because I have run out of ideas or because I am sick of it or because I have finally been appointed as the Duchess of Cambridge's lady in waiting. Alas. It is simply because I am running out of time. And not in an existential or macabre way. 

It's just my days are shrinking. Or at least the  window of productive time between my waking hours is greatly reduced  and I'm struggling to fit everything in. Between working four days a week, taking care of Miss I, growing a new family member, trying to get organised for said new family member, co-running a household, being a wife, sister, daughter and friend, and writing my blog, all whilst trying to maximize the amount of time I spend asleep or at least horizontal, I'm knackered. 

Another bout of illness last week - like a cruel return to the morning sickness I left behind 20 or so weeks ago - made me very aware of this. Something has to give and for the next little bit it has to be this. As much as I love it (you know I do) this little blog is the one task I can actually relinquish temporarily. (Trust me when I say I wish I could relinquish tasks like cooking, cleaning, washing and all the other bits and pieces that co-running a household involves).

Rest assured I will be back. And soon. I have several posts half-written and more ideas every minute so there is no way you can escape me permanently. (I really need to find a way to convert ideas into free time - any suggestions are welcome.) I just won't regularly post on a Wednesday for the next few weeks. 

Until then, stay well, my dearly beloved readers. If you uncover any fantastic blogs or sites whilst you're navigating the immense black hole that the absent NABM will inevitably leave in your daily lives, please share! 

Let's talk again soon.

Money matters

Here in NABM land we’ve inadvertently been doing a spot of social research. It wasn’t an experiment we set out to conduct but we did and the results are so compelling that I feel compelled to share them with you. Now I realise it’s impolite and dull to talk about money but money is, alas, part of life and because this blog is based on my life it falls into the explorable subject matter. So bear with me and I promise I’ll try not to be crass or dull. At least no more than usual.

I’m not sure if you’re familiar with various pieces of actual academic research showing the correlation between money and happiness but I will summarise. Up until a point happiness and money do correlate; essentially if you’re in financial stress money does limit your happiness. Understandably not being able to pay your rent, buy groceries or meet your basic needs is stressful and unpleasant enough that it detracts from your enjoyment of life. But once you reach a point where you can meet your basic financial requirements, and this point is modest, there is no longer any correlation between your bank balance and your happiness. So. In a nutshell a modest amount of money can buy you happiness but after that you’re on your own. Having a tonne of money is no guarantee of tonnes of happiness. Gina Reinhart is an apt case in point.

Anyway. I have recently tested this theory and I can say with certainty that the research is spot on. The start of this financial year marked the start of a much better time for us in pure dollar terms. Two small pay rises, some additional casual income and a significant reduction in childcare fees (because the government rebate* re-started) all conspired in our favour. 

Let me be clear; the difference in real dollars is not substantial. You won’t find me shopping with abandon, planning overseas holidays, servicing a large mortgage or becoming a regular at a luxury day spa any time soon. But the difference, in actual real life terms, is substantial. We can now meet our monthly expenses without concern and no longer fear unexpected bills. And, let me say, the difference that makes is HUGE.

It wasn’t that finances consumed my every waking thought but there were several times each month where I was anxious about money. And not in the broader sense of long-term security but in the day-to-day practical sense. And until that changed a few months ago, I hadn’t realised quite how heavy a burden it was. Now that I don’t spend any time fretting our day to day expenses I feel quite liberated. And that’s when it occurred to me that we had crossed that tipping point on the graph. It didn’t take much but we moved from a point where money was a genuine concern to a point where it genuinely isn’t. At least, not in the day to day sense. And I’m genuinely happier for it.

I should make a few disclaimers here. We were not drowning in debt or sitting on the brink of bankruptcy. We were by no means living below the breadline and I wouldn’t suggest for a minute that we encountered genuine financial hardship. It would be insulting and disingenuous to say that. Aside from anything else we have a huge psychological buffer in the form of supportive people in our lives whom would never let us starve. And between us, in our different jobs, there is earning potential on the horizon. Both of those factors make us extremely lucky so please don’t think I’m crying poor in that sense. We’re just not. But equally I am sincere in saying that when household income only just covers the essential household expenses it is a tense equation.

I raised this with Mr G the other night and he agreed that the past two months, without the mental constraint of finance-related fears, have been much more enjoyable. He also made the point that the household equation that made us both uncomfortable can apply at any income level. I agree to a point. Financial stress is described as a situation where your income doesn’t cover your expenses. If your expenses include a three million dollar mortgage and five European holidays each year and you’re struggling to accommodate those with your earnings, on top of the essentials, my sympathy for the ‘stress’ in that situation is limited. 

On the other hand, my sympathy for any person or family whose earnings only just cover the basics is unlimited. It doesn’t take much but even just a small margin in your favour at the end of each month makes such a psychological difference. At least it did for me.

What do you think? How do you describe the relationship between money and happiness?

*Ah the government’s “50 percent” childcare rebate which is sadly only “50 percent” to a point. A point that is reached very, very quickly when the only childcare position available to your toddler in the entire city sits in the “Maserati/Ferrari” price bracket. Which would be fantastic if you were in the “Maserati/Ferrari” income bracket. It is less fantastic when you’re not because it will then turn out that for nine months out of twelve you will essentially work just to pay childcare fees. In which case it’s quite important to love your job or, at the very least, love office clothes, which incidentally I do. 

A twin tribute

This is an overdue tribute to one of my dearest friends who is currently tackling an extraordinary feat. It started less than a year ago when she discovered - to her complete surprise - she was carrying twins. She handled the news with incredible grace and humour which she miraculously maintained throughout her pregnancy. Twelve weeks ago, after a remarkable effort managing a double pregnancy whilst caring for her two year old, Harry* and her husband welcomed their beautiful new bundles into the world. Predictably the welcome bit did not involve their two bambinos knocking on the family door, strolling in with a ready-packed nappy bag slung over their shoulder, waving at their big brother and making themselves comfortable in their new digs. But once again with grace, humour and phenomenal strength Harry emerged unscathed and set about settling her babies into life in the outside world.

Having experienced how daunting and relentless the task of nurturing for a single newborn feels in those early days and weeks, I actually cannot compute how anyone does it with two  as well as a toddler. But Harry and her husband, with the support of their families, have and are. There have understandably been tears and minor meltdowns along the way but they are coping and even smiling. I suspect this will be one of the toughest tasks Harry and her husband will face. It’s demanding terrain – both physically and emotionally – and already I think they have ample reason to be unashamedly proud.

At many points throughout their journey I have been overwhelmed with admiration and respect for what this gorgeous family are doing and the way in which they’re doing it.  I was in Brisbane on the weekend and caught up with Harry in person for the second time since her family of three became a family of five. And, for the second time, I walked away in complete awe. When Harry delivered the twins I actually felt a bit heroic simply by proxy of knowing her. Everyone in my office was aware of my Extraordinary Friend’s achievement. Whether they liked it or not they knew the weight, order and names of these babies. And that SOMEONE I KNEW HAD GROWN AND DELIVERED THEM.

And this brings me to something else a bit remarkable about my friend. You see if I was her I would have t-shirts printed, posters erected and email signatures reading “My life is currently a hell of a lot harder than yours. I grew and delivered two tiny babies and am now feeding, bathing and caring for them whilst also feeding, bathing and caring for my super active toddler so frankly whatever you are doing is EASY by comparison.”

She hasn’t done or even said that. Even in private conversations with me she doesn’t insinuate that with one toddler my load is pretty jammy. Amazingly, I suspect that’s because she doesn’t even think that. Or she hasn’t had time to. Either way, in lieu of her not broadcasting the champion job she is doing, I thought I should. It’s hard to compare one person’s challenges with another’s because everything in life is relative. Even still, I struggle to imagine a more overwhelming job than looking after infant twins with a toddler. Particularly because, as you know, there are days when I think looking after a toddler alone can be pretty tough. So, Harry, you are my hero. And if you’d like me to print posters, just say the word.    

*This is not her real name. It is however her real nickname that bears no resemblance to her actual name. Though, once again, if I was her I’d have my full name printed with an address for fan mail. 

Hitting hurdles

As I drove to collect Miss I from daycare after work last Monday I felt satisfied. I’d had a productive day at the office, interviewed a particularly interesting subject and was looking forward to collecting my bundle of laughs. It wasn’t that I was high-fiving myself but I was, momentarily, feeling on top of things. After an enormous cuddle and excited chatter I was herding Miss I to the door when her lovely teacher stopped me for a chat. I was thrilled to hear the issue du jour was not a repeat of a few weeks earlier.

You see, for two days about a month ago, Mr G and I had to confront the unpleasant possibility that together we might be raising a violent sociopath; Miss I embarked upon a hitting spree at daycare. Apparently she was striking her peers regularly, most often with a solid object in her hand, and lest she give her poor victims the opportunity to protect themselves she was approaching them from behind. This also effectively circumvented any chance her peers had to raise their hands and say ‘stop’ as they’re taught to do when someone encroaches their personal space. 

Upon hearing of this uncharacteristic and unbecoming conduct I was shocked, embarrassed and extremely hopeful it was an isolated occurrence. After dropping her off the next morning I sat at my desk hoping Miss I’s classmates were having a more peaceful day. After a few hours had passed I rang for an update. Naturally I was hoping the teacher would say Miss I had morphed back into her incredibly-bossy-yet-incredibly-gentle-self. Sadly, the verdict wasn’t great. 

The frequency with which she was hitting had escalated, and now, not only was she whacking her friends more but she was waiting for the teacher’s full attention before doing so and then smiling at the teacher whilst proceeding with her brutal ways. Oh excellent. The possibility that Miss I was actually a violent reprobate posing as an otherwise delightful toddler suddenly felt real. And, naturally, quite terrifying. I fretted all afternoon and dreaded the pick-up, fearing the police, DOCS and angry parents, would all be awaiting my arrival. To my delight they weren’t. And even better, Miss I’s delinquent streak had failed to reappear after her lunchtime nap. Phew. There may still be hope. The weekend beckoned and progressed without incident as did the following week and the one after that.

But when I was stopped last Monday my stomach immediately lurched. Had Miss I’s aggressive alter ego reappeared?? Fortunately not. Instead her teacher wanted to talk to me about some minor concerns she has with Miss I’s language*. She gets some sounds mixed up and is quite stubborn when anyone tries to correct her. I hadn’t really thought too much about it. Honestly I had been thinking her speech was improving every day and just assumed she was on track for her age. When her teacher gently suggested otherwise I immediately wanted to wrap Miss I in soft, warm, cotton wool for the next thirty years. It sounds ridiculous but it felt like a tiny part of the real world was descending on my little girl and I wanted it to stop. Speech is one of life’s more essential skills and the idea that we were somehow letting Miss I down in this vital department and the remote possibility she might need some intervention, cracked my heart. Into a thousand pieces.

I should say the teacher did not say ‘You are obviously neglecting your daughter’s development’ or ‘I have grave concerns about your daughter’s language’ or ‘I am not sure you are properly equipped for the role of fostering a human being from baby to adulthood’. But she might as well have.  For me, the impact of the conversation was so much bigger than the words themselves. Part of the beauty of life with a small person is the innocence and simplicity of their days. If they are blessed with a home and loving carers, many toddlers live in a rather beautiful bubble without a care in the world. As long as there are cuddles, milk, songs, the occasional cupcake and The Night Garden, most two year olds I know are pretty thrilled. Obviously as they grow up that changes. Their needs become more complex with each birthday and the potential for problems bigger than missing seeing Macca Pacca go to bed slowly emerge.

That’s what struck - and scared me - last Monday.  The teacher’s caring and casual comments reminded me that one day, sooner than I will want, Miss I will emerge from the blissful bubble where we can take care of her every need. She’s hardly on the cusp of packing her bags and leaving home but these little obstacles are proof that she is on the cusp of another significant transition. From baby to child. Gradually along that road there are going to be more and more little hurdles that Mr G and I can’t clear for her; we can hold her hand and offer love and support to help her negotiate whatever pops up but we won’t always be able to take that leap. She will have to.

And that, my dear readers, is rather scary. Obviously not as scary as having a violent delinquent in our care but daunting all the same. If you have kids can you relate to my reaction? Are you ever overwhelmed by the reality of preparing a person for life?

*The teacher also wanted to let me know about another development in Miss I’s behaviour. At clean up time rather than pitching in and helping to pack away the toys she does one of two things. She either lies down and pretends to be asleep or stands as still as a statue pretending she can’t hear or see what is happening. Her final act, once there is only a single toy remaining, she magically awakes from her slumber or breaks free from her statue pose to collect the last item and then looks, expectantly, at her teachers for praise and glory. I talked to Miss I about this and the next afternoon asked her if she had helped pack up the toys that day. Her response? “No Mummy. I go night night". Cunning with a penchant for physical abuse. Clearly we are kicking parenting goals...

Clothes in the wild

Regular readers might recall that I spent two years in the wilderness. Not in the actual wild but I was without the anchor of a permanent job for two years and let me tell you it’s wilder than you might expect. Particularly for the first nine months when I didn’t have Miss I to care for and was yet to start a blog. For the record I did try to find work but my attempts were largely fruitless. You can read about my short and demoralising stints in the casual workforce here and here.

The experience taught me many things and among the more practical skills I mastered was the art of filling a day. I became highly proficient in fleshing out activities to fill time. A key tool in my kit, and indeed for anyone battling the elements outside the structure of a job or daily responsibility, was to perfect the meander.  And perfect it, I don’t mind saying, I did. The meander is the ideal way to pad out a day. I would always add time on either side of any scheduled activity to spend meandering. Essentially walking but without a specific purpose or destination.

I did spend nearly every waking moment a lot of time in one particular Oxford café, however, there would come always a point, long after my companions returned to their studies or jobs, where I had very clearly exceeded the amount of time any single person could reasonably spend occupying someone’s café. At that point I would set off for a wander. Or a meander. I always stopped into several shops on my walk home. 

I understand some people don’t like window shopping. Actually, that’s a lie. I will never understand that but I know for some people they don’t enjoy a browse. As a long-time lover of both clothes and shopping, I can happily peruse shops aimlessly for hours. Which I did. As an unemployed woman, my ability to purchase anything was obviously extremely limited. Being pregnant actually helped in this regard because it immediately ruled out the vast majority of items I admired anyway. So instead I would browse.

And dream. I was always drawn to the racks of chic and sharp clothes – blazers, cropped jackets, sleek pants, silk tops, cute heels – but I would always look and wonder the exact same thing. Who on earth wears them? And where do they go?? They were dressy but they weren’t cocktail dresses or party clothes. I was perplexed. The answer should have been obvious but it wasn’t. Living in a University town populated by students in a similar uniform to my own – stripy t-shirts, jeans and a million layers – without a bustling CBD filled with office workers, I couldn’t imagine a place so sophisticated to warrant these beautiful garments. The natural habitat for these items was completely off my radar.

Of course the clothes I obsessively ogled were work clothes. Not the matching suit variety but the sophisticated and sharp variety. Serious but fun. The clothes, that if I’m honest, I probably enjoy wearing the most. Having an excuse to actually buy some of these things was one of the many great joys I experienced when I returned to work. I’m reminded of this again now because as my tummy grows and my wardrobe options shrink, in shops once again, I’m magically drawn to the garments I’m least likely to fit in to or need for quite some time. At least now though I know where they belong and when I might need to wear them again. For now jersey and comfort are my great wardrobe friends.

What is your favourite category of clothes? And if you’ve been pregnant before what are your top maternity dressing tips?