Holidays and hospital

Ah holidays and hospitals. Not exactly the combination dreams are made of. Well, not mine anyway. But it's the combination my week's been made of. The NABM household relocated to my parents' home on the north coast for a holiday last week. It started out well. On Thursday night it was all wine, slow roasted pork belly, nibbles, Mum's iPad, a foxtel remote and plenty of fun.

My sister arrived on Friday with her husband and my two adorable nieces. Just before her, a very good friend from Brisvegas also descended on the house with her husband, their master 2 and her beautiful belly filled with two (two!) babies. It was manic in the way a house filled with small people is. Luckily the adult to child ratio was in sanity's favour.

On Saturday the madness continued. My friend and I snuck away to seek refuge at the hairdresser where they kindly allowed us to face one another to catch up on a few months of life as they snipped and shaped our locks. We then relocated to the nail salon where the debrief continued. Party preparations were underway that afternoon for an evening of festivities. The engagement and upcoming wedding of a very good friend was the happy occasion.

One of the defining qualities of the extended clan of family friends we enjoy here is a commitment to celebrating certain rituals. One of those rituals is to throw open the doors and let the champagne flow to welcome new friends and their families into our lives when they become engaged to a native north coaster. I agree with the mother of the soon-to-be-groom who put it eloquently; the significance of such rituals cannot be underestimated.

We approached the event with characteristic enthusiasm, purpose and direction*. It was fabulous fun and it's possible the night ended with Mr G and I debating which one of us was adding the most value to the party to determine which one of us should head to bed first to be in sprightly form for Miss I. True to stubborn form, neither of us budged. The next morning Mr G gallantly got up and let me sleep for a few extra hours. Anyway. Sunday was great fun and all was well until the early hours of Monday morning.

It was 3am. Miss I was awake and running a fever. Mr G was groaning in pain. I ran upstairs to find the children's panadol I'd spotted in the fridge. I looked high and low but could not locate anything resembling paracetamol. I ran back downstairs to confirm the sighting of such medication with Mr G. He agreed it had been in there in the morning along with some Nurofen. I had another scout but it was no good. It then clicked that the medication belonged to my highly organised sister. My sister, who had driven back to her house earlier that day, and naturally taken her girls' meds with her.

Great. I had just failed parenting 101. I believe it's the first time we've travelled that we haven't packed panadol. Naturally it's also the first time we've been away that Miss I has woken at 3am with a temperature and we've needed it. Killer combination that. Several phone calls later I discovered there was no 24-hour chemist nearby and my only hope was the hospital. After a bit of haggling the emergency department said they would dispense a single dose of children's paracetamol without having to admit her first.

I jumped in the car, ran into the hospital, thanked the nurses and raced back home to administer the liquid gold. She fell back asleep and woke the next morning with no visible signs of damage. Phew. Sadly Mr G was still groaning. He was in pain, felt unwell and didn't want food. This is most unlike him. To add to the fun I woke with a sore throat and the fuzzy head that usually signals the start of a cold.

He battled through the day, moving from room to room, seeking relief from his temperature and discomfort. I took him for his word when he insisted he didn't need to see a doctor. That was until Dad arrived home from work and was visibly shocked by his appearance. A friend who is a doctor came around to assess the wounded. He figured another night's rest would probably sort him out. Sadly it didn't.

So this morning I dropped Miss I to a truly lovely friend of my Mum's (who had flown to Sydney for work) and took Mr G to hospital. My second visit in as many days. They gave him fluids, pain killers and diagnosed a nasty case of gastro. He is recovering now and will hopefully bounce back soon.

A selfish person might begrudge this intrusion whilst on holidays. They might think it's unfair and undue that their scheduled free time is hindered by the universe's ulterior plans. And, look, those thoughts may have fleetingly crossed my mind. But you know what else did? You can't wait for a holiday to enjoy yourself or go off duty. Because things don't always go as you hope. Thank goodness I lapped up the fun on Friday, relished my hair appointment and the chance to sit with my friend, enjoyed the champagne on Saturday night and chatted to another good friend for hours on Sunday. Because if it weren't for all of that, I might well be begrudgingly administering the care today.

When have your holidays not gone to plan?

*The origins of approaching tasks with "purpose and direction" is another well worn ritual. A particularly disastrous bushwalk on our annual Easter camping holiday. A post for another day.

An excursion

At the end of last year Miss I went on exchange to Wagga. By this I simply mean she attended a childcare centre there for a week. Mr G was working there at the time so it wasn't totally arbitrary. Her Sydney childcare closed the week before Christmas and because I was having two weeks off from Christmas we needed to fill the gap for one week. We tossed around a few options before Mr G made a few phone calls and discovered there was a childcare centre just opposite his work and they had a spot for her that week. He was thrilled. I was thrilled. And if we're both thrilled, so is Miss I. Sort of.

Now I have asked Mr G to pen a post on the experience but, alas, it hasn't been forthcoming. So you're stuck with me and my version of events for now. For me the week was blissful. I woke up on Monday morning and literally mooched around while getting ready for work. So much time! So little hustling! I had a few mid-week dinner outings with friends, I did a spot of late night Christmas shopping, I stayed at my desk beyond 5.01pm and relished being unshackled from parental responsibilities for a few days.

At that point I had been carrying the mother load singlehandedly for two months so it was a welcome (deserved, even?) change of speed. I should also say that in those two months no one, but no one, asked with abject horror "But where is her father?" You might guess where this is heading.

For clarity, Mr G is Miss I's father and has been for exactly the same amount of time that I've been her mum. As far as I'm aware neither one of us holds formal qualifications for this parenting gig. It's been strictly learn on the job training. However judging by the reactions of some of Mr G's co-workers, patients and acquaintances you would be forgiven for thinking I hold a PHD in responsible, adequate and engaging parenting whilst he's incapable of securing a diploma in anything child-related. For the record, those scenarios are equally implausible. Mr G was almost as surprised as I was but these were the most common refrains he addressed throughout his week of active service. Helpfully, I've included suggested answers.

"But where is the mother??"
I think she said this week she's smoking crack, stealing cars and generally terrorising the streets. Same old really. I mean what else would a mother do if she didn't have a child in her care?

"How long do you have to look after her for?"
I haven't seen a contract so I'm not sure if there's an end date. Possibly forever?

"Aren't you too young to have a baby??"
Have you ever watched the reality television program "16 and Pregnant"?


No one meant any harm by these questions but Mr G and I did laugh quite a bit. Naturally afterwards I also spent plenty of time thinking about it too. People of different ages, genders, backgrounds and professions were genuinely baffled that Mr G would look after our daughter for a week. And that genuinely baffled me. What about you?

Part II: A vanity affair

If you missed part I the link is here. There was a time I believed I wasn't particularly vain. Having a baby shattered that myth. It turns out I am. Truly. Madly. Sadly. Vain. I wrote this when Miss I was eight months old and I was grappling with my post-baby-body.

In May last year my body reached the pinnacle of its physical abilities and delivered a rather beautiful bundle of baby girl. Throughout my pregnancy I marvelled at my swollen tummy, the most obvious sign of the tiny life I could barely believe was growing inside me. For me, pregnancy and childbirth defy belief. I understand the science of it and I know it's how all of us got here. Even still. It blows my mind.

If it weren't for the unforgettable thirty-six hours immediately preceding her arrival, I might not have believed it was even possible for a little person to emerge from this body. But she did. Having accomplished that miraculous feat, I remember thinking my body was truly special. It facilitated this fabulous arrival and took on hero status in my mind. At least it did for a while.

Eight months' later, I dread catching a glimpse of that body in the mirror. The very same body I developed (and owe!) an inordinate amount of respect and admiration for, now makes me cringe. I'm ashamed to say that. But it's true. My tummy sags, my clothes don't fit and my chest could rival Jordan's. I hate getting dressed.

Part of me is above these preoccupations but that part only ever appears in quiet moments of reflection. In the heat of the moment - when I'm madly getting dressed for something or trying to buy clothes to avoid moments of such madness – my rational mind is nowhere to be found. Instead I become consumed with self-indulgent thoughts about the extra flesh I'm carrying. How terrible and unfamiliar everything looks. How enormous I feel. It's not a happy place.

When I step away from the mirror and head out the door I can digest what's happened. I can see I'm not being rational. I'm not overweight. I'm five kilos heavier than I was when I fell pregnant but I'm still a healthy weight. I go to the gym three times a week, I walk every day and I eat sensibly. I just can't lose weight.

In moments of clarity I accept this is my new normal. I am healthy. I have a husband who loves me regardless of my shape. I have a beautiful little girl who also loves me regardless of shape and has thrived from my body. I know those things matter so much more than my weight. My weight is not a problem. At least, I know it shouldn't be. And, yet, it is. I care that my body doesn't look how it used to and I care that my clothes don't fit. And, especially, I care that I care.

No matter how much sensible internal dialogue I attempt, when I stand in front of the mirror, my vanity inevitably prevails. It doesn't matter how many times I marvel at the beautiful little person this body grew, delivered and continues to nourish, I still find it in myself to begrudge my body its extra weight. This is how I learned the depths of my vanity. It seems to run much deeper than any wisdom or insight I've acquired. And that disappoints me more than any extra flesh.

Reading that now - more than a year on - I'm still disappointed I let those few kilos weigh so heavily. Even more so because when I stopped breastfeeding my body returned to its old size (ish) of its own accord. Rather than being overjoyed* I'm sad I was so ungracious.

I wasn't gentle or patient with my body during its time of upheaval. I was demanding and rude. At the time it needed kindness and gratitude more than ever. As indulgent as this sounds, I suspect anyone who has experienced a body alteration will agree that not recognising the skin you're in, is tough. Whether it's from childbirth, illness, medication or anything else. Frivolous or not, the way we feel about the way we look matters.

For me, it was another stepping stone to negotiate along the motherhood road. I can't go back and change how I felt after having my darling girl but if, and when, I'm lucky enough to have another little baby, I will try to be more accepting.
Has your body ever changed? If you've had a baby did you find it hard to adjust?

*This did cause Mr G some confusion. Conversations like this were common.
Him: "You haven't worn that for ages."
Me: "Yeah it fits me again now".
Him: "That's exciting!"
Me: "No, actually it's not."
Him: [Puzzled look] "We spent a year commiserating that your clothes that didn't fit and now they do so can't we jump for joy?"
Me: "No. We can't. That would be positive reinforcement for bad behaviour. It shouldn't have mattered that my clothes didn't fit."
Him: "Wow. Living with you is fun!"

Part I: An explanation

Welcome to Part I of my first two-part post. It is in two parts for a few reasons. Mostly, because it's long. (It deals with the female psyche and body image and I take my hat off to anyone who can wrap their head around that little gem in just one post.) There are also some complicating factors. For one thing, I wrote Part II more than a year ago. And, confusingly, Part II was actually published on Mamamia a few weeks ago.

I've been blogging for almost a year and this is the first time I have felt a little apprehensive about sharing something. Writing it was easy. Pressing publish feels less so because it deals with a fraught topic and is quite revealing. So before unveiling these particular inner demons I wanted to explain why I am. 

A few Mamamia readers were well and truly over the topic of post-baby bodies. They said talking about it just puts more pressure on women and that we'd all be better off if we just got over it. A few were grateful to have read someone else struggled with the adjustment too. Comments from both camps crystallised why I want to have this conversation.

In a nutshell my experience was this. My body grew, delivered and nourished the most delightful baby girl I am privileged to mother. Despite all the gratitude and love in the world for that life-affirming opportunity and baby girl, I didn't enjoy not recognising my body afterwards. To be honest I quite disliked it.

If you're tempted to read that as self-indulgent or self-absorbed, you're not alone. That was precisely why my experience maddened me. How could something as trivial as extra weight truly bother me? It didn't make me more or less kind; it didn't make me more or less interesting; it didn't make me a better or worse mother, wife, daughter or friend; really it didn't make me any different in any way that really mattered.

And yet, it did. Despite all of the rational reasoning in the world, my changed shape affected the way I felt about myself. It literally weighed heavily on my mind and was an adjustment I had to navigate.
I figure if I felt this way others must have too and others will in the future.

I'm not evangelical about much but one thing I do totter close to that crazily-committed line is honesty. It's not that I think we all need to sit on Dr Phil's couch and share every insecurity and doubt with the entire world. It's more that I think if we are going to sit on Dr Phil's couch, or open up to the people around us, or publish a blog, it's better to give a real, unedited version rather than an air-brushed veneer. I certainly don't begrudge anyone who is private or discrete (though I do find you beguiling and fascinating) but because I'm neither, I'm going to tell you the truth.

Even at the risk of seeming shallow and vain. Stay tuned for Part II.

Reality defeats the dream

A few weeks before Christmas I was reminded of the vast expanse that occupies the space between fantasy and reality. And I'm not referring to anything untoward.

My fantasy was an early dinner out with Mr G and Miss I. There is a pizza restaurant that I love in Bondi called Pompei's. It has been a favourite for a long time and if you know me and live in Sydney chances are I've dragged you there. Several times. Anyway, we didn't have plans for Saturday night and as I left work on Friday afternoon I thought to myself 'Wouldn't it be lovely to head to Pompei's for a 6pm dinner tomorrow night?' I texted Mr G who agreed.

Luckily – or unluckily – he shared my optimism. In my head I imagined it would be a relaxed affair. We'd sit outside, eat pizza, sip white wine, enjoy a balmy summery night, bask in our delightful daughter and engage in some meaningful conversation before retiring home at 7.30pm to pop Miss I into bed and watch a DVD.

Reality elbowed its way into my dinner and let me tell you it wasn't as I had imagined. At all. For a start, we were running a bit late which meant Miss I was already hungry when we arrived. This also meant the car ride - although short – wasn't altogether relaxing. By this I mean Miss I was crying so naturally Mr G and I channelled our frustrations into some constructive bickering about where the best spot to find a park might be. Fun times. Already!

Before we were even seated I ordered a pasta dish for Miss I and two glasses of wine that were not for Miss I. Sadly neither of these arrived soon enough. Did I mention that Miss I was grumpy and hungry? And she wasn't alone. We weren't the only deluded parents who thought an early dinner at Pompei's was a good idea. The restaurant was filled with families like ours. With children as hungry, grumpy and vocal as ours. And the thing is even if they don't belong to you, listening to other small children bang tables, swipe cutlery to the floor, cry and yell in unison with your own, is acutely stressful. Wine, please, waiter!

Eventually we were all fed and watered but needless to say there was no basking in the joys of family life and certainly no meaningful conversation exchanged. That is until we were driving home and Mr G and I were united. What were we thinking??? And why, oh, why didn't we get a babysitter???

PS. I'm embarrassed to say the very next afternoon delusions once again interfered with my better judgement. The three of us went Christmas shopping. Together. To Westfield on a wet Sunday afternoon in December. Never again.

How are you??

You know how sometimes you see a friend lots but you haven't asked them a question and been able to listen to the answer in full? It's quite common when the catch up involves little people but equally it happens in rooms full of big people. When you sit at the other end of the table from them at a dinner or see them at a busy party or the park but can't engage properly. You say hi but barely get past 'How are you?' before someone else joins in or a small person calls you away or the waiter takes the order? I know you'll know what I mean. At least I hope you do. Otherwise I might be the only rude person to whom this happens??

Anyway that's how I'm feeling about this blog. Like we're seeing each other once a week but we're not sitting down, pouring a vino or sipping a latte, and really getting in to the nitty gritty of our lives. We know the big things but not all the little details.

When I started this blog it unravelled in real time. If something interesting happened in my life on a Monday (highly improbable but bear with me) you were likely to read about it on Tuesday. It's not that I blogged every day but I wrote frequently enough that if we were friends In Real Life and we caught up and you had read my blog (which no friend IRL is obligated to do*) theoretically we wouldn't need to discuss what I'd been up to. We could get straight into more interesting things. Like what you've been up to.

Now, as much as a month passes between time of writing and time of publishing. So even friends who read my blog are required, theoretically at least, to enquire about my life. Of course this time lag doesn't really matter. There is no one policing it and now that I think about it, there is no one madly pestering me to write more. Except, err, me.

I still remember – and miss - the time when my blog lived in the moment. I liked that I could write in anticipation about a thrilling event and follow it up with a comprehensive debrief a few days later. Yes, there were only two truly thrilling events to which this applied, but still. (You can read about them here and here).

I mention this because a few things have happened in the last few months (yes, months!!) that would once have provide plentiful fodder for posts but instead sit unwritten in my head. And where's the fun in that?? I could have devoted some holiday time to writing them but I declared myself a technology-free-zone. So. To get you up to speed I'll list a few notable happenings. By notable, I don't mean world affairs or anything life changing. I mean notable in terms of a blog that is comprised of the everyday details. (For world affairs I'd recommend a news site like SMH.com.au or ABC.com.au)
- I went on an overnight trip for work. I stayed at a hotel. By myself!
- Mr G had Miss I in Wagga for a week. A guest post from the man himself may eventuate soon. (More likely, you will hear how this unfolded from my perspective.)
- Miss I spent a weekend with my parents. Mr G and I went to the beach in the middle of the day without an umbrella!
- Miss I spent 4 days in the care of my parents whilst Mr G and I gallivanted around the Southern Highlands. By gallivant, I mean slept in, enjoyed uninterrupted coffees, played tennis, watched movies and enjoyed (truly!) a few long drives.
- We had dinner with some English friends who actually *know* my favourite Royals. Truly!
- I had a meltdown at work when researching a story with some pertinent application to my life.

I feel like I'm missing some other things but that's enough about me. More importantly how are you??? What big or little things have happened since we last caught up here???

*Of course I favour those who do but it's not mandatory. It's only mandatory, and strictly so, for blood relations.