MicroSolutions. Go.

Look, technically, it's a little late to be talking new year resolutions but it's still January so I'm pressing ahead regardless. Plus, come to think of it, I really doubt there is a regulator who would forbid me from posting this. So resolutions it is! Now I don't know about you but I'm not one for making big resolutions. This is because I like to save myself the disappointment of reflecting a year later and realising I still haven't run a marathon, signed up for a triathlon, learnt Spanish or indeed experienced any desire to do so. I save myself the trouble and don't even pretend it might happen. 

I do, though, at the start of a new year like to have a think about the year that's been and ponder - very gently, with no pressure - what the next year might hold and how I'd like it to unfold. This year my big picture mantra is to enjoy my time with the girls. Being on maternity leave means for most of 2013 I will be free from the work/mother/home juggle, the commute, the mad dash to get home, cook dinner, bathe and bed children before collapsing into bed myself. It's a privilege, notwithstanding the fact it's a privilege with plenty of trials, and I want to make the most of it. That was my 2013 big picture covered.

And then I read this article on Mamamia about micro-resolutions. Unlike the big and daunting goals people traditionally set themselves in January - quit smoking, lose weight, run a marathon, learn French - these are tiny little goals that have the potential to make daily life much easier. Things like putting the keys in the same place every time you come home or actually using the compartment in your handbag for your mobile. They're very do-able and whilst small they can address some of life's more irritating daily battles. Small change, big rewards. The whole notion struck me as completely genius. 

And, incidentally, made fantastic car conversation fodder. As Mr G and I drove back to Sydney with the girls, after our Christmas hell-iday was dramatically extended, we talked micro-resolutions and re-coined them MicroSolutions. After much brainstorming these are the ones I settled on for 2013. 

- Banish transitional clothes. In 2013 in NABM HQ clothes are either hung up/folded and put away or put in the laundry basket. Surfaces such as chairs, chests of drawers, the top of the laundry basket or my desk are no longer acceptable places for the temporary storage of clothes. Our bedroom looks so much better for this already.

- Return phonecalls, texts and emails within 24 hours. I have become terribly lax with correspondence which is quite rude and quite annoying because I invariably spend more time internally bemoaning my bad habit than it would take to reply or return the phonecall. If you're waiting for a reply please feel free to hold me to account. So far I think I'm almost up to date??

- Use mobile phone compartment in my Bermuda Triangle handbag. So simple, saves so much grief and yet is so tempting to overlook.

- No picking at skin. It's not pleasant but it's true. I have a terrible habit of picking at the skin on my arms. I do it when  when I'm thinking, when I'm not thinking, when I'm relaxed, when I'm stressed, when I'm waiting, when I'm hungry...basically I do it whenever I'm breathing and my eyes are open so it's time to stop.

- Complete domestic jobs as and when required. I am very good at commencing household jobs and then abandoning them halfway through. For example, I very frequently soak clothes in nappysan and then leave them there for a week before bringing myself to complete the task by emptying the bucket and putting the clothes on to wash. Similarly I often put loads of washing on and then forget about it until the next day.... or the day after....when I then discover the wet clothes still in the machine. Previously I could reliably rely on Mr G to complete these jobs (I call this teamwork!) but given his new schedule it would be most surprising if he could duck home at lunchtime to hang out the clothes.

Now it's your turn! What Micro-Solutions would improve your daily life? Or do you have a Macro-Solution you're sticking to? Share!  

A letter to David

Let's talk about breastfeeding. And David Koch. Because if there is a news story closer to my chest this week I'm yet to learn of it. If you haven't heard, or read, on the weekend Koch remarked that women should be discreet and a bit 'classy' when they are breastfeeding in public. Now because Miss L still feeds very frequently and because I like to venture beyond my front door, at the moment, I breastfeed in public rather a lot. So, as you might imagine, I have a few things I need to say. I figured it was best to just pop them in a letter to David. 

Dear David

My initial reaction to your televised, and subsequently controversial, comments was discomfort. Your sentiments irked me. For lots of reasons. Instead of ranting about it I would like to have a frank discussion about why I dislike your comments. I'm taking this approach because of a tweet from a male colleague whom I admire a lot. He asked, very sincerely, why it is not acceptable for males to have and express their own opinions about breastfeeding. I think it's very acceptable for men and women to have opinions on all subjects including breastfeeding. I'm quite generous like that. 

There are, however, certain subjects where direct experience bolsters the accuracy and utility of certain opinions. For example, I'm sure you would agree that any opinions I hold about piloting A380s are less nuanced and helpful than, say, those of an actual A380 pilot? And so it is with breastfeeding. I have absolutely no issue with you, or any other person, expressing their opinion about breastfeeding. Again I'm being very reasonable aren't I? But when someone's opinion clashes with mine, like yours did, in an area where I do hold some direct and relevant expertise, I simply ask them to consider my take. 

Are you expected to take it on board and revert to my way of thinking? Absolutely. No of course not but I will feel better for having tried to reach consensus. Because while it's not always absolutely necessary for all of us to agree, about everything, all the time, sometimes, there is greater utility in finding understanding. And so it is with breastfeeding.  

I don't believe you intended to be insensitive or inflammatory in suggesting women be discreet whilst nourishing their bambinos from le breast. But the thing is, because you haven't, to my knowledge, actually breastfed a baby, there are a few tips and tricks you won't have had cause to discover. And to someone who has had cause to discover those, your comments were a little insensitive. Or at least lacking in strong practical application. Given that you openly support breastfeeding - I understand your two daughters are in the midst of it right now? - I thought I'd fill the gap I see in your knowledge.

I have chosen to breastfeed both of my babies and, to date, it has been a successful exercise. I did not choose this option because I revel in the opportunity to reveal my flesh to members of the public. Truth be told the flesh-revealing aspect of the exercise is not something I relish. At all. I didn't birth my babies, lose my modesty and then jump for joy at the prospect of getting half naked in front of strangers, family members and friends. I find it a little awkward. 

Even after many months of doing so, first with my eldest and now with my younger daughter, I still squirm inside my head at every feed that is given outside my home. I persist because the milk is readily available, it's nutritious and, even with the embarrassment, it's a lovely thing to do. I sacrifice a smidgen of my own modesty but I'm ok with that because in the greater scheme of things, I think the benefits outweigh that minor drawback. I don't ask, or expect, to be lauded for that choice but I would like that choice to be respected. Not simply the choice to breastfeed per se but the fact that doing so sometimes entails a degree of discomfort on my part. 

At this point Kochie, you might might argue 'Well if you don't want to feel uncomfortable just be extra discreet and everyone will be happy'. This is precisely the point at which your comments sounded insensitive to someone who has breastfed in public. Because, not for lack of trying, it is not always possible to be discreet. Believe me this. Whenever I feed in public I try to be as discreet as possible, as much for my own comfort as anyone else's. But my babies, like many others, do not always oblige. Breastfeeding is not a mechanical process and getting a baby attached does take a little bit of effort. In my experience, that effort is multiplied exponentially when attempting to do so under the privacy of a wrap. I don't believe my babies are in the minority in that they invariably squirm and squawk until I remove the offending fabric. I have come to accept it's easier to quickly latch them without a cover and then proceed with the feed as modestly as possible. See even with the best intentions my pursuit of privacy often fails. 

And do you know who that makes uncomfortable? Me. And my guess is it makes me far more uncomfortable than even the most prudish person in my surrounds. Because unless that prudish person is also responsible for feeding a writhing, hungry and screaming baby at the exact same time as they're exposing their naked anatomy to anyone nearby, I struggle to see how their discomfort could be anything but minor in comparison.  

David there are two underlying assumptions in your comments that bother me. The first is that discretion is an openly available choice for all breastfeeding mothers; that any flash of naked flesh from a feeding mother represents her decision to flagrantly flaunt her body. I can only speak for myself but you know what? So, so, so far from true. Actually laughably implausible. I promise David, practically on behalf of all feeding-women-kind, even if you see a mother completely expose herself to feed an infant she is not hoping to attract another man or woman's attention. 

The second assumption I would like you to consider amending is that a feeding mother should prioritise the sensibilities of strangers in her presence above her baby's and her own. Really? Personally I would rather the onus sit with the surrounding members of the public to look away or accept that a mother feeding her baby has nothing to do with them and everything to do with the baby, than saddle the mum with another layer of responsibility. Because, trust me, she is already responsible for at least one living, breathing, and helpless baby and as far as responsibilities go it is pretty relentless. You know, 24/7 around the clock, kind of stuff. You've got kids, you know what it's like. Kochie her plate is kind of full so if you could find it within yourself to carry part of the load - simply by averting your eyes - that would be thoroughly appreciated. 

Truthfully David I cannot imagine there are very many mothers in this world who choose to breastfeed to make you, or anyone else, feel uncomfortable. The reality is there are lots, like me, who do it regardless of the fact it makes them uncomfortable and probably just as many who don't because they aren't comfortable in public. And, of all the different reasons to choose breastfeeding or not, discomfort about doing it in public seems an unhelpful one. But one that will multiply when comments from high profile individuals like yourself confirm the perception that members of the public aren't actually okay with breastfeeding. Because if you are okay with breastfeeding the reality is you may see some flesh. In that event, count yourself lucky that it's not you doing the flashing David. 

Kind regards 

Georgie

Stepping up to growing up

Towards the end of last year we had a nail-biting couple of weeks as Mr G applied for a new job. (Of course compared to recent events it was not nail biting in the slightest, but at the time, it was nerve-wracking). He is a doctor and the job he applied for, and very badly wanted, is the first on the road towards his specialty of choice. The stakes were compounded because these jobs are only offered once a year so missing out would have meant  waiting another full year for another shot. The applications, interviews and associated machinations were tough but they were nothing compared to the week or so that ensued as we waited for news. Admittedly I was only a bystander in the process but given the amount of skin I have in the game (our life!) that mattered little. Landing the job he wanted was a long shot but land it he did. We were both ecstatic; it is something he has worked towards for such a long time and, while it only puts him on the first rung of a very steep ladder, that first rung is pretty important to clear. So we were both quite beside ourselves.

It was at least a fortnight before I grew apprehensive but gradually my mind filled with doubts which felt drastically at odds with my initial excitement. I wanted this for Mr G as badly as he wanted it himself so why was I suddenly unsure? That expression ‘be careful what you wish for’ sprung to mind. When the goal was simply getting the job it was abstract enough for me to overlook the reality of what that job might actually entail for Mr G, for me and for our little family. When the job became his that reality became harder to ignore. It dawned on me pretty quickly that the reality is going to be tough. For all of us.

For a start, for the first half of the year, he will be commuting to a big hospital that is about 45 minutes from where we live. (There is no point moving because he will be changing hospitals regularly for the next few years plus remember the brilliant storage I have here??). He will be on call every second weekend and every second week. A weekend on call means ward rounds at 7am on Saturday and Sunday as well as responding to any calls throughout the day and night. A week on call means between Monday and Friday the phone might ring at anytime outside of standard hours and he will need to be there. So that’s pretty intense right? Plus I don’t imagine that having lots of real lives at stake is altogether stress-free. So, no matter which way you look at it, it’s not going to be easy breezy.  

Obviously it will present a few challenges. It means I will be doing a lot of single parenting which scares me because, as I have mentioned on other occasions, I believe I parent best as part of a team. Particularly one with Mr G who happens to be a fantastically capable and supportive team-mate. But last year when my fears first crept in about Mr G’s new job, it wasn’t the daily logistics of the new chapter that scared me. It was the big picture. It is a grown up job with grown up demands and there is something daunting about all of that. Not because he’s not up to it but because he is. Because we are actually grown ups and because, in my head, I sometimes forget that. Or deliberately overlook it. In either case, with the new job, there is no escaping the truth. We are adults with real responsibilities and this is our grown up life. And for some reason Mr G getting this job really rammed that home for me. Even more so than giving birth to our two little girls which seems strange but we’ve got a whole year to ponder that! For now though I am holding on tight. Because next week the grown up chapter begins. I suspect you might hear more about it as the weeks whiz by….

What makes you feel grown up? DO you like it, or do you like to overlook it?

One hell of a holiday

Oh. Boy. I was expecting to rejoin you all in 2013 feeling rested, rejuvenated and ready to rock and roll. How wrong I was. If I’m honest, which I usually am, I am scrambling to believe it is in fact a new year. The past week or so steamrolled my little family and, now, as the dust is settling and the worst is thankfully over, I am absolutely knackered. So, I join you as a slightly broken woman, slightly disbelieving it is possible to feel like this after a holiday.

Where to begin? Shall we start at the lowest point of my recent holiday? I think so. It does a fine cameo as the lowest point of my life (in recent memory, at least) which is quite nice I suppose. It means we can only go upwards from here.

It was about 7pm on new year’s eve and I was sitting in Grafton hospital’s emergency department. Mr G had arrived by ambulance and was barely conscious. My dad sat beside me while we waited for the results from a CT scan that had just been taken of Mr G’s head. Dad and I were both recovering from the shock of seeing Mr G disintegrate before our eyes, not to mention the forty-five minute car ride during which Dad’s youngest granddaughter gave her eight-week old lungs a mighty workout. Frazzled already, I was now feeding Miss L whilst fielding a distressing phonecall with a distraught Miss I in the background. She was back in Yamba with my mum and sister and wanted to know why both her parents had suddenly disappeared. I was scared and the salt in the wound was a moment earlier in the day for which I will never be awarded spouse of the year. My heart was being tugged in a million ways and none of it felt good.

It’s fair to say no one in my family had a particularly pleasant new year’s eve. Eventful, yes. Pleasant, absolutely not. 

It started inconspicuously the previous night when Mr G complained of a headache as we hopped into bed. He took some panadol and we both assumed it would pass. Not so. In the middle of the night I was awake feeding Miss L and Mr G was still uncomfortable and unable to sleep. I sent him upstairs to the spare room thinking a room away from our feeding infant might help his slumber. Not so.  

Early the following morning he came in and asked for more panadol. This is where I hang my head in shame. I was feeding Miss L while also trying to entertain Miss I. Mr G wanted more panadol but it was upstairs. At this point I may have snapped a little and suggested he could have got it himself considering he was just up there. In my very weak defence I was sleep deprived and irritable and hadn’t contemplated that Mr G was suffering from anything more sinister than a headache. Imagine my disgrace when I later learned my poor husband was actually in the throes of meningitis? It was exquisitely painful; his head at the time and my heart forever afterwards. The fact I did actually retrieve and administer the panadol did nothing to quell my remorse. I didn’t do either graciously.

There is a special kind of regret reserved for moments when you treat someone you love more than anything in the entire world badly and it is compounded when that moment coincides with the exact moment they quite reasonably need kindness and love more than ever. It is then compounded exponentially when they are lying in an ambulance and you are horrified that it might be the last meaningful exchange they remember.

So. That was a fun car trip. I rarely entertain morbid thoughts but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t as Dad and I drove to Grafton hospital. 2013 was not looking remotely enticing.

After an eternity the CT results came back clear at which point they performed a lumbar puncture. That confirmed what the doctors had suspected; Mr G had meningitis. The initial results were not conclusive about it being viral or bacterial so he was treated for both. He was kept in hospital for a few more days and as all manner of drugs were pumped through his body he slowly regained some colour and vigour. He is already feeling much better and with a couple of weeks’ rest he will hopefully make a thorough and speedy recovery.

The whole experience shook me to the core at a time when, frankly, my core was more flimsy than firm. In one of life’s nifty twists of irony, the afternoon before Mr G’s headache came on, I had a mini-meltdown. Eight weeks' of broken sleep and feeding, on top of Christmas, daily beach trips and nightly social activities was getting to me. Mr G and I decided the following day I would do nothing except stay home, read and feed Miss L as required.

Obviously that didn’t happen. The next few days were tough; driving between Yamba and Grafton, worrying about Mr G, wrangling Miss I, feeding Miss L and wondering how on earth I could keep myself sane enough to continue doing it all for the foreseeable future. Fortunately we were surrounded by a hoard of family and friends, all of whom were a tremendous source of help and support. Even still, it was hard with a capital H.

The day we took Miss L home from hospital I remember thinking to myself, ‘Right, this is the bit when life is about to get really real.’ I knew two kids was not for the fainthearted and I wondered if I was up to the task. Since that day I haven’t had time to contemplate it; the reality of the task is you just keep going. Life did get pretty real back in November but not nearly as real as it felt last week. Life with two small children and a husband sick in hospital is as real and daunting as my life has ever felt. The upside, of course, is that things can only get better. At least I’m sure they will soon. 

I hope your break was less eventful than mine and that you greeted 2013 with more enthusiasm than I did. I can’t finish this without sharing one piece of advice. If anyone you love, or even like, ever asks you to get them panadol, get it. And give it to them with a hug and a kiss.