The truth about order

I suppose like every person pregnant with their second child, whilst  carrying Miss L in utero, I gave some thought to the topic of birth order. I wondered if I'd feel differently towards my second baby or if his or her arrival would change my love for Miss I or even if it would be possible to love another child quite as much as Miss I. I was curious to see how the matter of maternal love would play out in my little heart.   

I'm a middle child and growing up, I'll admit, there were times when I envied my siblings' positions. My sister for being the oldest and my brother for being the youngest. I imagine wherever you are born in a family most of us will have, at least occasionally, considered the relative drawbacks and draw cards of our own position. 

It's quite awful but I do remember asking mum and dad, more than once, to nominate their favourite child. (Thinking back I may well have been the only one posing this ridiculous question but I sincerely hope I wasn't.) Whether it was just me asking or it was in unison with my siblings, my parents always answered the same way. Don't ask ridiculous questions. We love you all equally. I was consistent with my response. "Yeah everyone says that but who do you really love more? There's got to be one."     

I've never had reason to doubt their answer but I was always curious; do parents really love their children equally? Having my own children has taught me it is. It's also taught me that if there is one saying that sums up the truth about birth order it's this; what you lose on the swings you'll make up on the roundabout. 

Yes, the first born will bask in their parents' undivided attention for at least nine months. Yes, there might be a little more fuss before they first join the world, they will receive fewer hand-me-downs and they will enjoy having their run of the house and all the toys for at least a little while. But second and subsequent children reap the reward of parents who have actually got some experience under their belts. They know how to feed, cuddle and even settle a real baby. Bonus! Plus they will have the entertainment and distraction of a sibling around the clock.  

It is swings and roundabouts. There are times when I worry that the lovely Miss L is in the background. That she's not the sole star of the show like Miss I was for two and a half years. Those feelings never last long though because the flipside is all in Miss L's favour. Because I have done this before, because I know this time passes and because I am not quite so worried about getting everything right or wrong, I am free to enjoy Miss L's baby days more. My love is no different but my ability to enjoy it is. Vastly.  

On many occasions since Miss L graced our family I have found myself thinking, and saying, how magic it would be if everyone could just jump straight to their second baby. Not because I would ever ever want anyone to miss the first baby. It's just the experience, second time around, is less overwhelming. The difference the arrival of a baby makes to the lives of two previously childfree adults is without precedent and the only way to acclimatise is to live through it.

I know there are people who find that acclimatisation easy but I think they're in a lucky minority. Even parents blessed with the most contented little babies face a big transition first up because even contented babies need constant attention. It's why I think even with a more difficult baby it is still far easier second time around. Because you're match fit.  

And it's the reason meeting Miss L has been a completely different ball game. Not because she is any more or less demanding as a baby. She feeds and sleeps and plays in much the same way Miss I did. The primary difference is me. I remember when Miss I was about the age Miss L is now I still felt vulnerable. I wasn't completely convinced I'd ever get a full night sleep again or that I wouldn't be operating a human milk bar at all hours. My head was constantly filled with the length and frequency of every feed and sleep. I worried that with one wrong step I might end up on an episode of Supernanny. 

I don't feel like that this time. I know I'm capable of the task and I know how fast it will go. The walking and talking Miss I is a living reminder of that. It means I can't look at my lovely little baby without wonder. I still can't believe she's ours and I can't believe she's nearly five months old. I stare at her often and hope her uncomplicated baby days never end. She is sublime personified.

There are times when her simplicity makes Miss I feel impossibly difficult; Miss L grins happily if she gets so much as a smile whilst Miss I is melting down because the wrong parent poured her milk. But there are also times when Miss L's loveliness can't compete with the humour and fun bursting out of her older sister. When Miss I says to me "Mummy! I haven't cuddled Lulu all day!!" as if it's the most disastrous state of affairs imaginable, when in fact it's only 7.15 in the morning and Miss L isn't even awake. 

The thing is, they both have their moments. Good and bad. Happy and unhappy. But, with my hand on my heart, I can tell you I don't have a favourite. At least not for any longer than a minute. Or an afternoon at the absolute longest.  

Do you think everyone does love their children equally or do some have favourites?

Switching off

It’s been too long since I’ve made any sweeping generalisations about men and women so I’m just going to jump right in. In some ways men are better at life than women. I realised this, not for the first time, the other day while reading an interview with Emma Isaacs on a site called Coping with Jane. Emma is a hugely successful entrepreneur, the chief executive of Business Chicks,  a wife and a soon-to-be mother of three. Just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill, exceptional overachiever.

In the interview about balancing work and home she said this. “I spend my life trying to think and act like my husband when it comes to parenting. He thinks absolutely nothing of walking out the door and surfing for half the day whereas if I was going to do something similar, I’d experience some level of guilt and a lot of internal talk about whether I’m making the right decision or not.”

I nodded furiously at that point. It might surprise you to learn that I don’t set out to be neurotic or to make life especially difficult for myself. But, as you may know, I’m good at it. Without even trying I have a knack for complicating things. Naturally I find it comforting to read other people, especially those of the extremely capable variety, are similarly afflicted.

Emma’s words resonated and reminded me of a recent Sunday afternoon, a perfect case in point. On the surface life looked pretty rosy. It was 3pm and all our weekend jobs were done. Groceries bought, clothes washed, dinner already cooked and the house was in relative order. My head, by contrast, was in chaos. Free time!! How to spend it?!? Mr G was taking the girls out for a walk and my mind was swimming with choices. A nap? Watch some telly? Write a blog? Go with Mr G and the girls? Oooh what to pick??? Sitting here typing that out it’s easy to see this was not a difficult choice. Not remotely. The options were all attractive and my pick was hardly going to change the world. 

Well try telling that to my mind. I was swinging wildly between each of my options, weighing up the merits of my various choices, considering the alternatives, undergoing a full blown SWOT analysis of each and basically carrying on as if my choice would somehow dictate my entire life’s purpose and worth.

Initially I decided to read on my bed. Then I thought, no, I should sleep while I can. And just as I had pulled the eye mask over my head I pulled back the covers, jumped out of bed and called out to the tribe who had just departed the house, “Wait for me, I’m coming!"

My deliberations were along these lines: If I don’t sleep I’m not looking after myself properly. If I don’t blog, I’m not a good blogger. If I don’t spend time with the girls and Mr G, I’m not a good mum and wife. If I don’t read all the papers, I’m not engaging my mind enough. If I don’t stop all this silly carry on I won’t do anything with my spare time except drive myself spare!!

Once I was out of the house and walking Mr G asked why I had changed my mind. I got about 30 seconds into explaining the mental gymnastics I had just endured when I saw the look in his eyes. It’s the look that says “Oh boy you really do make life unnecessarily complicated sometimes.” Yes sir, I do.  So, like Emma, I’m going to give my husband’s approach to spare time a go. There is something to be said for mindfulness but there’s also a lot to be said for knowing when and how to turn it off. And if that time is not a Sunday afternoon I don't know when is.

Are you good at switching off? Or do you gently torture yourself over all of your choices? Anyone??

The (elusive) end

I'm not going to lie to you, I've had a funny week. And not in the haha sense. Nothing too major but after a month or so of feeling pretty content I went and changed the game on myself. I swapped my favourite motto, low-expectations-high-satisfaction, for its annoying twin, high-expectations-low-satisfaction. I found myself complaining to Mr G at the end of the day that I wasn't getting anything done. Which wasn't strictly true. I just wasn't getting much done besides looking after the girls, feeding us all at regular intervals, cleaning the house, paying the bills, writing a blog, booking flights to Brisbane, seeing friends, washing our clothes, arranging Foxtel, doing the groceries, toilet training a toddler, buying Miss I new shoes, getting Miss L immunised and answering every curious terrorist's favourite question, 'Why?', approximately eight thousand times an hour. Despite completing these tasks (and more) I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't doing enough. Reading an article in Marie Claire about high flying women under 30 did nothing to alleviate my concerns. "I don't do anything and I'm so tiiiiirrreeed!!!"", I wailed. "What is my purpose even?!?"   

Nothing like a little existential crisis whilst sleep deprived. This time I'm happy to report I seem to have nipped it in the bud early. Possibly because I am too tired to waste energy thinking about anything other than coffee or sleep. But also because I read two things that helped me clarify my tune. Big time. The first was this piece from journalist Wendy Squires about losing her mum. The second was a response from Bec Sparrow. It reminded me of something I wrote (with far less eloquence and poignancy) last year. 

Two weeks after Miss L joined this world, I read about a young woman's death. She was 17 years old and lost her life at schoolies. For many days it made me think. Not about schoolies, or teenagers, or balconies. But about life and death. There was a sad parallel between what was happening in my world and what I read was happening in someone else's. A brand new life beginning while  another ended. Not after a long life but prematurely, at the end of school. On the cusp of what is always a new chapter but in this case a chapter that will go unwritten. 

I didn't post this at the time because, well, for lots of reasons. At best my words, reflecting on the death of a person I had never met, seemed trite. At worst they seemed callous. The innuendo in gaining perspective from a family's tragedy put me off. No matter how much wisdom something awful triggers it is never worth the price. Not even close. But wishing I hadn't the cause to think or feel something, sadly, doesn't change the reason or fact I did. And this week was a good time to be reminded. 
  
In an ideal world losing a child is a fate no parent would face but sadly we don't live in an ideal world. In this imperfect world fates that are less than favourable are faced all the time and while that's not worth revelling in it is worth remembering.

As a parent of a newborn it is impossible to forget the fragility of life. Falling pregnant, carrying a baby to term and delivering a healthy child are among the early, not insignificant, hurdles every new life must clear. It is morbid, I know, but it is also true that those hurdles are not always cleared. In pregnancy, like life itself, there are countless obstacles and there is no blanket guarantee that any of us will overcome all of them.

At the time I kept thinking about that young woman's parents. How cruel and tragic and sad to have their daughter robbed from life. Having successfully cleared all of the hurdles to bring their daughter into this world and get her to the point of finishing school, they had her taken away before they had a chance to watch her grown up life unfold. It is unfair and unfathomably wrong. But it happened anyway because life can be unfair and wrong.  

Because the ugly truth is that none of us are guaranteed anything more than the day in front of us. Not for ourselves nor our children. Whether it is accident, tragedy, illness or something else, we don't have the power to prevent the unfathomable. And while that may seem a horrible thing to dwell on it actually isn't. At least not entirely. Because the corollary is that really the only thing that matters is what we're doing right now, on this day, in this moment.

It is easy to forget. It is easy to fall into the trap of believing there is some elusive end point from which time everything will be okay. To think life will be better or more right or happier when we get a promotion. Or lose three kilos. Or find a husband. Or buy a house. Or have a baby. Or have a grandchild. There are unlimited variations on the sentiment that greater fulfilment is just around the corner but they have something in common. They are equally futile. Because, and forgive me for sounding pious - I say this more for my own benefit than yours, fulfilment is in enjoying the things we have. Because we never know how long we'll have them. I am so bloody lucky to have two healthy, thriving girls and while it's hard to maintain that perspective in every moment I'm trying for at least every day. Because there are no guarantees.    

Heavy stuff I know! How do you remember not to sweat the small stuff?

Something no one knows

A few years ago my mum introduced a Christmas day ritual that we continue to adopt and even adapt for other occasions. The topics change but everyone at the table is asked to share a few bits and pieces. This year we had to talk about our personal highlight of 2012, what we're most looking forward to in 2013 and share something that nobody else at the table knew. With a big group it's a good way to include everyone in the same conversation for a little while. There are always laughs and, despite the odd protest, everyone enjoys it.

Some great unsung tidbits were revealed. I learned one of my cousins saved his friend's life using CPR, that one of my aunts had started selling cakes to her local cafes and that my great uncle had spotted his neighbour dancing in the nude just recently. Seriously. I did not make that last bit up.

Anyway. I wracked my brain for something to share that no one knew but I couldn't think of anything of note. Being the over-sharer that I am and having a blog means a great number of things about me are public knowledge. A few days later though it dawned on me that there was something to share that no one (except Mr G) knew. Naturally I rectified that immediately and will fill you in too.

When Mr G and I moved overseas I started a blog. Long before this one came to be I set up Oxford's Other Half. I wish I could tell you it is a famously successful anonymous blog with a cult following. It's not. It didn't last long enough to attract even a single reader. The fact I didn't tell a soul it existed probably sealed its fate. I wrote two posts before giving up; it obviously wasn't my time to commence an online diary. 

For a bit of fun today I thought I'd share one of those posts. Two things to note. First, Mr G was as keen to remain unnamed back then as he was when NABM was born so I called him The Student. Second, I can't share the first post because it makes me wince. I wrote, full of optimism, that I would only blog until I secured employment. That didn't happen (unless you count a few awful temping positions) and it wasn't for lack of applications. My ego remains bruised today even though I know how that part of the story panned out. It was hard. If you're smart, which we both know you are, you may deduce the reason my first blog failed to flourish might have had something to do with the thrashing my self esteem  was sustaining, one rejection letter at a time. You would be right. 
  

Bikes and associated trauma

With bags unpacked and a little home-making underway, bikes were our first stop. They're an essential in this town and we were told to get in quickly as decent second-hand bikes get snapped up at this time of year. We headed up the road and picked out two suitable-looking bikes, helmets and bike locks. It's been a good 20 years since I had ridden a bike regularly. I might not have forgotten how to do it but I had certainly lost any comfort I ever had. I was terrified the whole ride home (less than five minutes) and resigned myself to the fact I would happily walk everywhere for the next two years rather than take on cars, buses and angry pedestrians on my bike. I prefer walking anyway.

Not deterred by my terror or apprehension, The Student convinced me to get back on my bike. Literally. We were almost home after a successful hour or so of riding. My confidence was slowly building, though my knuckles remained white from gripping the handle-bars as if my life depended on it (which, funnily enough, is exactly how I felt with cars and bikes whizzing passed, ready to knock me off at any moment). Some road works meant we detoured to the pavement briefly - apparently a no-no in town but confusingly is ok on certain footpaths.

One very grumpy man was not impressed and made his disapproval vocally obvious in my direction. A few metres ahead I hopped off my bike to collect some lunch and told The Student about his tirade. Unfortunately by that stage the grumpy man on foot had caught up to us and began an even-louder, even-angrier verbal assault at the pair of us. The Student said sorry and explained that i was just learning. The grumpy man yelled "if she can't ride a f****ing bike, she shouldn't be f****ing riding". He had a very valid point. In fact, I'd made the same point to the Student earlier that day. Nevertheless, I burst into tears at the man's anger. My confidence was shattered and we walked our bikes the rest of the way home. Again, walking was looking like a pretty attractive transport option.

A few weeks on from then and I'm happy to say I'm using my bike every day and enjoying it more and more. Though I still hate helmet hair. 

PS My bike riding was almost as short lived as Oxford's Other Half.