Words from a stranger

Something really lovely happened to me earlier. It was a passing comment made in a passing moment and I doubt anyone in my vicinity realised quite how lovely it was. I’m having trouble with one of my hips right now. It’s nothing serious or sinister but it’s quite painful and as a result I’ve started seeing an osteopath. For my first appointment, by a stroke of luck and an even bigger stroke of kindness, my friend Amy was able to mind the girls whilst I hobbled to my appointment. She has two children the same age as mine but had her lovely babysitter with her so somehow having the two toddlers and the two babies was feasible. And very, very kind.

Today I went back but as it was only a short appointment the osteopath said to bring Miss L. (Miss I was at daycare). It turns out the osteopath’s receptionist is more than happy to do a bit of cuddling and playing whilst parents receive treatment. This worked out very well for about fifteen minutes before Miss L started to vocalise some disagreement. The receptionist brought her in to see me and she immediately beamed. After a little play the receptionist went to walk out but Miss L’s face crumpled (and her voicebox nearly broke) so she lay her down next to me instead. I was lying on my side so Miss L lay beside me, perfectly content playing with my hand, whilst the osteopath worked his magic. She started cooing and giggling and doing all those glorious little things happy babies do. The transition from almost hysterical to almost ecstatic was so fast that my osteopath laughed. He remarked that she is obviously very connected to me. That simple sentence nearly stopped my heart. She is and it was plain for even a bystander to see.

Now you might read that and think, “Of course she’s connected to you! You’re her Mum! Everyone knows babies are connected to their mothers!” And that’s true. Everyone knows that except the actual mother because, chances are, she might, from time to time, forget. Quite possibly because she is too busy thinking about whether her baby is eating enough/sleeping properly/ stimulated appropriately/ read to enough/ disadvantaged by her birth order/ neglected because she’s not EVER been a baby yoga class.

Whatever the reason, in amongst the details of daily life with little kids it’s easy to forget the big picture. To overlook things like how connected we actually are to our children or how mind-blowingly special we are to them. To stop and remember that as their parents we are their whole world and just by being we make them and their worlds ok.

They're not things I think about often. On the contrary I often consider whether I make the right decisions, whether I parent effectively, whether I’m fun enough, or sensible enough, or consistent enough. I don’t worry about all these things simply because I’m naturally inclined to be a bit neurotic. I worry, as I’m sure all parents do, because I so much want to be the very best mum I can possibly be. Not because I think there’s a prize at the end (though if there is I’d like it) but because I just want the girls to have the best mum they can. Which is lovely but it’s also tiring.  

I walked away from the osteopath this morning elated. Not only did my hip feel stronger but my heart was actually beating faster and I felt a weight off my shoulders. The unexpected objective words from a stranger stopped me in my tracks and made me realise, in a truly meaningful sense, something quite amazing. To Miss L I really am as good as life gets. Baby yoga or not. First child or fifth. Two books or none. I’m her mum and that’s enough. More than enough. She is connected to me! I can’t even begin to describe how lovely that feels. 

Has a stranger ever made your day?

Comparing is for meerkats

I wasn’t a lawyer long enough to have lots of zeros on the end of my paycheque but I was a lawyer long enough to learn a thing or two about the people who do. They’re called partners. And at many large law firms they have lots of zeros deposited into their bank accounts each month. Which is excellent because who wouldn’t want lots of zeros?? And in the case of legal partners it is not money for jam. Whilst working for a large firm I witnessed, firsthand, the blood, sweat and tears that partnership entails. The competition is fierce, getting there is one hurdle, staying there is another altogether, the expectations are immense, the hours are punishing and I’m yet to meet a partner who says ‘Gosh this career path is one big barrel of laughs.’ It’s not. It’s well remunerated but it’s hard work.

Anyway, in my second career when I reincarnated myself as a journalist, I had cause to interview lots of partners. Which was fantastic because it enabled me to, quite legitimately, ask all the questions I had saved up from my own time in practise. Mostly, “Why?” Anyway. One thing I didn’t know about partners when I worked for a firm, that I learned later as a journalist, surprised me. It was the way some are paid.

At some firms partners are paid according to tenure. The longer they’ve been partner, the more they earn. At some firms, though, partners are paid purely on merit. They are ranked from top to bottom on the basis of their performance in the previous financial year and where they sit on the ladder determines their share of the takings. Lots of firms use a combination of these methods but it was the firms that only use a ranking system that made me shudder. 

Knowing what I do about how hard it is to even become a partner, I thought, how utterly demoralising. After all the hard yakka to even get the big office you then have to submit yourself to this ghastly process, year after year, where you are pitted against all of your peers, for all to see. Can you imagine being the poor partner who comes last??? In theory, I’m sure, the individual at the back of the pack could reason that just being a partner is a terrific professional achievement. But, in reality, coming in at the rear end of all your peers would still be tough. One managing partner, with the dubious honour of informing partners how they placed, said he dreaded the process more than anything else in his yearly calendar.  

It seared this on my mind: there is no sense in comparing yourself to anyone else. Not your peers, not your neighbours, not your siblings, not your friends. No one. And not just because of the inner fulfilment that I'm sure is delivered by simply running your own race. But because there will ALWAYS be someone better than you and it might make you feel lousy. Whether you’re the partner that comes last or the partner that comes first, there will always be someone better. There will be another firm that is more prestigious or more profitable than yours. Or there will be some hot-shot partner at a smaller firm that might out-do you or a talented up and comer biting at your heels. The thing is once you start looking for comparisons, you will almost inevitably fall short and where is the fun in that? It’s the reason I try not to compare myself with others.

   

Of course I don’t always succeed. It creeps up on me. It happened recently  without me realising it. I am currently quite obsessed with a blog called Recipe Rifle that is written by UK journalist Esther Walker. There are some parallels between her life and mine; she has a two year old daughter and is expecting her second baby any week now, so I relate to many of her posts. The thing is, even though she writes very honestly about the dreary side of her life, I can’t help but imagine her life is utterly glamorous. Which is ridiculous because she quite regularly reveals how it’s not. But I’m stubborn. She has just had a book published, she is married to The Times food critic Giles Coren and the way she writes is magic. The combined effect of this is that whenever I read her posts I also feel pangs of envy and inadequacy. That I don’t write as well as she does. That my observations aren’t as sharp. That I’m not as witty. That, really, I shouldn’t be writing a blog when there are writers like her, who are obviously so much better at it than me.

This has all been quite subconscious. I had just been questioning the purpose of my blog in a way I hadn’t really before. Before I had figured out why, in the wonderful way this universe works, I read this post. Esther had been so excited to be featured in The Guardian’s Family section of the weekend paper on the back of her new book. It’s her favourite insert and she felt “beside herself” that she’d made it in. At least she did until she opened The Times Magazine and saw a huge feature on Katie Quinn Davies who they described as the “world’s best food blogger”. She immediately felt deflated and grossly inadequate. Her bubble had been burst. What was the point of her blog when there are uber blogs like What Katie Ate?

It made me realise the same had happened to me. Albeit more gradually and with Esther my protagonist. There’s no real point to any of this, other than it reminded me, once again, why I should steer clear of drawing comparisons. It's a game I'll never win. It's true that mine isn’t the sharpest blog out there, my life might not be as glamorous as I perceive Esther’s to be, and I certainly don’t have a cult following like Kate Quinn Davies. But it’s my blog. And the truth of the matter is, without it, I would drown inside my head. It keeps me sane so you’re stuck with me! And in the meantime start reading Recipe Rifle. It is terrific.    

Conceding defeat

I’ve resisted writing this post, but, for reasons that now escape me, I think the time has come. I’ve resisted it for one reason; it requires conceding an argument to Mr G. And not a one off argument but one that pops up often enough to classify as a Routine Household Dispute. Until now I’ve defended my position because, well, because I like being right. But I can’t pretend anymore. I’m going to put my pride to the side and confess in the hope that you may provide some insightful tips to remedy the errors of my way. Or, tell me, in all the circumstances, I'm actually right anyway. Up to you.

Here it is. I very frequently occasionally take my frustration at the girls out on Mr G. There. I said it. (That noise you can now hear is indeed Mr G whooping for joy, so sweet is this admission to his long-suffering ears.) I can’t tell you how many times Mr G has gently suggested this might be the case; that perhaps my sudden frustration at his bowl in the sink has more to do with the general chaos in the house than his bowl. I have been steadfast, offended even, in my refusal to accept his suggestion. Ever. The implication – that I can’t rationally separate my emotions from the culpable party to a blameless one - infuriates me. Probably because it’s precisely what’s going on. And in a moment of obvious weakness who likes having their shortcomings pointed out? Not. Me. 

It’s apt that the occasion, which provided concrete proof I really was barking (literally) up the wrong tree, happened in the car because the car is my Achilles heel. It happened back when we were still rolling as a family of three (yes it’s taken me this long to admit it). We were driving to the central coast. To say Miss I travelled badly would be an epic understatement. She slept for about 25 minutes and then yelled for the next 40. Being in a confined space with a screaming toddler is exquisitely painful and when it’s your own flesh and blood your heart and head actually start to bleed. At least it feels that way. We sang to her. We fed her. We pulled over. We passed her toys and books. We tried everything but she was just miserable. And loud. So very loud. By the time we were both equally miserable we were too far gone; we were closer to our destination than home so it made sense to plough on. (Or just shack up in Gosford, sell the car and say put for the rest of our lives). Being the rational and stable person that I am I decided to get loud too.

Me: How much further do we have to go?

Mr G: Hmm maybe another 30 k’s.

Me: Are you serious?? You said it was only an hour from Sydney and considering we’ve already been in the car for OVER an hour we must be closer than that?

Mr G: Did I say that?

Me: YES. You DID actually. Why would you LIE to me?

Mr G: Er I don’t think I did. It’s usually about an hour but the traffic is pretty heavy.

Me: Well you obviously tried to trick me. Why would I make up that you told me it’s an hour?

Mr G: Why would I try to trick you?

Me: Well you know what else? You’re driving really badly. If I was driving we’d be there by now.

Mr G: You’re being a bit crazy.

Me: I’M BEING CRAZY?!?!? WHO DECIDED TO EVEN DRIVE HERE AND TELL ME IT WAS ONLY AN HOUR WHEN IT’S OBVIOUSLY ABOUT THREE??

Mr G: I know you’re stressed about Miss I but I don’t think we should have a fight because of that.

Me: Oh yeah that’s really mature to try and blame this on our child. I admit it might seem a little coincidental that Miss I is also going crazy at this moment but actually I’ve been meaning to tell you for ages that the way you hold the steering wheel/indicate/change lanes/breathe DRIVES ME MENTAL.

Mr G: You’re being crazy.

Me: [Internal blinkers are now flashing. Maybe I am being crazy because Miss I is going berserk? CONCEDE NOTHING!!] Look you can blame this on Miss I if you want but I can see straight through it.    

Now that, my dear readers, is what I believe they call projecting. Projecting my anger and frustration at Miss I’s distress straight on to Mr G. I’m not proud of it. I try to avoid it but sometimes I just can’t help it. I know from friends and family that I’m not the only wife or mother who occasionally succumbs to this trap. I mean, if I really were the only person on this planet who did this, my god, Mr G got unlucky in the whole wife lottery. Plus the term ‘projecting’ wouldn’t even exist would it? So, for those playing along at home, let’s assume some other people do this too.

 

What’s curious though is that when I’m alone and one of the girls is causing me some distress there is no outlet for that angst. It just dissipates quietly. Because it has to. It takes patience but it’s patience I seem to have less of when Mr G – my co-conspirator in this whole family fiasco – is around. In his presence I let it boil over. Because I can.

 

You might read this and predict that my marriage is going to crumple. I sincerely hope, and also believe, that’s not the case. Without getting too carried away, routine household disputes aside, we have a very happy time together.  And while technically I’ve never conceded fault I certainly put it out there afterwards that things got a bit hectic earlier and perhaps I wasn’t playing with my A-Grade saint game. Hahaha.

Now it’s over to you. Do you ever take your frustration out on someone other than the true target?  Or more importantly if you don’t HOW did you learn not to??? 

Moving slowly

So it turns out I’m a member of the slow blogging movement. My membership is not official. There is no register (that I’m aware of), no selection process and no rigid criteria. So, technically, I suppose I might not actually be a member but since I learned of the movement’s existence I’ve decided to embrace it and, until I receive official correspondence advising me to the contrary, I’m declaring myself on board. Slow blogging simply means posting less often; once a week rather than twice a day.  The idea is quality over quantity and whilst I can’t make any claims to the former, I can to the latter. Slow? Very.  

Before I finished work to have Miss L I figured I’d be posting here a few times a week. That’s how often I did when I started and I assumed I’d pick up where I left off. I assumed wrong. I had overlooked the fact that whilst I wouldn’t be working in the sense of going to an office four times a week, I would still be working in the sense of looking after a toddler and a baby. In fairness neither scenario lends itself particularly well to oodles of spare time. Funny that! Even with Miss I in childcare a few days a week, free time to blog hardly abounds. Try as I might, between drop offs, Miss L’s naps and life, once a week is the most I can manage. And that’s fine because I’m not a news site, I’m a slow blogger!!

The slow blogging movement borrowed its name from the slow food movement which encourages people to eschew fast and frantic for leisure and long in the preparation of their meals. Frankly I think there is room for both. In the bloggosphere and the dining table. There are times when a quick dinner is the only thing but equally when time allows there is plenty to be said for slow cooking. And when that involves a lamb leg covered in sumac, sitting in a shallow bath of white wine in the oven at 150 degrees for five hours, the result is mouth-wateringly good. Perfection even. I know this because my sister made it this weekend and it was heaven.

So lovely was the whole weekend in fact that I didn’t touch my computer or even give it a second thought. The upside was that I had a nap everyday. This was partly because I could but also because my beloved Miss I, who has slept predictably well without drama since she was about 6 months old, had a few horrific nights. That bit wasn’t fun at all but the napping, the relaxing and the eating in between was. Oh boy the eating was good*. The downside was I didn’t write a blog which is why today you are stuck with my random ramblings about being a slow blogger instead of one of those intellectually challenging and insightful pieces I usually post. You know about photo frames and the like? Ha!

What did you get up to over Easter?

*Turns out my sister, my Mum and I all had the same idea for the Easter break; baking. Between us we made and devoured; Donna Hay’s white chocolate and macadamia biscuits, the Monday Morning Cooking Club’s Easter Chocolate Cake, Le Pain Quotidien’s baked cheesecake, Anneka Manning’s Date Crumble Slice, Rocky Road and the piece de resistance? Margaret Fulton’s Sticky Orange Buns from her original cookbook that was gifted to my mum on her 21^st birthday. Margaret, on the strength of these buns alone, you are the very best cook this country has ever bestowed on this world. End. Of. Story.