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.

WHAT was I thinking?

When I was toying with the idea of starting a blog I wondered whether I would have enough to write about. I need not have worried. These days I dream of a week passing without anything worthy of writing about popping up. By worthy I don't mean significant in a life changing way; I mean worthy of writing because if I didn't channel my subsequent frustration into words I would need intensive and expensive counselling which I can't afford. So, for now, my dear therapists, you hear my trials.

I would forgive you for wondering whether I occasionally resort to using a little creative license to colour my blog. I don't. Not because I'm above it but because I don't need to. Without trying it seems my life bulges with bloggable events. Last week I regaled you with the events of just one, admittedly long, Friday afternoon. Despite that post comprising more than a thousand words I missed out a couple of highlights. Using 'highlights' to mean additional logistical hurdles which in hindsight were quite entertaining but were hellish to encounter. 

You might remember that it was 6pm before I could finally leave Westfield, on that fateful afternoon, having stumbled over every obstacle imaginable in my simple quest to fill a photo frame. Imagine how relieved I was hen we finally approached the car? Now imagine seeing Miss I clutch on to her dress in a way that meant only one thing. Bathroom. Now!! I swooped her under my arm, ran back up three travelators as we couldn't risk the lift not coming immediately, pushing the stroller with one hand, while mentally willing Miss I to hold on and myself to hold it together. Fortunately we both did.  

Anyway before I had time to wake up and enjoy more than a few hours of civility I was smack bang in the middle of another disastrous day with the soundtrack from the previous afternoon blaring in my head on repeat. "WHAT was I thinking???" 

Again, I want to go into detail. Not because I desperately want you to know my every movement but it is the details which properly convey the depth of my despair. Using 'despair' to mean my life. And as this is my therapy I can't not tell the whole story. So here I go again. 

It was Mr G's birthday on the weekend in question. A few months earlier Mr G was notified that he would be completing a compulsory training course over the weekend of his birthday. The course was being held on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, starting at 7.30am each morning and finishing around 6pm with a dinner on the Friday night. The timing was not negotiable so we decided we'd postpone a proper celebration until later in the month. Initially I assumed it was just your garden variety training course. The "Go-Along-Listen-To-Lectures-Eat-Morning-Tea-Mingle-Make-Awkward-Small-Talk-With-Other-Attendees variety of course. It wasn't. It was a variety I did not previously know existed.  Allow me to enlighten you.

Aside from giving up a whole weekend and a day of annual leave to sit in a stuffy room, they make you study in the lead up because you sit exams whilst you're there and then require a mark of 80 per cent or higher just to pass. And the kicker? They charge you more money than you can possibly imagine for the privilege. What a hoot! Would you believe there is even a waiting list for such torture?? 

Anyway. The Tuesday evening before the course Mr G mentioned that he would finish after lunch on Sunday. In a moment of incredible clarity insanity I decided that organising a small surprise picnic for his birthday in that window of spare time would be a good idea. And it was. Except for the bit where I had to organise a small surprise picnic. Because even small surprise picnics requires a good deal of organisation. There are emails and phone calls to invite friends; outdoor tables to borrow; napkins, candles and balloons to buy, alcohol to be arranged, eskys set up, food to be made. The list goes on. 

I figured an online grocery order being delivered on Saturday lunchtime would cut out the hassle of shopping with the girls and would arrive in time for me to prepare food for Sunday. Which would have been great except that I pressed 'Sunday' for the delivery so the food didn't arrive until half an hour before the picnic commenced. This meant on Saturday afternoon, barely twelve hours from my hellish time at Westfield, after realising my error, I had to take both the girls to Coles to do a mad shop. WHAT WAS I THINKING??? No really WHAT???

Because the picnic was a surprise and because Mr G was having a pretty intense old time at his course I couldn't exactly not prepare something a little bit special for dinner on his actual birthday. Before I could stop myself on Friday I even asked what he'd like for dinner and dessert. This meant that between 4 o'clock on Saturday afternoon and 3 o'clock on Sunday afternoon I cooked: a marinated lamb shoulder, beetroot, sweet potato and dukkah salad, a peach crumble, roast chicken and walnut sandwiches, blondies with white chocolate and cranberries and a lime and coconut birthday cake. All from scratch. All whilst wrangling, feeding, bathing, bedding and playing with both girls on my own. I did not do all of this because I was trying to set some kind of record for stupidity or martyrdom. I did it because I didn't think properly. Actually that's a lie. I didn't think at all. 

The funny bit is that when Mr G walked in the door on Saturday evening the house looked gorgeous, the table was set, presents were wrapped, both girls were asleep, dinner was ready to go and I burst into tears and confessed that my mental heath was severely compromised due to one of his presents and a surprise party I was organising. I'm not sure that's the ideal outcome; blurting the secret to the guest of honour - in tears - but sometimes life isn't ideal. At least not all the time. Fortunately though the Sunday afternoon picnic was.   
 As my therapists feel free to pass on constructive life advice you think might help me. Or, even better, because we're not constrained by protocol, feel free to share any of your own daily disasters in the comments. It will make me feel better. Make them up if you have to.     

Bits and pieces

Sometimes I think about a potential post and then wonder if I'm 'allowed' to write it that way. Then I remember this is just my little blog so I can write whatever, and how ever, I like; there are no rules. So, today, instead of covering one topic I'm going for a mixed bag. I'm even throwing in some advice for free. 

Bouncing back

Regular readers will recall that 2013 began in the doldrums for the NABM clan with Mr G struck down with meningitis. I am happy to report that Mr G has made a full recovery and is back in his usual good health. As an aside, my estimation that 2013 could only get better has so far proved true.     

Great (low) expectations 

I realise it sounds more than a tad defeatist but once again I have been reminded of the enormous benefit in expecting the absolute worst. As you know I was apprehensive about Mr G starting his new job but I am thrilled to say, so far, the new arrangements have entirely exceeded my expectations. This is purely because my expectations were exceedingly low. 

As a starting point I imagined he would never, like ever to quote Taylor Swift, be home. I assumed I would be solely responsible for things on the home front at all times. This is very often true but it means if one or two nights a week he makes an appearance, well, it's like all my Christmases have come at once. Except after the Christmas we just had (see above) this is not welcome. No the nights he is home are better. It's like my annual quota of rocky road is delivered all at once. 

Coping with comfort

I'm not going to lie and pretend there haven't been tears or the occasional 'I can't bear another solo dinner/bath/bedtime' text. There have been both. (Remember THIS???) But for the most part I have been reminded that, in the same way that living costs always seem to swell with earnings, our ability to cope swells with what is required. We don't always want to and it's not always pretty but it's comforting to remember we are usually capable of whatever lies ahead. A few months ago I often wondered how on earth I would ever manage with two children on my own. Now I can't remember any different and I do it without thinking. I trip up, my patience wanes and I don't always relish every single minute of it but I also can't remember the last day that I didn't laugh. Again expecting the worst sometimes delivers the best.      

Be careful in the kitchen

It turns out people cut their hands at home a lot. I know this because in the weeks when Mr G is the go-to man for injured hands, his phone rings. All. The. Time. Wine glasses, filleting knives, blender blades - they all do considerable damage. So here is my advice for free; be really careful handling all of your kitchen implements. Aside from protecting your safety I am also, selfishly, aware that somewhere else in the world there is a home just like mine. And by the time you injure yourself and get yourself to emergency, someone's phone will ring like Mr G's. It usually rings the minute a baby is just settled or a tired adult has entered a deep slumber. And it's cruel. So why don't we avoid all that hassle and just be careful in kitchen? Excellent.  

Restaurants are lovely. (Someone else cooks and cleans!!)  

Confession time. Until last Friday night I basically hadn't stepped foot out of the house after 7pm since Miss L joined us back in early November. When we had Miss I we went out to dinner quite a bit when she was really young because we could easily pop her under the table, asleep in her car seat. That wasn't possible this time around because although Miss L may have obliged, Miss I is a little bit too big and a lot too loud to hide in a restaurant. So at home I have been. Until Friday when I broke my night-time hermit habit and ventured out. And what fun it was! We went to Chiswick which deserves every bit of hype it's garnered. The food was amazing...I especially liked the bit where I didn't have to prepare it or clean up. Magic!   

For added trivia the last time Mr G and I went out for dinner was six days before Miss L arrived. I was so full of baby at the time that I actually couldn't fit dessert in which is tragic (and unheard of) for a dessert-tragic like myself. Friday night's dessert - Mango Bombe Alaska - more than made up for it. Truly it was the best dessert I've ever sampled. 

A night off is not the same as a holiday
I'd been so excited for my night off that it had somehow escaped me that come Saturday morning I would still be the director of childcare and home affairs at NABM. Alone, for the most part, because Mr G was tending to someone's damaged hand. In future I will try to remember that going out for dinner, albeit luxurious, is not the same as checking into a child-free resort for 48 hours. 

Even terrorists are funny 
I'm aware Miss I has had a little bad press here lately. Between terrorism and her ambulance antics I concede the picture I have painted is not entirely accurate. The truth is I wish I had a video to capture her every word at the moment. No description can do her justice; she is so funny and sunny and completely mad. And at the end of the day when she is tucked up in bed I try to remember her every expression. Isn't that a lovely thing about motherhood? That even terrorists' mothers love them?   

What's going on in your world? I haven't said it for a while but I LOVE it when people comment so please say hi! 

A battle in the urban jungle

Today I am going to tell you a story about a photoframe. How dull, you might be thinking. What on earth could I possibly have to say about putting a few photos in a frame that could be remotely interesting? My innate knack for making even the most ordinary and straightforward things extraordinarily complicated means the photo frame in question is actually much more than a wall hanging. It is a trophy of yet another battle I forged - and won - in the urban jungle. A reminder that sometimes it is the destination that matters. That some journeys are best forgotten.   

Mr G has just celebrated a milestone birthday. A few weeks ago, after already organising my own gift for him, I decided that a frame with a few snaps of three of his biggest fans would be a great present from our girls. Despite putting this suggestion to them weeks in advance neither took any initiative in getting the project off the ground so I was left to do the legwork. C'est le vie. 

One of my lovely friends is a big fan of both the NABM girls and was kind enough to offer to be our photographer for the morning. Aside from being a finance whiz, a doctor in training and a wedding-cake-maker, this friend is also quite talented behind a camera. So off we went to her place dressed in pale pink one morning. The photo-shoot was a lot of fun and despite some terrible weather and two occasionally reluctant subjects it was a roaring success. So roaring in fact that choosing which images to frame became quite onerous.

All of this was done in plenty of time for Mr G's birthday. At least it would have been if I wasn't me. Because whilst I've had three decades to familiarise myself with my various foibles it's obviously not been enough time for me to actually conquer them. Identify them? Easily. Overcome them? Not yet. It's true that I'm not a disorganised person but I am also not super orderly. In fact I have an annoying tendency to ensure I am never too organised. (Which I realise is an oxymoron to certain members of the population).

The best example of this tendency is literally academic. At uni I never submitted an assignment late but I never got one in early either. I always did the preparation early enough; I researched weeks ahead, printed off the relevant articles, photocopied various books so I had all the material ready to go. But I could never bring myself to commence writing - not even one word - until I had just enough time to complete it. No pressure, no game. And the thing is because that method works, mostly, I sort of stick to it. Not intentionally but it seems to be the way things pan out.

And so it was with my photo project. The images were there, I had created shortlists of all my favourite images and divided them into colour, black and white, portrait and landscape. The heavy lifting was done but I deliberated about the choice for more than a week. I concluded a multi-frame was the only way to go but then deliberated for several more days about which to choose first; the frame or the photos. After several unsuccessful shopping trips, two days before Mr G's birthday, I finally chose one. I took it home picked my images for each of the six shapes and took them off to be printed. If I had been more organised I should have thought to do all of this online. But, of course, I didn't. I like going up against time.

I put the images on a USB and went to my local Westfield. This was a day where my budding Al Qaeda representative was in daycare so with Miss L snoozing in her pram this was a relatively civilised exercise. Well, it would have been. Sadly my USB didn't work so I had to go home and put them on another one. I returned later that afternoon but their computers didn't appreciate my new USB either. One guy behind the counter was nice enough to try it on his machine and it worked so he printed them off. I collected them straight from the press and then raced to pick up my favourite terrorist. By the time the small people were tucked into bed that night Mr G was home from work so I had to wait until the next day to put the photos in the frame.

I waited until both girls were snoozing at lunchtime on Friday before getting to work. And, wouldn't you know it, one of the photos had lines through it. Big, ugly, thick lines. And naturally it was the only photo I had printed in that size. I realised a mad dash to the photo shop was in order. Oh well, I thought to myself, it's one photo so I will be in and out quickly. Naturally enough - because I actually had something to do - both girls had massive sleeps which is almost always welcome. Except when their crazy mother has a project to complete.

So. Perhaps because I am completely insane I trooped to Westfield with both the girls at 4 o'clock on a Friday afternoon. Because of my earlier USB problems I emailed myself single the image I needed so it was on my phone and I took the cable with me. How smart I thought to myself. I got a park very easily but realised as we unloaded that I only had the stroller in the car, not the double pram. In a nod to my possible insanity, I put Miss L in the stroller and let Miss I hold my hand. What could go wrong in ten minutes? Everything. 

When we arrived at the shop and I tried to retrieve the email I discovered the image was so large it wouldn't download from the server to open in my phone. This meant I couldn't save it to my phone which meant I couldn't access it on their machines. I explained my dilemma to one of the sales attendants and politely enquired if I could access their wifi (which was popping up on my phone) to download the image to my phone. No. Absolutely not, they said. I would have to find wifi somewhere else in the centre and I could then email them the image directly. (If only I'd known that when I was at home with a decent internet connection).

I went in search of the Westfield concierge and they said wifi is not available anywhere in the centre, with it being 1985 and all. A man nearby overheard me and pointed me towards the Apple store. All of their computers are online and available to use. So to Apple we went. I quickly logged on, forwarded the email to the shop and headed back down there. My search had led me to three different floors in the complex at this stage and because I had a pram and a wild toddler simply getting from one location to another was a miracle mission.

But we were almost there. I arrived back at the photo shop where the sales assistant told me my email had arrived but they were having trouble retrieving the attachment. She said "The man who looks after the emails is on his break now so you'll have to wait 15 minutes until he gets back." There were four other attendants in the shop but apparently only the man on the break uses the email. Again, with it being 1985 this seemed entirely reasonable. 

At this point Miss I was impersonating an ambulance running around the store simultaneously threatening to break several thousand dollars worth of equipment whilst also compromising the hearing and sanity of everyone nearby. The sensible thing to do at that point would have been leaving. To cut my losses and head home. I had another more significant birthday present for Mr G already wrapped at home and could easily have given him the frame with one streaky image to be replaced in the coming days. But I am not sensible. I am stubborn and a bit insane and wanted  Mr G to open a perfect frame. So I persisted.

Staying in the photo shop whilst we waited was not feasible due to the human ambulance in my company so we went for a wander. I then remembered I hadn't bought Mr G a card from the girls. Again my inclination towards not being too organised came into play here. I had browsed several large card selections in the days previous but resisted buying one in case I saw a better one closer to the day. Yes, David Jones has an awfully comprehensive selection but I think perhaps I should wait until late on a Friday afternoon and try browsing the selection in the company of Miss I. 

So in conclusive proof of my insanity we entered a newsagent. It turns out newsagents are heaven for small children unencumbered by a pram and they are equally hellish for the silly parents who take such toddlers inside.

Miss I: swiping hoards of balloons "Look Mummy b'loons Mummy!!! I like b'loons Mummy. I take all the B'loon homes?"  
Me: [Snatching several packets of balloons back and returning them to the shelves] "No darling, we'll put them back. Just help me choose a card for dad's birthday."
Miss I: "Lollypops!! Look Mummy!! I like lollypops. I take all the lollypops home mummy?"
Me: "No put them back please."
Miss I: "NO!!! Mummy I TAKE LOLLYPOPS!!!"
Me: hissing and wresting several chupa chups from her clenched fists "No, they're all staying in the shop."
Miss I: Finds low open fridge and grabs three water bottles. "Otay Mummy. I like wa-dder bottles, I take all the wa-der bottles my home."
Me: Returning bottles to fridge. "No."

This was followed by shrieking, a moment of floor lying and me grabbing the closest, tackiest, card in the shop whilst also swooping up Miss I. With Miss I in something of a headlock under my arms I handed over an obscene amount of money for the ugly card. "My grand-daughter never lets go of her pram when she's out with her Mummy and baby brother," the sales assistant helpfully informed me. "That's terrific, would you like to swap? This one's going cheap." Amazingly she wasn't interested. 

We returned to the photo shop only to discover the Email Expert was still on his break. Now I know this isn't ideal - promoting less than ideal behaviour and all - but at this point I brought in the big guns for Miss I. I bought her a mini cupcake on the proviso that she sit still until the man returned to the shop to help me. She obliged and with Miss L chilling out watching the world go by in her pram calm prevailed for at least a few minutes. 

When his break was up, the Email Expert materialised and told me I'd have to go back up to Apple and resend the email. Tears were not far from my eyes at this point. Upon learning that the reason for my visit was a faulty photo his shop had printed the day before he finally took pity on me and offered me his computer out the back. If only I'd tried tears earlier...

So the girls and I hustled into the back of the store and Miss I sat at my feet whilst I logged on to Gmail. Just as I pressed send on the image, the computer shut down. "What happened?" the Email man and I asked at the same time. I looked down and realised the little person at my feet had turned the power off at the wall. Oh. Boy. At that very moment Miss L decided to let her presence be known and broke into an impressive and unrelenting cry. Did I mention that it is now 5.45pm on a Friday evening? Dear readers, what was I thinking???

The Email Expert rebooted the computer and was waiting to see if my email had sent. Meanwhile I needed to feed Miss L immediately. I coaxed Miss I into the pram with the promise of a Peppa Pig episode on my phone and started feeding Miss L (as discreetly as possible in case David Koch was anywhere close). Because something had to go right my email had sent before the computer was switched off so by the time I finished feeding Miss L, I had the photo in my hot little hand and was finally ready to go home. 

Fortunately I realised my housekeeper/nanny/chef would be waiting at home with dinner ready so I could just lie down, retire to my private quarters and enjoy a cold glass of wine whilst they fed and bathed my children. AS. IF. I was staring down the hardest part of my day; the feeding, bathing, reading, bedding fiasco on my own with the added benefit of being exhausted and having two super grumpy girls. Fun times!

The good news is twofold. Mr G was totally awestruck when he opened his perfect frame and even more so when I relayed the story of how it came to be. Now it hangs on the wall and it's  not only a lovely visual feast but it's also a trophy. A reminder that like Bear Grylls is a warrior in the wild, I too am a warrior in the urban jungle. Whilst he counters nature's elements, I conquer  urban life's equivalents. (And, not to detract from his feats, but there are times when a stroll through the Amazon seems positively urbane compared to the jungle that is city living with small children.) Bear and I are more similar than we might seem. We both take on tasks that are not altogether necessary, sensible or even enticing. But what seems ridiculous to a passer-by makes sense to Bear and I. Because we know survival against the elements is a wonderful drug. 

Tiny terrorists

Forgive me, dear readers, for I am about to sin. It is not nice to boast and it's particularly tiresome to boast about your own offspring but I cannot not share this with you. She is not yet three but it is already abundantly clear that our beloved Miss I is gifted. Obviously as her mother I am biologically wired to view her abilities with rose tinted glasses but I promise even an objective bystander would very reasonably reach the very same conclusion. 

She already sports the unmistakable combination of traits of a person capable of creating international headlines. Should she choose to pursue it, and goodness knows Miss I only pursues what she chooses, a bright future awaits her in the field of terrorism. And, again, reluctant as I am to brag, I suspect she would be best suited to a position right at the top of the tree. The dictator, the top dog, the chief controller.

I know this because for some time she has expertly, effortlessly really, occupied that mantel in the NABM household. Now I know it is hard to extrapolate from a small family of four to the entire universe but pop over for half an hour and I defy you to reach a different conclusion. The girl is made for it.

At the conclusion of a recent long weekend (not the variety where the government bestow a holiday on the Australian public just the variety that regularly reign when you are responsible for two small children) Mr G asked a telling question. "Do you feel like we've been held hostage by Miss I all weekend?" Save the 'weekend' bit and he was bang on. 

There are days, even weeks, when living with Miss I is not dissimilar to living with a terrorist with a bomb strapped to her chest; one wrong step and the whole place is engulfed in flames. Whilst selfishly this can make for trying times I have to remind myself that it's valuable experience in her future line of work. 

From what I understand there is no room for equivocating when you're a dictator zealously committed to dragging a large population towards your ideology. When it comes to terror, deviations from the dictator's rulebook simply aren't tolerated. And so it is if, for example, the wrong person attempts to strap Miss I in the pram. Or her mum speaks to her dad in the car without her express consent. Or someone suggests that plane is not pronounced 'Mal'. Or ravioli, I mean 'raviolo', is not served for every meal every day. Or someone drives too fast. Or someone drives too slow.  Truly, her eye for detail when it comes to departures from her master plan is extraordinary. 

Come to think of it, so is her unwavering commitment to her personal beliefs regardless of their relationship to reality. (Yet another quality which will no doubt lend itself nicely to any organisation harbouring extremist ideologies.) When one of Miss I's rules is infringed the offending party is punished severely. No questions asked. No logic considered. No matter how big or small the offence may reasonably be considered in the eyes of the offending party, the punishment is the same. 

Whilst some people have to learn how to implement personal boundaries Miss I was born to enforce them. With zero tolerance. It is quite breathtaking. But I can't lie to you; raising a child so obviously gifted in her aptitude for inflicting terror certainly makes some days tricky. But who am I to stand in the way of nature's clear intentions? Besides, even if I wanted to, I wouldn't get it past my household's answer to Pol Pot would I?

Instead I just take it in my stride and wait for the day she can channel her iron clad will into something more worthwhile than resisting a bath. In the meantime I'm also hoping and praying and crossing all my fingers and toes, that Miss L is cut out for something entirely different. Like meditating. Aside from benefitting me I imagine that would also stand her in good stead when it comes to hosting a support group for siblings-of-terrorists. Goodness knows that's only a matter of time. 

Do you have any budding terrorists in your life? Or are your children gifted in any fun ways? Like following instructions or occasionally considering reason?