Life and other catastrophes

Hello!! Remember me?!? I’m the blogger who always makes you feel better about your own life simply by virtue of it not being mine. Ok that’s not strictly true - there are parts of my life that are lovely. But, if you’re really honest, you probably read most of my posts and think ‘Thank the Lord/Buddha/the gods of rocky road/mascara/wine/sleep I’m not her’.

And, if you don’t, I promise you would if you could watch even a small highlights package from the past six or so weeks. Things. Have. Been. CRAZY. I have been back battling the urban jungle in the only way I seem to know how – with calamity - and the travesty has been I haven’t even had time to blog about it. I mean, that’s basically the whole point of having a blog, having somewhere to constructively channel life’s disasters. Instead I’ve been stuck just living them.

So let me tell you that not being another blogging mother isn’t nearly as much fun as being Not Another Blogging Mother!! I have never had more material for this blog than I have in recent weeks which is the very reason I have never had less time to write here. Every cliché you have ever heard about people combining work and small children? I’m living all of them. At any given point in time I have about fifty balls in the air and I run around all day trying to keep them from crashing around me.    

The funny thing is though, from the outside, my life doesn’t always look as chaotic as it actually is. It’s almost like I live parallel lives. I thought this the other morning as I sat on a full bus on the way to work. From the outside I looked just like most of my fellow commuters; fairly respectable, dressed in work clothes, with hair brushed and some make-up hastily applied. Beneath the surface? Different story.

I had been up since 4.30am (Miss L’s current favourite time to start the day) after being in and out of Miss I’s room all night (double ear infection). Since 6am I had been wrangling two unhappy little girls, the highlights of which included administering antibiotics into a wholly uncooperative three year old and trying to prepare three bowls of breakfast with one hand whilst also holding and attempting to soothe a fractious, tired and hungry ten month old. I showered and dressed myself in under five minutes but spent 30 minutes negotiating and cajoling the girls into their clothes. All the while I was expecting a knock on the door from our neighbours to discuss the girls’ overnight festivities.

I mentally high-fived myself about thirty times for the fact I didn’t need to get the girls out of the house – I just counted the minutes til our divine and delightful nanny turned up. After doing a handover with her, I then raced out the door and started thinking about the half a dozen stories that I would need to edit, write and publish that morning. 

I was also still getting over the shock and trauma of doing a whole Woolworths shop the day before WITHOUT MY WALLET. (And just for future reference if you ever do that, no they won’t accept payment with your credit card details that you have displayed on your iPad right in front of them or a bank transfer, also right in from of them. Not even if there is a screaming baby in the trolley and a nearly-crying mother at the cashier. They will insist you go home and return later. By which point you will also have your toddler with you and they will have, helpfully, lost half your shop which you will then have to do again. FUN!!!)

Anyway I was shattered and I sat there on the bus and marvelled that none of my fellow passengers would have cause to be aware of the zoo that my home life, just a few moments earlier entailed. I felt like a fraud, like I should have disclosed “If you think I look like a normal person going about life with ease – WRONG. Wrongity. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. You should see where I’ve just left!” Except I then realised that the same would apply to them.

I mean, their personal dramas might come in a different shape or size to mine (surely the chances are slim that two people on the same bus would have gone to a supermarket the day before without a wallet???) but whatever commotion their personal life might entail was invisible to me. To me, they all looked like perfectly ordinary, functioning adults without a care in the world. And, though I doubt anyone actually looked up from their iPhone to do this, if they had they probably would have concluded the same about me. 

And for some reason realising that made me feel better. We all have double lives – what we present on the outside doesn’t always mirror what’s happening on the inside. Different settings require different approaches. And the fact that for ten minutes a few times a week I look like any other commuter – unencumbered by anything other than the bus meandering along the road - just waiting to get to work? I like that. Truth be told it’s the most relaxing part of my week.

So. That’s me! How are you??? What have you been doing??? I wish I could say I was back for good but the truth is I’m probably not so I will just blog when I can.

PS As my loyal readers I should let you know that NABM got a mention on national television a few weeks ago. Somehow I don’t think the audience will be flocking here though. You can ready why here.  

Putting a blog to bed

I have put off writing this until the very last moment but my denial can last no longer. I am placing Not Another Blogging Mother into administration for the next little bit*. I will pause now while you sob dramatically and ponder how on earth you will ever cope without my weekly whinge. (Take comfort knowing I am sobbing louder than anyone right now pondering how on earth I will cope without my weekly whinge.)

From tomorrow I am taking over the reins at Women’s Agenda on a practically-fulltime basis and for many reasons I’ve decided to dedicate myself to it wholeheartedly. There are only so many minutes in a day and between my job, my girls, Mr G and running a household, I know I’m going to be spread thin as it is. So for now, while I get myself acquainted with a new order of affairs, I’m going to let NABM lay idle.

Even typing that sentence was painstaking because I am so reluctant to leave this space, my quiet haven in the world wide web, even temporarily. While I am obviously not expecting anyone to sob, or even mind, about my hiatus I wasn’t joking about my own (internal) sobs. It’s hard to tear myself away.

For the past two and a bit years a week has barely passed where I haven’t perched at my computer and happily tapped away. Not because I think I have to but because I always want to. There has never been a day or a week where I have felt anything remotely close to ambivalence about sitting here chatting to you.           

Which is why this is not a eulogy. Blogging is the only real hobby I have ever embraced and I have no intention of abandoning it for long but for now my job and my family are going to be the dual recipients of every bit of my energy. And until I’m back THANK YOU for reading.

PS. Of course if you do happen to miss me here I will be writing regularly over at Women’s Agenda so come visit! Daily! And bring all your friends. And all their friends! And your family! It’ll be fun. I promise.

*I am giving myself a full calendar month before I am even allowed to think about logging on here again. I have to be strict because I will want to be writing here but I figure it’s better to (try) to do a few things well rather than lots of things badly.   

The secret to a long and lasting marriage?

Yesterday, on the eve of our fourth wedding anniversary, Mr G and I welcomed another woman into our marriage. And, frankly, I couldn’t be happier. While it is still very early days it already seems certain that her mere presence will strengthen, and possibly even lengthen, our marriage. I realise some people might think three is too crowded but regular readers might recall that I have, on more than one occasion, expressed interest in trialling polygamy in the NABM home and so far the reality is every bit as good as I imagined it might be. Better even.

So who is this woman of mystery? She is a delightful Brazilian girl, with whom we are all in love, who has taken up employment as our nanny three days a week. (You didn’t think anyone would join this circus for FREE did you?) Now I realise an explanation is in order. A few weeks ago I recounted, in excruciating detail, the horror story that is finding childcare in this grand old harbour city and a nanny was only a minor part of the plan.

After sending myself completely spare I managed to get Miss L two days in a family day-care centre. I figured my angst and hard work had been worth it and was just gearing up to get stuck into work when reality came thundering in. What worked on paper didn’t work in reality. Who would have thought that getting two kids (fed and dressed) in the car, driving to one location, unloading both children, dropping one child off, reloading other kid back in the car, driving to the next location, dropping that child off and then getting myself to work before 8.30am, and then doing the same in the afternoon wouldn’t work???

It wasn’t logistics alone though that made our original plan come undone. Illness, a pretty inevitable part of life with little people, was the main culprit. Miss L had one happy day in care before she succumbed to a virus and then an ear infection and then suddenly my plans were no longer feasible. When a child is sick they obviously can’t attend daycare but the fees are still payable...and their parents are still required at work. 

 

So even though at first glance we’d concluded a nanny wasn’t financially viable we were forced to rethink. And you know what is less affordable than a nanny? Paying childcare at two different centres and paying a nanny to look after a sick child. That’s when you start haemorrhaging money and you start searching for the very best nanny you can find. Which we did and as a result yesterday was absolutely sublime. When I got home at 5.30pm the house was spotless, the girls were happy, dinner was cooked, the washing was folded (and put away!!) and I was so happy I could have burst. When Mr G arrived home after 6pm I was actually dancing in the living room. True story. I had time to dance and read stories and play and enjoy giving my giggling girls their bath more than I have in yonks.

And if that’s not money well spent (not to mention the secret to a long and lasting union) then I don’t know what is. 

The non-gift that keeps not giving.

Do you know what I love about housework? Ooooh it’s so hard to choose! Oh actually no it’s not, it’s easy. Nothing! Do you know what I don’t love about housework? Everything. If you were to insist I narrow my distaste for domestic duties down to one little thing it would be this: the fact it never ends. Like ever, to quote Taylor Swift. It’s like some reverse magic pudding. The non-gift that keeps not giving.

Let’s talk about the groceries for example. For the purpose of this exercise let’s assume the best case scenario; that we are shopping without children. We sit down and gather our thoughts to write a list of everything the household might need for the week. A notepad on the fridge makes this easy(ish) for me because the minute something runs out I put it on the list. This is because, as ever, I try to make life easy. As ever, I rarely succeed. But with every good intention I sit down, plan the week of meals and set out to tackle the shops. So far so good.

I battle the weekend traffic (the price i’m willing to pay for shopping without little people), I nab a park usually after 20 minutes circling and then whizz around the supermarket trying to avoid colliding with every other parent in the city who is on the same mission.

I hope and pray the shelves are stocked with everything on the list which it usually isn’t, so I make a mental note that an additional trip to the other supermarket or green grocer will be required to collect basil/avocados that may actually be ripe within the week/or whatever else that wasn’t stocked but is in fact vital for one of the week’s meals. I then hand over an obscene amount of money to ensure the duopoly’s market domination continues and get myself home.

Once home I will then lug my supplies inside and begin unpacking, which, invariably, requires rearranging the fridge and the pantry to make room. This, in turn, invariably requires a trip to the rubbish bins because the rearrangements mean both bins – recyclables and non recyclables – now need emptying. I will then unpack the supplies and pour a stiff gin and tonic before I start humming quietly for an hour. Ha…tricked you!  

I won’t do that because I need my faculties for a bit longer. At some point soon enough, sometimes even immediately, it will inevitably be time to prepare one of the scheduled meals. I will peel, chop, sear, simmer as required, ensuring I use several different implements and pieces of equipment as I go. Because despite my best intentions to keep life simple, life will laugh at my futile attempts and make my kitchen messy.

I might then boil, bake, steam and, depending on the age and stage of each  offspring, puree some of this dish. Oh goody more equipment to use and later clean! It is now time to serve and feed the children. Depending on their moods at least some of this lovingly prepared meal will end up in their mouths. Of course a much larger portion of it will go untouched and even more again will be smeared on the highchair and the table.

I will chat, sing, dance on my head…anything to cajole my toddler to swallow something of nutritional value and prevent my baby from tipping the bowl on her head. Or mine. (Not because I am obsessive about their dietary intake but because I am obsessive about ensuring the whole grocery-shopping meal-preparing exercise is not entirely in vain.)

At the end of all this I will then put my head in my hands and ask myself “Why? Why must we continue this eating charade so many times a day???” Well I would do that if I had time. I don’t. There’s a meal to clean up!! Dishes to scrub, surfaces to wipe, highchairs to clean, plates to scrape, cups to rinse. Not to mention clothes to soak. It never ends. Like ever.

If I’m lucky and I unstacked the dishwasher earlier, like the good responsible housekeeper that I am, the clean up might be quick and simple. It probably won’t be. Even if it is though that’s just one meal out of 21 I’ll be providing in a week. If you eat two meals out a week, which when you have small children and are on a budget is probably good going, you will be preparing, serving and cleaning up 19 meals a week. And that’s not even counting snacks. Or the fact I don’t like eating at 5.30pm so mostly host two dinner sittings every night. And that is just food.

We haven’t even dealt with the laundry, the bathroom, the toys or the carpet. Plus before we know it, all the food will be eaten and it’s time to set off for the shops once again. See what I mean about the non gift that keeps not giving?

When I started maternity leave I remember thinking it was so novel that I could put a load of washing on and be home to hang it out. I even said that out loud so my sister can vouch for me. The novelty lasted about a day and now every load of washing practically brings me to tears. Which is a crying shame, pun intended, because I do at least two loads every day. Why you ask? Let me tell you.

Babies have an extraordinary knack for making their clothes supremely dirty; not with invisible sweat that you could potentially ignore but with all manner of highly visible matter. Their bedding, muslin cloths, blankets, car seats and adults in their vicinity are not immune from their messy magical ways so it’s quite easy for them to singlehandedly fill the washing machine daily.

Also because most great baby foods have carrot or pumpkin or sweet potato in them it’s usually not as simple as just whacking them in the machine. A bucket of Napisan is always full.

Toddlers are marginally better at keeping themselves clean but if you have a daughter like mine who changes her clothes regularly throughout the day chances are they can still dirty upwards of six garments. A day. Add in the odd accident and we’re doing their sheets and mattress protectors too. Hence my close and fractious relationship with my washing machine.  

The cruellest part of all this is that it never ends. There is no demarcation between the week and the weekend when it comes to domestic duties. So long as there are mouths to feed and bodies to dress these jobs keep marching on. And frankly it blows my mind. Can you tell???

Do you need to whinge about something? Please use the comment section to jump in.  

Haters gonna hate

Sometimes I worry about venting about my struggles in the parenting arena here. It doesn’t stop me from doing it but I do wonder whether occasionally it might make me seem like I’m a bit awful. I don’t have an editorial calendar and I don’t plan my posts too far in advance; it’s a bit more on the fly than that. I sit down and write whatever comes and more often than not the stuff that comes out is the tougher stuff. The bits I’ve been stewing over or trying to reconcile.  Sometimes this means there might be a few negative posts in a row and when that happens I always wonder whether I should bang up something quickly about the rosier side of raising terrorists.  I never do just for the sake of it but it’s something I think about.

A few weeks ago one of my favourite bloggers, Esther Walker, put into words something that made sense of it. She has recently had the horrific experience of being trolled; she received a string of venomous and vile emails from an anonymous hater. The person – gender unknown – made some heinous comments, the worst of which suggested she should kill her toddler if she hates her so much.

At this point many things are obvious; that heinous doesn’t begin to describe a person capable of sending such revolting things. That a person capable of sending such revolting things is in need of psychiatric intervention. That a person subjected to such revolting things would be rattled. That a person subjected to such revolting things about their innocent and beloved child would stop and question, really question, why on earth she sits down every week and gives her readers a glimpse into her life when that is what she gets in return. That it would be tempting to pull down every post she’s ever written and never pen another.

Fortunately for her, and all of her fans, Esther’s readers rallied upon reading of her hellish encounter. They commented in the hundreds and, by opening up about how Esther’s honest words so often rally them, I think, reassured her that despite the abhorrent sentiments of one anonymous hater, there is tremendous gratitude for what she does in her weekly missives. And, more than just gratitude, there is utility. Because it makes other people feel less alone, less in need of a straight jacket and less like they’re the only one who wants to yell “THIS IS TOO BLOODY HARD!!!,” when they’re trying to pin down a three year old to administer eye drops (FOUR TIMES A DAY FOR FIVE CONSECUTIVE DAYS!!!). 

I doubt any sane person could read one of Esther’s posts and not conclude that she absolutely adores her children. It is plain to see in her words. But, as she wrote, there is less value in writing simply about how much she loves her children. How vast and uncomplicated that love is and how delightful her gorgeous kids are. Because, as any parent can attest, that’s the easy part; the bit that happens without trying.

The bit that isn’t easy is coming to grips with the moments when you just want everyone to stop whinging. Or asking questions. Or barking orders. Or melting down. Or demanding more of you when, in fact, it feels like there is nothing left to give because it feels like you’ve been meeting demands for months on end. The bit that isn’t easy is coming to grips with the fact you can love a small child so hard but just as intently wish they were someone else’s responsibility part of the time. You know, like one weekend a month.

If you don’t have small children or have never been responsible for small children for a prolonged period of time, I think, there is a chance you might read that and think that anyone feeling those things is doing it especially tough. That any parent feeling or thinking those things is really struggling. Like ‘bring in people in white jackets’ kind of struggling. But, as far as I can tell, thinking and feeling those things is pretty routine in the lives of families with little people.

It’s the reason I, and no doubt all of her fans, rejoice in reading the words of a parent like Esther. A parent who is honest and generous and brave enough to tell me, in no uncertain terms, she feels those things. And I am grateful because apart from entertaining me with her funny and thoughtful posts and plying me with recipes that work, Esther’s blog makes my tougher moments in the parenting arena a tiny bit more bearable. It’s further proof that others mothers really are every mother’s biggest ally.

I’m glad she doesn’t sit down and write something rosy just for the sake of it and it’s the reason I won’t either. As the writers of The Wire so aptly put it ‘haters gonna hate’ so there’s no point pretending for them. And because you’re all too lovely to hate I know I can level with you.

Scorned by thy neighbour

Readers I am feeling scorned. Truly. Madly. Deeply. Mostly madly to be honest. Let me set the scene. We’ve been having a pretty tumultuous time here at NABM HQ lately. No single event is responsible but a few factors, when taken in combination, mean it’s been kind of rough. The girls have both been sick (and consequently grumpy and miserable) on and off for weeks, Mr G’s been working like a demon, I’ve been scrambling to make arrangements for going back to work and the backdrop to all of this is that Mr G and I haven’t really slept properly in over eight months. One reason we’re both sleep deprived is because we live in an apartment. It means there is no spare room where one of us can retreat; for a daytime nap, for some quiet time or a solid night’s rest. We live on top of each other and we have neighbours who live on top of us.

Which brings me to feeling scorned. By thy neighbour. Yesterday afternoon, I was yo-yoing between the girls as they each resisted sleep at different times for different reasons. Miss L is a baby so clearly needs to sleep during the day and whilst Miss I is 3, she still appears to need her nap too. I like the girls having a nap for a few reasons. Obviously I like it because it means I have a quiet home for at least half an hour which recharges me for the afternoon ahead. But it also recharges them. And because they’ve been sick lately they both needed sleep yesterday even more than I needed peace.

After a pretty spectacular lunchtime tantrum Miss I hopped into bed without hassle but, murphy’s law, Miss L took more convincing. Once I finally put Miss L in her cot without major protest and sat down to eat something, Miss I howled. I managed to convince her to lie back down. This worked for about ten minutes before she cried out again. I brought her into our room on the proviso that she could at least rest and I had just lay her beside me when I heard a knock at the door. “Obviously it’s Mr G coming home super early as a surprise!!” I thought. Obviously I was wrong. It was our neighbour from upstairs. This went down.

Neighbour: “Look I have just had to leave uni early because I can’t concentrate. You guys seem like nice people but you really need to sort out your baby because we’re not sleeping and we’re thinking we may have to move out.”

Me: “I’m so sorry, both the girls are sick at the moment.” My eyes pleaded with her….please don’t do this. 

Neighbour: “It’s just we’ve tried sleeping in our spare room at the back but we can still hear the baby. Is there anything you can do?”

Miss I: Muuuuummmmmmmyyyy Mummmmmyyyy

Me: “I’ll just be a minute Miss I. I’m so sorry. I mean we are not enjoying this at all. We have just had 8 nights in a row without Miss L waking at all but she’s sick so the last two nights we’ve been up with her again.”

My eyes pleaded again…please don’t make me say that I’m on the verge of losing it. I haven’t slept in months and however much you hate being woken by a crying baby multiply it by a thousand and you’ll begin to understand how we’re feeling.

At this point Miss I’s cry had become a bit hysterical and, wouldn’t you know it, Miss L chimed in.

Me: Pointing in direction of the unmistakable noise of two upset children “As I said the girls are both sick and miserable at the moment so there’s not a lot we can do. Trust me when I say we’re not enjoying this and we’re trying our best.”

She stood there looking at me slightly expectantly like I might be able to instantly solve her problem, which, as you can probably see, is in fact our problem.

“Oh gosh sorry I didn’t realise you didn’t enjoy hearing our baby in the middle of the night! We’ve just been getting her up because Mr G and I feel, really strongly, that 7am til 7pm is just not enough time with her. You know? We get her up to enjoy the magic of our baby because even listening to her cry in the middle of the night is music to our ears. From now on would you like us to just leave her to sleep all night?”

She made her point again: “It’s just we’re finding it really difficult and yeah, just wanted to say that and just see if there’s something you can do?”

I managed to hold it together until I closed the door at which point I burst into tears. I felt ashamed and embarrassed and guilty. I wanted to just magically relocate our apartment to a field in the middle of nowhere. But then I really really thought about the exchange and I started to feel angry. And so very scorned. 

Not because I want to be keeping anybody up at night. Or because I think our neighbours need to generously accommodate my children at all hours. I don’t. Quite the opposite. I feel scorned because Mr G and I are considerate neighbours. Yes we live with our two small children, who occasionally make less than ideal noises at less than ideal times, but as far as we’re aware we are well within our rights to do so. When we’ve had a particularly bad patch with Miss L we have delivered cards and rocky road upstairs and apologised. When we bit the bullet and tried controlled crying with Miss L we talked to them in advance and explained what was happening and even bought them earplugs. We have made it clear we are working towards a sleep solution and have apologised profusely for any disturbance. We have offered them our compassion and understanding.

I feel scorned that instead of offering us the same I got grandstanded and made to feel like absolute rubbish in my own home. I don’t think you need to be a parent to understand that no one wants to be up in the middle of the night with an upset child. Least of all their parents. Particularly not parents who have gone out of their way to make it better.

There is some consolation though. As a newly engaged couple they have expressed their excitement about starting their own family and when that happens I know she will think back to that conversation one night when she is up with an inconsolable infant and she will regret her lack of understanding. One of my Twitter friends said, quite evilly, it best: “May they be blessed with triplets with colic who feed hourly on different schedules.” I’m not sure anyone deserves that but I’m happy to say karma has already kicked in. By a stroke of luck neither of our girls are early risers so our neighbours, small blessing, have never had to deal with noisy children before 7 am, which is pretty good going in the land of little kids. Until today. This morning Miss I woke at 5.30am with an almighty cry and then played noisily with abandon for hours. I wanted to high five her. Loudly.

The maelstrom that is a mother's mind

I have written before that maternal guilt is something I try to avoid indulging myself in too much. Like envy, I find it achieves nothing other than making me feel a little bit off. Of course, despite my best intentions to avoid it, I do, from time to time, succumb and roll around in guilt-ridden thoughts. My new job has triggered an indiscretion and it’s bothered me for a few reasons.

For one thing I have always advocated – to myself as much as others – that motherhood and professional ambition need not be mutually exclusive. There isn’t too much else I believe in quite as fervently as that. I also know first-hand that combining work inside and outside of the home is a happy arrangement for me and my little family. Despite this I would be lying if I said I haven’t harboured some guilt about returning to work whilst Miss L is still a baby.  

When the possibility of this job first arose I was genuinely thrilled. My head spun and it excited me for a variety of reasons; it’s an opportunity to work from a platform I admire, pursuing an agenda I am genuinely passionate about in a role that, I think, will effectively utilise my experience and skills. It’s probably not a stretch to describe it is as something of a dream job. For at least a week I was mentally high on the prospect alone.

After a while though a sinking feeling descended and it didn’t take me long to realise guilt was the culprit. My guilty thoughts came in a variety of shapes and sizes but in a nutshell my unease was this; what sort of a mother would get so excited about a professional opportunity when she has a baby to nurture? The answer, I’ve now discovered, is a mother like me. And I’m pleased to say, I’ve now discovered, I’m ok with that.  At least I am most of the time, and when I’m not I’m going to fake it until I make it (true).

After giving my situation some thought I figured I had a choice; take the job and get comfortable with my decision or turn it down and do the same. I went with the former because I knew the latter would be harder. I’m not sharing with you the reasons I’m now (mostly) comfortable with it because I am seeking your approval. The only approval I need is my own and after doing a little soul searching I’ve decided to grant it. I’m going to tell you the reasons on the off chance that you have faced a similar predicament or think you might in the future.

I should add that despite this navel-gazing work is actually a financial necessity for me; not working was never an option but this means going back earlier than planned. My guilt seemed to stem more from the fact I wanted this job as much as I need it.

Ironically, or maybe it makes perfect sense, it was my two gorgeous girls, the very reason my maternal guilt exists, that made the choice simple. Like any parent I have many hopes and dreams for my children. Namely, that one of them will become an expert in Chinese massage therapy and schedule me in for hour-long weekly treatments throughout my life. I‘m kidding! I’d only want them to follow that path if it’s what they wanted. But what child wouldn’t want to make their mother eternally relaxed and happy?!? Seriously though of all the things I hope they may become, fulfilled, is probably at the top of my list. Well after being healthy, well-adjusted, loved and sheltered from all harm. But fulfilment is a priority because I honestly believe fulfilment is about as good as life gets.  

Fulfilment comes in many different boxes which is why I am eternally grateful to the original feminists. For the fact they gave women a better chance at finding fulfilment by fighting for us to have choices. For the fact they challenged the notion that a woman belongs at home. For the fact that instead of relegating a person to an office or the kitchen on the basis of gender they fought for the individual’s right to make up their own mind.

Despite my gratitude for these things, I am learning, that when it comes to actually walking the walk it’s a bit more complicated. At least it is for me. Because despite the fact I consider Mr G and I equals in every respect, deep down, I obviously hold some unconscious bias. I don’t doubt Mr G’s commitment to his daughters because he is pursuing a career. But I have doubted my own. I don’t question Mr G’s credibility or ability as a father because he has chosen a demanding job. But I have questioned my own. I don’t expect Mr G to apologise to anyone, let alone himself, for wanting the career he does. But I feel compelled to so myself. The truth is I obviously apply different standards to him than I do to myself.

On the one hand it would be easy to pretend that I don’t. Pretend that I am gung-ho enough not to have considered any of these things. That accepting this job was as simple as saying ‘When can I start?’ But, on the other hand, it wouldn’t be true. This is, I think, one of those shades of grey that our former PM Julia Gillard spoke of in her final press conference. Some things are more complicated than black and white and, in her words, ‘require sophisticated thought’. Whilst I can’t lay claim to my thoughts being particularly ‘sophisticated’ this is where the maelstrom that is my mind took me. 

I have often thought how lucky our girls are to have a father like they do. A dad that is doing a job he loves and building a career that will support his family, not just financially, but emotionally, because it fulfils him. And, the truth is, as much as it challenges my natural inclination to say this, they are lucky to have a mum like that too. And so I’ve started applying the same standards to myself that I have to Mr G. Standards, I should say, he has always applied to me. 

I do have ambitions and interests beyond parenting and that is not to the girls’ detriment. It is in their favour. Work supports and sustains me and it helps me support and sustain them. Writing, interviewing people, planning stories, thinking about issues and starting conversations might not achieve world peace but it stimulates me in a way nothing else does. And that certainly promotes peace inside this house.

But, as I said about fifty pages earlier, it was the girls themselves that finally focused my complex and contradictory and chaotic thoughts into sense. If I was to put either Miss I or Miss L into my shoes in 30 years time and they came to me with this choice? If they had the option to get paid to do something that makes them tick whilst also raising their family? I would be thrilled for them. End of story. And so I’ve decided to stay thrilled for myself. Even if, on the odd occasion, I have to fake it.

A quick poll to end a long post; am I alone in weaving this complex web or have you deliberated over these things like me?