Creating consequences

Ok. Confession time. Apologies if this is the naffest thing you've ever read but I have started to write a book. The idea of writing a book is a romantic concept that I have fleetingly entertained over the years. Mostly I've disregarded it as a pipe dream unlikely to be fulfilled. For one thing I don't have a wood panelled study in which to be earnest and scholarly whilst shaping my prose. Another issue is that I don't even know what prose is.

But I have had two ideas floating about in my head for some time and a few weeks ago I was overcome with the urge to begin. I've written bits and pieces over the past few years that will loosely form part of it but last week I wrote what I imagine would be the introduction. It's not long but it made me realise it's a project I really want to pursue.

Now I realise how naff and lofty this sounds. Writing a book is an idea lots of people contemplate; it's a project slightly fewer sit down to finish; and at the end of that it's only a very scarce few who will see their book published. I have an idea in its infancy that in all likelihood will never see the light of day, so why am I risking any dash of self respect I have by telling you? One simple reason. I hope by telling you I help make it happen. And not because I'm assuming there are publishers among you*.

Last year through work I met a young man who started a business with his brother at the age of 21. Two years later they were selling half a million dollars' worth of merchandise from their parents' garage. Almost a decade later through persistence and passion they have created a substantial global business that turns over more money than you or I could imagine**. Inspiring? Very.

A conversation I had with the older brother and his wife really struck a chord. They talked about the power of writing down dreams and ambitions. For both of them, in many instances, jotting down their goals has led to them happening. With complete sincerity he commented how incredible the world would be if each of us wrote down our ideas.

Now I have heard this sentiment before but there was something about these two saying it which resonated. I suspect it had a bit to do with the fact they really walk the walk. It's simplistic but I walked away persuaded.

I've had one experience of this myself.

Earlier this year I interviewed some entrepreneurs about their business goals for 2012. One said that by articulating your goals to your employees, friends or family, or putting them on paper, you substantially increase your chance of accomplishing them. Alternatively if you don't tell anyone what you're hoping for, you give yourself the option of pretending you weren't really trying when it doesn't come off. Taking the step of telling people what you want to achieve is a commitment that seems to create consequences.

So you're on notice. I have a project I'm committed to finishing. And now that all of you know maybe it will write itself??? Do you have any goals you're reluctant to talk about out loud? If so please share, anonymously, if you like. We can do an experiment and see if this caper works!
*If you are in fact a publisher, Hi! Want to publish my book???

**Unless of course you're also exquisitely rich, in which case, I'm still holding out for my invitation to your house.

When Joyce came to town

Hello! It was nearly a blogging-free weekend as I've had one of my nearest and dearest in Sydney town for a few days and happily devoted every spare minute to her. As she's based in Brissie we don't see each other that often so when we do time is of the essence. Sadly, she's jetting home now but while she's in the air and Miss I is having a nap, I'll fill you in on my lovely friend and our weekend of fun.

Aside from being a very loyal friend, Joyce is a very loyal commenter on NABM. If you've read her comments you will know she's a very funny girl. I always read them and laugh, then feel lucky to know that in real life she's every bit as amusing as her words. Joyce is not her real name but, in grade nine, for reasons her parents have never quite grasped, we began calling her Joyce in favour of the perfectly chosen name they designated at birth.

This weekend was a particularly special treat for Joyce and her lovely husband, Mr Joyce. Not because they got to enjoy the company of the NABM household but because Mr Joyce's parents looked after their beautiful baby boy in Brisbane. It was their first baby-free weekend in ten and a half months. After their recent trip to Sri Lanka (read Joyce's summary here) a few days footloose and fancy free was just the ticket. Of course this did mean I missed out on some quality time with their little man but I was willing to let that go. I would never stand between the parents of a small child and some free time.

On Saturday morning Sydney put on its best display of torrential, miserable weather so we shelved our tentative beach plans in favour of a trip to the Eveleigh Markets. Being undercover, away from traffic and stocked with delicious food it's an ideal wet weather activity for small children and adults alike. Mr G and I hadn't offloaded Miss I so we plied her with yoghurt and cupcakes while we devoured coffee and crepes. We tasted everything on offer from rib eye steak to olive sourdough with hummus, to goat's cheese to handmade ravioli. If you haven't been to these markets in Redfern I'd highly recommend a visit. Wet or dry I promise you'll enjoy.

After that we brought the Joyces back to our apartment for a tour. That took thirty seconds and we then lounged around briefly before heading back out. The rain had dried up and our next stop was the Paddington Markets where Brisbane label Alexis Dawn was hosting a stall. I didn't buy anything despite a strong urge to whack down my credit card. If I had splashed some cash it was going to be for the Gaya jumpsuit here in coffee and white. Pretty isn't it?? We met up with some other friends and then meandered our way down Oxford street popping into the various stores. I should add that Miss I sat out this activity. Despite my best efforts she is yet to demonstrate any real aptitude for shopping.

We had a late lunch at Fiveways before going our separate ways. Once home I lay down to read the paper and woke up TWO WHOLE hours later when Mr G and Miss I arrived home from their afternoon activities. Night-time called for a babysitter and dinner out. We picked a popular spot in Potts Point called Ms. G's, which despite its uncanny similarity with my husband's pseudonym on this blog, bears absolutely no resemblance to our house. Which is lucky because why would we pay a babysitter to go somewhere that's anything like our own house?!?

Ten of us feasted on plate after plate of yummy, yummy, food. My personal favourites were the prawn toast (ridiculously good), lamb ribs, barbecued corn cobs with parmesan, coriander and chilli, and pork belly sliders. Throughout the evening we caught up on all the big issues; motherhood, quirky office politics, upcoming weddings, work wardrobes and plenty of everything else in between.

This morning before the Joyces flew back home, we met at Nielsen Park for brunch. It was, as it always is with close friends, great fun. We drove away very sad to say goodbye but who am I to stand between a bouncing baby boy and his beloved parents?? Hopefully our next catch up won't be too far away. For now the friendship bank is well and truly flush.   

What did you get up to this weekend?

Champagne days

Disclaimer: If you are at all like me, the following post may invoke some feelings of jealousy towards NABM. To alleviate any such feelings please refer to posts such as this, this or this. I can assure you my life is never as genteel or sophisticated as it was for a few short hours on Thursday.

Now I don't know about you but my working life rarely involves champagne. And by champagne I do mean champagne. On Thursday mine did and I won't even pretend I didn't find it entirely thrilling. One of the perks of writing for a magazine is receiving the occasional invitation to events. Being a business magazine the functions I'm typically invited to are of the corporate conference/round-table-discussion-on-tax-liability variety but sometimes this extends to quite glittering parties.

And the Veuve Clicquot Business Woman of the Year Award lunch at a fancy Sydney restaurant glittered. Brightly. The room was full of fabulous frocks, fashion types, magazine editors, television stars, the royalty of Australia's female business leaders and at least one, star-struck, business writer. Namedropping obviously isn't cool which is convenient because neither am I. Very familiar faces included Vogue's Kirsty Clements, Grazia's Kellie Hush, Channel Nine's Georgie Gardner, Channel Ten's Sandra Sully, Sass & Bide's Sarah-Jane Clarke, Carla Zampatti, Heather Ridout, Maggie Tabberer and her Excellency Marie Bashir.

I can imagine if you had to attend such festivities regularly it might become a tad tedious. Actually I can't imagine that. Who am I kidding? I can imagine, though, that it would be hard to get things done and that real life would start to appear a little dull if you spent the bulk of your working life eating delicate canapés, sipping on the latest vintage French champagne, overlooking the Harbour. But when it happens, say, once in a lifetime it's pretty splendid. Particularly when the $29 Sportsgirl "statement necklace" chosen for the occasion* garners compliments from a few famous faces. That, my dear readers, makes for a pretty good day at the office.

What's the best day of work you've ever done?

*Naturally I put in a little bit more effort planning an outfit for Thursday. Nothing like a good excuse to make a bit of sartorial effort I say. On Wednesday night I trialled two different options. Mr G liked the first one but when I showed him the second he said "Yeah definitely wear that one". I then actually asked him "Did you hate the first outfit?" At that point he rolled his eyes and told me if behaved like that he'd give me no feedback. A torrential rainstorm on Thursday morning meant I had to make a few adjustments – I swapped some bright tangerine wedges for a tan ankle boot and added a cream cardi for warmth.

The big A

Anxiety comes in many shapes and sizes. It can be triggered by big and little things and can be a big or little thing itself. I say this with some confidence because it was once a very big thing for me. I worried about everything and anything unaware there was any other way to be. Happily, there is another way. (One day I will write about how I made that realisation but I'll warn you in advance that it wasn't pretty.)

Nowadays, for the most part, anxiety is a small thing in my life. Occasionally, though, I slip back into my well worn ways. I know I'm crossing the line when I begin fretting over details that even the most fastidious worrier needn't worry themself with. For example, when I begin to quietly panic about whether I will get to work the next day, or wake to my alarm, or whether we will use all the vegetables in the fridge before they wilt, I know it's time for some stern reflection.

If you're not inclined towards anxiety, you might read that and think I'm having you on. I'm not. I've actually spent time scared about things as inconsequential as that. And worse. I was once so accustomed to having a blanket of fear lingering over me that if I found myself without a specific qualm I would panic over that and quickly find something to worry about.

For me anxiety's unique quality is its ability to render me incapable of distinguishing between necessary and unnecessary concerns. When I'm in anxiety's clutch my physical reaction – shortness of breath, dread, heart racing, heart sinking, fear - is the same regardless of the utility of my concern. Some things do warrant apprehension and a physical reaction is sometimes inevitable. Before a job interview, or an exam, or giving birth.

The issue is when you can't make any distinction. Because everything is greeted with the same agony. That's when I know the little a has become a very big A and that's not particularly sustainable.

I bring this up because recently I crossed the line. If we're friends on Facebook or you follow me on Twitter you might know that I had a big win in the childcare department recently. Miss I has got a spot at a fantastic childcare centre just around the corner from where we live. This is hugely exciting for several reasons.

For one thing it means navigating public transport during peak hour with a pram and a toddler, twice a day, is about to become a thing of my past. A very dark thing from my past. The other big win is it's substantially cheaper. It's impolite to talk about money but the weekly saving is equivalent to almost two whole extra days. So it's good, good, news all around.

I was ecstatic for 24 hours before my elation turned to unease. A few days later I listed the various doubts and fears I had entertained since hearing the news. And when I say entertained I don't mean for a fleeting second. I devoted many, many, minutes of real time worrying about each and every item on this list. You might notice that some of them contradict each other. That's all part of the fun.

• Is it too unsettling to move Miss I?
• Are we mean parents for being excited to save money on childcare?
• Is it bad that I won't be spending as much time with Miss I each day because although the commute is hellish at least we're together for it?
• Is it bad that I've put her through seven months of public transport?
• Will Miss I's current carers be sad that she's leaving?
• Or worse, will they be happy that she's leaving?
• Will they think I don't like them or think they didn't do a good job?
• Will Miss I like her new carers?
• Will her new carers like her?
• Am I selfish for changing her?
• Am I selfish for working?

In hindsight, the list is comical. At least it would be if it weren't true. Each concern comes from a place of love and wanting what's best for Miss I but nothing was achieved by my fretting. Particularly because we'd already made the decision. A decision that I had no hesitation in making because it was such a no-brainer.

If we were undecided those issues would absolutely require some thought. But we had made the decision. And yet I was consumed with fear and worry anyway. And that is the lingering curse of the big A. The good news is it forced me to snap me out of an old habit. Or in the words of Caitlin Moran, it made me shut up.

Holidays and hospital

Ah holidays and hospitals. Not exactly the combination dreams are made of. Well, not mine anyway. But it's the combination my week's been made of. The NABM household relocated to my parents' home on the north coast for a holiday last week. It started out well. On Thursday night it was all wine, slow roasted pork belly, nibbles, Mum's iPad, a foxtel remote and plenty of fun.

My sister arrived on Friday with her husband and my two adorable nieces. Just before her, a very good friend from Brisvegas also descended on the house with her husband, their master 2 and her beautiful belly filled with two (two!) babies. It was manic in the way a house filled with small people is. Luckily the adult to child ratio was in sanity's favour.

On Saturday the madness continued. My friend and I snuck away to seek refuge at the hairdresser where they kindly allowed us to face one another to catch up on a few months of life as they snipped and shaped our locks. We then relocated to the nail salon where the debrief continued. Party preparations were underway that afternoon for an evening of festivities. The engagement and upcoming wedding of a very good friend was the happy occasion.

One of the defining qualities of the extended clan of family friends we enjoy here is a commitment to celebrating certain rituals. One of those rituals is to throw open the doors and let the champagne flow to welcome new friends and their families into our lives when they become engaged to a native north coaster. I agree with the mother of the soon-to-be-groom who put it eloquently; the significance of such rituals cannot be underestimated.

We approached the event with characteristic enthusiasm, purpose and direction*. It was fabulous fun and it's possible the night ended with Mr G and I debating which one of us was adding the most value to the party to determine which one of us should head to bed first to be in sprightly form for Miss I. True to stubborn form, neither of us budged. The next morning Mr G gallantly got up and let me sleep for a few extra hours. Anyway. Sunday was great fun and all was well until the early hours of Monday morning.

It was 3am. Miss I was awake and running a fever. Mr G was groaning in pain. I ran upstairs to find the children's panadol I'd spotted in the fridge. I looked high and low but could not locate anything resembling paracetamol. I ran back downstairs to confirm the sighting of such medication with Mr G. He agreed it had been in there in the morning along with some Nurofen. I had another scout but it was no good. It then clicked that the medication belonged to my highly organised sister. My sister, who had driven back to her house earlier that day, and naturally taken her girls' meds with her.

Great. I had just failed parenting 101. I believe it's the first time we've travelled that we haven't packed panadol. Naturally it's also the first time we've been away that Miss I has woken at 3am with a temperature and we've needed it. Killer combination that. Several phone calls later I discovered there was no 24-hour chemist nearby and my only hope was the hospital. After a bit of haggling the emergency department said they would dispense a single dose of children's paracetamol without having to admit her first.

I jumped in the car, ran into the hospital, thanked the nurses and raced back home to administer the liquid gold. She fell back asleep and woke the next morning with no visible signs of damage. Phew. Sadly Mr G was still groaning. He was in pain, felt unwell and didn't want food. This is most unlike him. To add to the fun I woke with a sore throat and the fuzzy head that usually signals the start of a cold.

He battled through the day, moving from room to room, seeking relief from his temperature and discomfort. I took him for his word when he insisted he didn't need to see a doctor. That was until Dad arrived home from work and was visibly shocked by his appearance. A friend who is a doctor came around to assess the wounded. He figured another night's rest would probably sort him out. Sadly it didn't.

So this morning I dropped Miss I to a truly lovely friend of my Mum's (who had flown to Sydney for work) and took Mr G to hospital. My second visit in as many days. They gave him fluids, pain killers and diagnosed a nasty case of gastro. He is recovering now and will hopefully bounce back soon.

A selfish person might begrudge this intrusion whilst on holidays. They might think it's unfair and undue that their scheduled free time is hindered by the universe's ulterior plans. And, look, those thoughts may have fleetingly crossed my mind. But you know what else did? You can't wait for a holiday to enjoy yourself or go off duty. Because things don't always go as you hope. Thank goodness I lapped up the fun on Friday, relished my hair appointment and the chance to sit with my friend, enjoyed the champagne on Saturday night and chatted to another good friend for hours on Sunday. Because if it weren't for all of that, I might well be begrudgingly administering the care today.

When have your holidays not gone to plan?

*The origins of approaching tasks with "purpose and direction" is another well worn ritual. A particularly disastrous bushwalk on our annual Easter camping holiday. A post for another day.

An excursion

At the end of last year Miss I went on exchange to Wagga. By this I simply mean she attended a childcare centre there for a week. Mr G was working there at the time so it wasn't totally arbitrary. Her Sydney childcare closed the week before Christmas and because I was having two weeks off from Christmas we needed to fill the gap for one week. We tossed around a few options before Mr G made a few phone calls and discovered there was a childcare centre just opposite his work and they had a spot for her that week. He was thrilled. I was thrilled. And if we're both thrilled, so is Miss I. Sort of.

Now I have asked Mr G to pen a post on the experience but, alas, it hasn't been forthcoming. So you're stuck with me and my version of events for now. For me the week was blissful. I woke up on Monday morning and literally mooched around while getting ready for work. So much time! So little hustling! I had a few mid-week dinner outings with friends, I did a spot of late night Christmas shopping, I stayed at my desk beyond 5.01pm and relished being unshackled from parental responsibilities for a few days.

At that point I had been carrying the mother load singlehandedly for two months so it was a welcome (deserved, even?) change of speed. I should also say that in those two months no one, but no one, asked with abject horror "But where is her father?" You might guess where this is heading.

For clarity, Mr G is Miss I's father and has been for exactly the same amount of time that I've been her mum. As far as I'm aware neither one of us holds formal qualifications for this parenting gig. It's been strictly learn on the job training. However judging by the reactions of some of Mr G's co-workers, patients and acquaintances you would be forgiven for thinking I hold a PHD in responsible, adequate and engaging parenting whilst he's incapable of securing a diploma in anything child-related. For the record, those scenarios are equally implausible. Mr G was almost as surprised as I was but these were the most common refrains he addressed throughout his week of active service. Helpfully, I've included suggested answers.

"But where is the mother??"
I think she said this week she's smoking crack, stealing cars and generally terrorising the streets. Same old really. I mean what else would a mother do if she didn't have a child in her care?

"How long do you have to look after her for?"
I haven't seen a contract so I'm not sure if there's an end date. Possibly forever?

"Aren't you too young to have a baby??"
Have you ever watched the reality television program "16 and Pregnant"?


No one meant any harm by these questions but Mr G and I did laugh quite a bit. Naturally afterwards I also spent plenty of time thinking about it too. People of different ages, genders, backgrounds and professions were genuinely baffled that Mr G would look after our daughter for a week. And that genuinely baffled me. What about you?

Part II: A vanity affair

If you missed part I the link is here. There was a time I believed I wasn't particularly vain. Having a baby shattered that myth. It turns out I am. Truly. Madly. Sadly. Vain. I wrote this when Miss I was eight months old and I was grappling with my post-baby-body.

In May last year my body reached the pinnacle of its physical abilities and delivered a rather beautiful bundle of baby girl. Throughout my pregnancy I marvelled at my swollen tummy, the most obvious sign of the tiny life I could barely believe was growing inside me. For me, pregnancy and childbirth defy belief. I understand the science of it and I know it's how all of us got here. Even still. It blows my mind.

If it weren't for the unforgettable thirty-six hours immediately preceding her arrival, I might not have believed it was even possible for a little person to emerge from this body. But she did. Having accomplished that miraculous feat, I remember thinking my body was truly special. It facilitated this fabulous arrival and took on hero status in my mind. At least it did for a while.

Eight months' later, I dread catching a glimpse of that body in the mirror. The very same body I developed (and owe!) an inordinate amount of respect and admiration for, now makes me cringe. I'm ashamed to say that. But it's true. My tummy sags, my clothes don't fit and my chest could rival Jordan's. I hate getting dressed.

Part of me is above these preoccupations but that part only ever appears in quiet moments of reflection. In the heat of the moment - when I'm madly getting dressed for something or trying to buy clothes to avoid moments of such madness – my rational mind is nowhere to be found. Instead I become consumed with self-indulgent thoughts about the extra flesh I'm carrying. How terrible and unfamiliar everything looks. How enormous I feel. It's not a happy place.

When I step away from the mirror and head out the door I can digest what's happened. I can see I'm not being rational. I'm not overweight. I'm five kilos heavier than I was when I fell pregnant but I'm still a healthy weight. I go to the gym three times a week, I walk every day and I eat sensibly. I just can't lose weight.

In moments of clarity I accept this is my new normal. I am healthy. I have a husband who loves me regardless of my shape. I have a beautiful little girl who also loves me regardless of shape and has thrived from my body. I know those things matter so much more than my weight. My weight is not a problem. At least, I know it shouldn't be. And, yet, it is. I care that my body doesn't look how it used to and I care that my clothes don't fit. And, especially, I care that I care.

No matter how much sensible internal dialogue I attempt, when I stand in front of the mirror, my vanity inevitably prevails. It doesn't matter how many times I marvel at the beautiful little person this body grew, delivered and continues to nourish, I still find it in myself to begrudge my body its extra weight. This is how I learned the depths of my vanity. It seems to run much deeper than any wisdom or insight I've acquired. And that disappoints me more than any extra flesh.

Reading that now - more than a year on - I'm still disappointed I let those few kilos weigh so heavily. Even more so because when I stopped breastfeeding my body returned to its old size (ish) of its own accord. Rather than being overjoyed* I'm sad I was so ungracious.

I wasn't gentle or patient with my body during its time of upheaval. I was demanding and rude. At the time it needed kindness and gratitude more than ever. As indulgent as this sounds, I suspect anyone who has experienced a body alteration will agree that not recognising the skin you're in, is tough. Whether it's from childbirth, illness, medication or anything else. Frivolous or not, the way we feel about the way we look matters.

For me, it was another stepping stone to negotiate along the motherhood road. I can't go back and change how I felt after having my darling girl but if, and when, I'm lucky enough to have another little baby, I will try to be more accepting.
Has your body ever changed? If you've had a baby did you find it hard to adjust?

*This did cause Mr G some confusion. Conversations like this were common.
Him: "You haven't worn that for ages."
Me: "Yeah it fits me again now".
Him: "That's exciting!"
Me: "No, actually it's not."
Him: [Puzzled look] "We spent a year commiserating that your clothes that didn't fit and now they do so can't we jump for joy?"
Me: "No. We can't. That would be positive reinforcement for bad behaviour. It shouldn't have mattered that my clothes didn't fit."
Him: "Wow. Living with you is fun!"