Taking time

I am a bit sad about this post. A big bit sad actually. It is time for me to take a little break from regular blogging. It is not a break because I have run out of ideas or because I am sick of it or because I have finally been appointed as the Duchess of Cambridge's lady in waiting. Alas. It is simply because I am running out of time. And not in an existential or macabre way. 

It's just my days are shrinking. Or at least the  window of productive time between my waking hours is greatly reduced  and I'm struggling to fit everything in. Between working four days a week, taking care of Miss I, growing a new family member, trying to get organised for said new family member, co-running a household, being a wife, sister, daughter and friend, and writing my blog, all whilst trying to maximize the amount of time I spend asleep or at least horizontal, I'm knackered. 

Another bout of illness last week - like a cruel return to the morning sickness I left behind 20 or so weeks ago - made me very aware of this. Something has to give and for the next little bit it has to be this. As much as I love it (you know I do) this little blog is the one task I can actually relinquish temporarily. (Trust me when I say I wish I could relinquish tasks like cooking, cleaning, washing and all the other bits and pieces that co-running a household involves).

Rest assured I will be back. And soon. I have several posts half-written and more ideas every minute so there is no way you can escape me permanently. (I really need to find a way to convert ideas into free time - any suggestions are welcome.) I just won't regularly post on a Wednesday for the next few weeks. 

Until then, stay well, my dearly beloved readers. If you uncover any fantastic blogs or sites whilst you're navigating the immense black hole that the absent NABM will inevitably leave in your daily lives, please share! 

Let's talk again soon.

Money matters

Here in NABM land we’ve inadvertently been doing a spot of social research. It wasn’t an experiment we set out to conduct but we did and the results are so compelling that I feel compelled to share them with you. Now I realise it’s impolite and dull to talk about money but money is, alas, part of life and because this blog is based on my life it falls into the explorable subject matter. So bear with me and I promise I’ll try not to be crass or dull. At least no more than usual.

I’m not sure if you’re familiar with various pieces of actual academic research showing the correlation between money and happiness but I will summarise. Up until a point happiness and money do correlate; essentially if you’re in financial stress money does limit your happiness. Understandably not being able to pay your rent, buy groceries or meet your basic needs is stressful and unpleasant enough that it detracts from your enjoyment of life. But once you reach a point where you can meet your basic financial requirements, and this point is modest, there is no longer any correlation between your bank balance and your happiness. So. In a nutshell a modest amount of money can buy you happiness but after that you’re on your own. Having a tonne of money is no guarantee of tonnes of happiness. Gina Reinhart is an apt case in point.

Anyway. I have recently tested this theory and I can say with certainty that the research is spot on. The start of this financial year marked the start of a much better time for us in pure dollar terms. Two small pay rises, some additional casual income and a significant reduction in childcare fees (because the government rebate* re-started) all conspired in our favour. 

Let me be clear; the difference in real dollars is not substantial. You won’t find me shopping with abandon, planning overseas holidays, servicing a large mortgage or becoming a regular at a luxury day spa any time soon. But the difference, in actual real life terms, is substantial. We can now meet our monthly expenses without concern and no longer fear unexpected bills. And, let me say, the difference that makes is HUGE.

It wasn’t that finances consumed my every waking thought but there were several times each month where I was anxious about money. And not in the broader sense of long-term security but in the day-to-day practical sense. And until that changed a few months ago, I hadn’t realised quite how heavy a burden it was. Now that I don’t spend any time fretting our day to day expenses I feel quite liberated. And that’s when it occurred to me that we had crossed that tipping point on the graph. It didn’t take much but we moved from a point where money was a genuine concern to a point where it genuinely isn’t. At least, not in the day to day sense. And I’m genuinely happier for it.

I should make a few disclaimers here. We were not drowning in debt or sitting on the brink of bankruptcy. We were by no means living below the breadline and I wouldn’t suggest for a minute that we encountered genuine financial hardship. It would be insulting and disingenuous to say that. Aside from anything else we have a huge psychological buffer in the form of supportive people in our lives whom would never let us starve. And between us, in our different jobs, there is earning potential on the horizon. Both of those factors make us extremely lucky so please don’t think I’m crying poor in that sense. We’re just not. But equally I am sincere in saying that when household income only just covers the essential household expenses it is a tense equation.

I raised this with Mr G the other night and he agreed that the past two months, without the mental constraint of finance-related fears, have been much more enjoyable. He also made the point that the household equation that made us both uncomfortable can apply at any income level. I agree to a point. Financial stress is described as a situation where your income doesn’t cover your expenses. If your expenses include a three million dollar mortgage and five European holidays each year and you’re struggling to accommodate those with your earnings, on top of the essentials, my sympathy for the ‘stress’ in that situation is limited. 

On the other hand, my sympathy for any person or family whose earnings only just cover the basics is unlimited. It doesn’t take much but even just a small margin in your favour at the end of each month makes such a psychological difference. At least it did for me.

What do you think? How do you describe the relationship between money and happiness?

*Ah the government’s “50 percent” childcare rebate which is sadly only “50 percent” to a point. A point that is reached very, very quickly when the only childcare position available to your toddler in the entire city sits in the “Maserati/Ferrari” price bracket. Which would be fantastic if you were in the “Maserati/Ferrari” income bracket. It is less fantastic when you’re not because it will then turn out that for nine months out of twelve you will essentially work just to pay childcare fees. In which case it’s quite important to love your job or, at the very least, love office clothes, which incidentally I do. 

A twin tribute

This is an overdue tribute to one of my dearest friends who is currently tackling an extraordinary feat. It started less than a year ago when she discovered - to her complete surprise - she was carrying twins. She handled the news with incredible grace and humour which she miraculously maintained throughout her pregnancy. Twelve weeks ago, after a remarkable effort managing a double pregnancy whilst caring for her two year old, Harry* and her husband welcomed their beautiful new bundles into the world. Predictably the welcome bit did not involve their two bambinos knocking on the family door, strolling in with a ready-packed nappy bag slung over their shoulder, waving at their big brother and making themselves comfortable in their new digs. But once again with grace, humour and phenomenal strength Harry emerged unscathed and set about settling her babies into life in the outside world.

Having experienced how daunting and relentless the task of nurturing for a single newborn feels in those early days and weeks, I actually cannot compute how anyone does it with two  as well as a toddler. But Harry and her husband, with the support of their families, have and are. There have understandably been tears and minor meltdowns along the way but they are coping and even smiling. I suspect this will be one of the toughest tasks Harry and her husband will face. It’s demanding terrain – both physically and emotionally – and already I think they have ample reason to be unashamedly proud.

At many points throughout their journey I have been overwhelmed with admiration and respect for what this gorgeous family are doing and the way in which they’re doing it.  I was in Brisbane on the weekend and caught up with Harry in person for the second time since her family of three became a family of five. And, for the second time, I walked away in complete awe. When Harry delivered the twins I actually felt a bit heroic simply by proxy of knowing her. Everyone in my office was aware of my Extraordinary Friend’s achievement. Whether they liked it or not they knew the weight, order and names of these babies. And that SOMEONE I KNEW HAD GROWN AND DELIVERED THEM.

And this brings me to something else a bit remarkable about my friend. You see if I was her I would have t-shirts printed, posters erected and email signatures reading “My life is currently a hell of a lot harder than yours. I grew and delivered two tiny babies and am now feeding, bathing and caring for them whilst also feeding, bathing and caring for my super active toddler so frankly whatever you are doing is EASY by comparison.”

She hasn’t done or even said that. Even in private conversations with me she doesn’t insinuate that with one toddler my load is pretty jammy. Amazingly, I suspect that’s because she doesn’t even think that. Or she hasn’t had time to. Either way, in lieu of her not broadcasting the champion job she is doing, I thought I should. It’s hard to compare one person’s challenges with another’s because everything in life is relative. Even still, I struggle to imagine a more overwhelming job than looking after infant twins with a toddler. Particularly because, as you know, there are days when I think looking after a toddler alone can be pretty tough. So, Harry, you are my hero. And if you’d like me to print posters, just say the word.    

*This is not her real name. It is however her real nickname that bears no resemblance to her actual name. Though, once again, if I was her I’d have my full name printed with an address for fan mail. 

Hitting hurdles

As I drove to collect Miss I from daycare after work last Monday I felt satisfied. I’d had a productive day at the office, interviewed a particularly interesting subject and was looking forward to collecting my bundle of laughs. It wasn’t that I was high-fiving myself but I was, momentarily, feeling on top of things. After an enormous cuddle and excited chatter I was herding Miss I to the door when her lovely teacher stopped me for a chat. I was thrilled to hear the issue du jour was not a repeat of a few weeks earlier.

You see, for two days about a month ago, Mr G and I had to confront the unpleasant possibility that together we might be raising a violent sociopath; Miss I embarked upon a hitting spree at daycare. Apparently she was striking her peers regularly, most often with a solid object in her hand, and lest she give her poor victims the opportunity to protect themselves she was approaching them from behind. This also effectively circumvented any chance her peers had to raise their hands and say ‘stop’ as they’re taught to do when someone encroaches their personal space. 

Upon hearing of this uncharacteristic and unbecoming conduct I was shocked, embarrassed and extremely hopeful it was an isolated occurrence. After dropping her off the next morning I sat at my desk hoping Miss I’s classmates were having a more peaceful day. After a few hours had passed I rang for an update. Naturally I was hoping the teacher would say Miss I had morphed back into her incredibly-bossy-yet-incredibly-gentle-self. Sadly, the verdict wasn’t great. 

The frequency with which she was hitting had escalated, and now, not only was she whacking her friends more but she was waiting for the teacher’s full attention before doing so and then smiling at the teacher whilst proceeding with her brutal ways. Oh excellent. The possibility that Miss I was actually a violent reprobate posing as an otherwise delightful toddler suddenly felt real. And, naturally, quite terrifying. I fretted all afternoon and dreaded the pick-up, fearing the police, DOCS and angry parents, would all be awaiting my arrival. To my delight they weren’t. And even better, Miss I’s delinquent streak had failed to reappear after her lunchtime nap. Phew. There may still be hope. The weekend beckoned and progressed without incident as did the following week and the one after that.

But when I was stopped last Monday my stomach immediately lurched. Had Miss I’s aggressive alter ego reappeared?? Fortunately not. Instead her teacher wanted to talk to me about some minor concerns she has with Miss I’s language*. She gets some sounds mixed up and is quite stubborn when anyone tries to correct her. I hadn’t really thought too much about it. Honestly I had been thinking her speech was improving every day and just assumed she was on track for her age. When her teacher gently suggested otherwise I immediately wanted to wrap Miss I in soft, warm, cotton wool for the next thirty years. It sounds ridiculous but it felt like a tiny part of the real world was descending on my little girl and I wanted it to stop. Speech is one of life’s more essential skills and the idea that we were somehow letting Miss I down in this vital department and the remote possibility she might need some intervention, cracked my heart. Into a thousand pieces.

I should say the teacher did not say ‘You are obviously neglecting your daughter’s development’ or ‘I have grave concerns about your daughter’s language’ or ‘I am not sure you are properly equipped for the role of fostering a human being from baby to adulthood’. But she might as well have.  For me, the impact of the conversation was so much bigger than the words themselves. Part of the beauty of life with a small person is the innocence and simplicity of their days. If they are blessed with a home and loving carers, many toddlers live in a rather beautiful bubble without a care in the world. As long as there are cuddles, milk, songs, the occasional cupcake and The Night Garden, most two year olds I know are pretty thrilled. Obviously as they grow up that changes. Their needs become more complex with each birthday and the potential for problems bigger than missing seeing Macca Pacca go to bed slowly emerge.

That’s what struck - and scared me - last Monday.  The teacher’s caring and casual comments reminded me that one day, sooner than I will want, Miss I will emerge from the blissful bubble where we can take care of her every need. She’s hardly on the cusp of packing her bags and leaving home but these little obstacles are proof that she is on the cusp of another significant transition. From baby to child. Gradually along that road there are going to be more and more little hurdles that Mr G and I can’t clear for her; we can hold her hand and offer love and support to help her negotiate whatever pops up but we won’t always be able to take that leap. She will have to.

And that, my dear readers, is rather scary. Obviously not as scary as having a violent delinquent in our care but daunting all the same. If you have kids can you relate to my reaction? Are you ever overwhelmed by the reality of preparing a person for life?

*The teacher also wanted to let me know about another development in Miss I’s behaviour. At clean up time rather than pitching in and helping to pack away the toys she does one of two things. She either lies down and pretends to be asleep or stands as still as a statue pretending she can’t hear or see what is happening. Her final act, once there is only a single toy remaining, she magically awakes from her slumber or breaks free from her statue pose to collect the last item and then looks, expectantly, at her teachers for praise and glory. I talked to Miss I about this and the next afternoon asked her if she had helped pack up the toys that day. Her response? “No Mummy. I go night night". Cunning with a penchant for physical abuse. Clearly we are kicking parenting goals...

Clothes in the wild

Regular readers might recall that I spent two years in the wilderness. Not in the actual wild but I was without the anchor of a permanent job for two years and let me tell you it’s wilder than you might expect. Particularly for the first nine months when I didn’t have Miss I to care for and was yet to start a blog. For the record I did try to find work but my attempts were largely fruitless. You can read about my short and demoralising stints in the casual workforce here and here.

The experience taught me many things and among the more practical skills I mastered was the art of filling a day. I became highly proficient in fleshing out activities to fill time. A key tool in my kit, and indeed for anyone battling the elements outside the structure of a job or daily responsibility, was to perfect the meander.  And perfect it, I don’t mind saying, I did. The meander is the ideal way to pad out a day. I would always add time on either side of any scheduled activity to spend meandering. Essentially walking but without a specific purpose or destination.

I did spend nearly every waking moment a lot of time in one particular Oxford café, however, there would come always a point, long after my companions returned to their studies or jobs, where I had very clearly exceeded the amount of time any single person could reasonably spend occupying someone’s café. At that point I would set off for a wander. Or a meander. I always stopped into several shops on my walk home. 

I understand some people don’t like window shopping. Actually, that’s a lie. I will never understand that but I know for some people they don’t enjoy a browse. As a long-time lover of both clothes and shopping, I can happily peruse shops aimlessly for hours. Which I did. As an unemployed woman, my ability to purchase anything was obviously extremely limited. Being pregnant actually helped in this regard because it immediately ruled out the vast majority of items I admired anyway. So instead I would browse.

And dream. I was always drawn to the racks of chic and sharp clothes – blazers, cropped jackets, sleek pants, silk tops, cute heels – but I would always look and wonder the exact same thing. Who on earth wears them? And where do they go?? They were dressy but they weren’t cocktail dresses or party clothes. I was perplexed. The answer should have been obvious but it wasn’t. Living in a University town populated by students in a similar uniform to my own – stripy t-shirts, jeans and a million layers – without a bustling CBD filled with office workers, I couldn’t imagine a place so sophisticated to warrant these beautiful garments. The natural habitat for these items was completely off my radar.

Of course the clothes I obsessively ogled were work clothes. Not the matching suit variety but the sophisticated and sharp variety. Serious but fun. The clothes, that if I’m honest, I probably enjoy wearing the most. Having an excuse to actually buy some of these things was one of the many great joys I experienced when I returned to work. I’m reminded of this again now because as my tummy grows and my wardrobe options shrink, in shops once again, I’m magically drawn to the garments I’m least likely to fit in to or need for quite some time. At least now though I know where they belong and when I might need to wear them again. For now jersey and comfort are my great wardrobe friends.

What is your favourite category of clothes? And if you’ve been pregnant before what are your top maternity dressing tips?  

Weddings. Wonderful weddings.

As I recently disclosed my age here you might not be surprised to hear that weddings are something of a de rigueur event at this point in my life. Aside from their regularity, however, there has been nothing regular about them.  Since Mr G and I returned to Australia a little over a year ago we’ve had the excellent fortune to attend several spectacular weddings. (For the record they are proving somewhat restorative in repairing the deep emotional scars I still bear from missing out on THAT wedding). 

The weddings to which I have been invited were not spectacular in the Westminster Abbey and fireworks sense but were spectacularly filled with love, hope and joy. So happy and sincere that for weeks afterwards I have felt uplifted and inspired. Weddings, and brides in particular, sometimes attract cynicism and criticism. For being over the top, for being too consumed with one day, for being indulgent or showy. The list goes on. While I have no doubt there are instances where that might be true, I can happily report that from my sample study, those instances are the anomaly.

I have sat in various chapels, stood in a garden, assembled in a courtyard and perched on a haystack outside a tiny country church and watched happy couples smile, laugh and radiate newlywed bliss. Every time goose-bumps tickle my arms and tears prickle my eyes. Not because I believe a wedding is the end, or the beginning, of a fairytale. I’m old enough to know ‘happily ever after’ represents nothing more than a convenient way to end a Disney tale.  However. In my mind that doesn’t detract one iota from the fact that weddings are the most romantic and joyous of celebrations. In some ways it just reinforces everything that is romantic about deciding to marry. The very fact marriage is not one long fairytale makes getting to the aisle or the garden gazebo, having made the decision to wed one another irrespective, a significant feat.

Regardless of the history preceding the day, a wedding marks the beginning of something new. But for lots of people my age, their wedding is also a celebration of the history leading up to the day too. None of the weddings we’ve attended lately were the result of a fleeting courtship. They have been the culmination of a considerable amount of time spent together. That’s no more a guarantee of longevity than a brief romance is a guarantee of failure, but it stands for something. And it’s one of the reasons tears inevitably well in my eyes when I watch two friends, who have forged a relationship through friendship, love, trials and life itself, commit to marriage.

As much as I love the dresses, the flowers, the tables and all those delicate details (believe me I do) it is the ceremony and speeches that I love the most. It is always a privilege to watch as the curtains are momentarily drawn on the couple and their families. A wedding is often the only occasion when adults publically articulate - in words as much as ceremony – to their friends and family that they love one another so much they’re going to spend the rest of their lives together. (Even better, at most weddings, the how and why of this momentous decision are often covered too.) In sickness and in health. For richer and for poorer.  Come what may, they’re going to do it together. And if that’s not cause for champagne, cake and dancing, I’m afraid nothing is.

A post on weddings has been in the pipeline or, more accurately my head, for some time but today seems particularly fitting to indulge my inner romantic. For one thing, today marks three years to the happy day that Mr G and I tied the knot ourselves.  I can’t quite believe three years have passed but then I remember what has happened since that day and it seems plausible. In particular the fact we share our apartment with a two year old and I’m six months’ pregnant, drives the point home.

My ever-swelling belly is actually the other less selfish reason I’m indulging in a little wedding sentimentality today. The NABM household is expecting to increase its headcount by one in November and the timing means I will miss out on not one, and not two, but THREE weddings that I can say with absolute confidence will be utterly spectacular. Naturally I will pore over photos and demand detailed recaps from other friends and the couples themselves in an attempt to vicariously absorb their celebrations. But I will miss out on the speeches and the ceremonies and my goodness I will miss that.

Do you love weddings? Or did you read this and think I’ve lost my clucky mind??  

A woman in battle

Look I’m not proud but it happened. I had a few cross words with a cab driver this week. I’m not generally in the habit of flying off the handle at strangers – or even people I know – but this driver got me. I didn’t swear or raise my voice but I did express my doubts in his suitability for the position quite clearly. I work just outside the CBD and often have to catch cabs to get to interviews or meetings in the heart of the city. I always have the address and usually have some familiarity for the vicinity in which I’m headed. But. I really like being able to hop in, pass on said address to the driver and then relax, or frantically prepare for the meeting, depending on the day. Is that too much to expect?

This particular driver was the fourth in two weeks who said I would need to direct him from my office building to my designated address, turn by turn, light by light. One driver explained his navigation system did not work because of the buildings in the city which, frankly, I found a little hard to believe. Another said from the outset that he “Just doesn’t know George Street” whilst another admitted he didn’t know how to use the GPS. And then there was the one who waited ten minutes to confess he had no idea where he was or where we needed to go. So, on Tuesday, when the cab driver appointed me his chief navigator my patience waned. I did not find his suggestion endearing. This exchange ensued.

Me: Would you mind using your GPS?   

Driver: It doesn’t work.

Me: Could you please try?

Driver: It won’t recognise the street.

Me: It’s Martin Place.  It’s a pretty central Sydney address.

Driver: No it won’t work.

Me: Can you please just type it in and see?

Driver: No. You direct me. You can look it up on your phone.

Me: Yes I realise that. That’s what I was hoping to avoid.

Driver: I can’t understand you.

Me: Of course you can.

What followed was a short monologue in which I, ah, articulated my perspective. Unsurprisingly my monologue was followed by silence. I suspect he could understand me but, probably wisely, he chose not to let on. I don’t expect cab drivers to know every street in every suburb but is it too much to expect them to be able to use their GPS when they don’t???

On a more cheerful note, my dear readers, I have good news. Last week there was a big win for the little people. I can honestly put my hand on my heart and say justice was done in a tiny room in the NSW Consumer Trader & Tenancy Tribunal. We were up against our previous landlord who was seeking several hundreds of dollars from us for a fridge that he had left in the unit, instructed us to put under the stairs and then never picked up. It was recycled by the Body Corporate twelve months later and when he learned of this he sought compensation from us. We were quite incensed when he commenced the proceedings but for a fleeting moment contemplated giving in just to avoid the headache. Thankfully we persevered on principal as much as anything else.

And once the ball was rolling I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to letting the lawyer, long hidden away inside me, out for a spin. I prepared our witness statements, compiled the evidence, created three copies of the document bundles as instructed and was generally ready for battle. It was something of an anti-climax when the landlord didn’t show up at the hearing. After sitting through a rather fascinating case before me, complete with police statements for break and enter, rent payment ceased and even a claim for assault, it was my turn to approach the bench. My moment of glory was brief but glorious all the same.

Sitting member: “So the landlord is seeking compensation for a fridge that belonged to him?”

Me: “Yes. You see when we moved in he asked us to store his fridge under the stairs…”

Sitting member: “Why would you have to look after his fridge?”

Me: “Well, that’s the crux of our position.”

Sitting member: “That’s ridiculous. I’ve just ordered he repay your bond with interest.”

Excellent. Even better my reward for pursuing the case is indulging in two of my favourites things: a Chinese massage and some rocklea road.  

Have you had any unfortunate run-ins lately?