Artistic differences

The NABM household headed west on a roadtrip for the long weekend. We had a ball catching up with family and as we made our way back to Sydney on Monday Mr G and I had a funny little conversation. I was (and remain) completely flabbergast by my sister and brother in law. We all stayed at the cottage they've been renovating for the past year and the results are amazing. Not because of an extravagant budget, the help of an architect and interior designer or a team of tradesmen. They have done virtually everything themselves on a tiny budget and have almost transformed a dilapidated country cottage into a lush family home. The results are ridiculous.

The colours, the finishes, the furniture, the lay out...it is a fabulous visual feast. Among other things, I was immediately struck by various pieces of art hung around the home. I can't do them justice in words but the walls are adorned with all manner of bold and beautiful bits and pieces. From a gorgeous poem printed on distressed wood, to a large canvass dotted with small hearts, to bright animal prints, to photo frames filled with paper butterflies, to vintage mirrors spray painted glossy black....all the various pieces make the space sing. I walked around staring at each one wondering where on earth my sister B could source such fabulous things without spending a fortune. Naturally I nearly fell over when she admitted she was the artist. She had conceived and created every single piece. And therein lies my awe.

It blows my mind that someone - particularly someone closely related to me - can do such things. Every step of the process...which I insisted B explain to me in minute detail...from coming up with her ideas, to sourcing the materials, to actually creating it...is foreign to me. And I am not being at all modest. I genuinely don't have any artistic aptitude whereas B is filled with it. To her colour, design, decor and art are the easiest things in the world. Which is why it blows my mind.I explained this fascination at great length to Mr G during our trip home. He was also mightily impressed by the handiwork and talents of B and her husband but he was also blown away by someone else.

My tech-savvy, iPad-toting, Facebook-using, Tweeting, octogenarian Pa was with us for the weekend. His social media prowess is light years ahead of Mr G's but it wasn't that that caught his attention. Over dinner one night Pa  was recalling the various developments in technology during the 70s and 80s when he was running a large regional department store. He remembers basically every piece of technology that came out and told us about how he used each development in various parts of the business. His ability to recall facts, figures and dates about pretty much anything is uncanny and to Mr G that is completely foreign.

Whereas Mr G could conceivably renovate a house or build a piece of furniture, he cannot conceivably imagine being able to remember details a year on, let alone, three decades later. Which is different to me. Whilst I have a knack for remembering names and dates, even the idea of  attempting a piece of art or a renovation project is so far beyond my skill set that it intrigues me. 

And I think it's one of the things that makes us humans so very interesting. Each of us has a completely different set of natural skills and talents. Obviously with education and training you can improve them or develop completely new ones but I don't think there is any escaping what comes to you naturally. What are you good at without trying? And what skills do other people have that blow you away?

Err, I'm back. Briefly.

Forgive me if this gives you whiplash. No sooner had I pressed publish on my last post,  signalling time for a blogging break, that I realised my mind was swirling with thoughts that I couldn’t possibly not blog about. So here I am.

You see a friend has recently suffered an indecent and flagrant invasion of her privacy and I am incensed and saddened on her behalf. It matters not that this friend knows nothing about me or indeed that I exist. Because none of those minor details have dimmed my horror and sorrow over the past few days. It is hard to watch someone you care about, however odd or misguided that care may seem, be let down.

I am, of course, referring to the Duchess of Cambridge. And I will say from the outset I think she has been let down. Badly. Let's start with the facts. Whilst on a private holiday with her husband, in a private home, she enjoyed some private pool time. During that time she removed her bikini top. Little did she know that 1.6 miles or 2 kilometres away there was a photographer hiding in the trees, snapping away at her every move with a super lens. I have heard many people say 'She should have been more careful!', 'She should always expect photographers to be there', and even 'She would have known'.

I disagree. As a bystander, admittedly one with an unfounded level of familiarity and inexplicable perceived affinity with the Duchess and her Duke, my take is this. They are a private couple with a very public life. From the outside it looks like they manage this dichotomy adeptly. When duty calls, and it frequently does, they are smiling, gracious and professional. They execute their public responsibilities with warmth and enthusiasm. And, I understand that the rest of the time they seek out privacy and relative normalcy. Since they got married the public component of their lives has obviously increased as has the insatiable appetite to scrutinise their every move. But even with that they have avoided controversy.

The Duchess has now been in the public eye for nearly nine years. In that time, even with photographers tailing her every move, there has not been one scandalous image of her taken. No drunken antics, no nudity, no drug taking, nothing remotely illicit. And I don't think that is by accident. Which is precisely why I refuse to entertain the possibility that she was aware a photographer might be capturing her by the pool in France.

And neither should she have. I absolutely believe they are entitled to privacy; to have time when they can live like no one is watching. If they chose to cavort by a pool in a plush resort open to the public (albeit at a very high cost) I would understand photographers being there to capture the moment. But they weren't. They were in a private home enjoying what they thought was some time to themselves before embarking on their joint tour of Asia and the pacific. How humiliated and violated they must have felt after discovering their private time was nothing of the sort.

I can't imagine how heavy the burden of public scrutiny feels on the shoulders of two people my age, particularly knowing that interest is never ever going to subside. I can only imagine the way they manage it is by courting and relishing their privacy whenever they can. And in that regard my final point is this. 

Remember when you were little and you stayed with, or even just visited, family friends or relatives who were really strict and formal? And do you remember the utter liberation you felt on returning home or going outside, being free to roam, run amok and frankly let it all hang out? I remember that feeling very clearly. I can only hazard a guess that it is multiplied exponentially for Kate and Will, when they have just finished three million formal functions in a week and they realise they can escape the public gaze for a few days. 

Frankly if I was them I would be so deliriously drunk with joy every time a blank space came up in my diary, that if photographers were there to capture the moment it might not be pretty. Wouldn’t you do something a bit crazy? At the very least, eat ice cream in your underwear while dancing to Roxette???

If you are tempted to indict my friend for being reckless I just ask for a modicum of sympathy. As far as public humiliation goes, can you visualise anything worse than discovering your private time had been photographed and shared with the world? And not just that but instead of being able to quietly retreat with your family or friends, you have to continue on a very public tour, fronting the media and great crowds, for every waking minute for the next week?  

Ok. That’s me. Where do you stand? 

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?