Then three became four...

My dear readers I am thrilled to report that you are in good company. It appears Mother Nature, or at least the purveyor of civilised and no-fuss labours, does in fact read this blog. And best of all she takes requests! So cast your wish below and you might just be rewarded like I was.

On Friday our second darling daughter, Miss L, made her way into this world with minimal fuss and maximum ease. She is completely divine and has already forced me to eat my earlier envious words. Her birth was so calm and straightforward that I found it, err, empowering. Truly! What's even more telling is that since Miss L's arrival i have thought to myself - more than once - that a really bad knee reconstruction would be a lot worse. I kid you not.  Can you believe this is really me???

I sort of can't. For a start it happened two weeks earlier than I expected. Last week when I waxed lyrical about the joy of maternity leave I did not expect the baby bit to kick in quite so soon. At least not consciously.

In hindsight, however, it seems on some level I knew what was coming. When Mr G and Miss I went to visit his family in the country for two days I weighed up my options. Embrace the break and do absolutely nothing or go absolutely nuts on the home front and use the remaining two weeks to slowly get prepared? Now ordinarily when 
faced with two such options I would be horizontal on the couch inhaling rocky road and Vanity Fair faster than you can say bliss. But this time I went with the latter. 

I was possessed; I washed and sorted all the baby clothes, i finalised the last details in the nursery and I then proceeded to attack every corner, cupboard and crevice in our flat with unprecedented fervour. I tidied, I scrubbed, I cleaned, I sorted and I shopped. Nothing was safe. When I found myself outside scrubbing our courtyard  I realised something was odd. I was nesting like a crazy woman.

Mr G and I laughed during my first pregnancy about this whole 'nesting' concept we read about; we both knew it was highly unlikely the affliction would strike me. Ever. And first time around we were right.

This time around we weren't because this time was different. In every single way. From the minute we arrived at the hospital to the moment i had a beautiful baby in my arms, the experience was serene and stress free. An epidural administered at the right time certainly contributed to this but so too did the fact my body seemed to have read up on all the textbooks and followed the steps set out to a tee.

We relaxed while my body did its thing: if you watched video footage of Mr G and I kicking back in the delivery suite I swear you would not guess I was in labour. Well, except for the telltale sign that we were in a delivery suite. We chatted, laughed, read the papers, did sudoku, debated what variety of baby might be joining our clan...and frankly had quite a bit of fun. Seriously. Mr G played with every contraption in the room while I contemplated marrying every person who came in my vicinity.

In my blissed-out state I was ready to marry the anaesthetist, the midwife, my obstetrician and Mr G in one big happy polygamous ceremony. Because all together we were having my baby and we were cool, calm and collected. Mother Nature had picked me!!!

My high was compounded exponentially when everything culminated in the swift and peaceful arrival of a healthy bundle of baby girl. Could this world be any more amazing??? I'm afraid I can't see how. Having any healthy baby arrive in your arms is no small miracle so having two feels akin to winning one of life's great lotteries. And when the second comes with ease? Well that feels like  it was one of the really big mega pick, lottery bonanzas so right now I'm feeling pretty darn lucky.

I had planned on spending some quality time blogging over the next two weeks but obviously that is now most unlikely. Which is a tiny shame because I had a few timely topics I needed to canvass with you - such as how I was feeling before the imminent birth of my second child!! - but alas. For the next  little bit  I'm going to play NABM by baby. If time and mental capacity permits I'll be here with bells on but if not I will be ensconced in baby land. But if you ever want to talk uplifting childbirth stories I am your woman and for that topic I will forever be available.

Cold watermelon and maternity leave

So it is Tuesday* morning and I am blogging, coffee in hand, in one of my favourite outdoor cafes. I slept in, I’ve browsed the  newspapers, scanned Twitter and I'm not even wagging. I am just making the most of what are certain to be the least labour-intensive days of my maternity leave; without a baby or a toddler in my care. Mr G and Miss I are enjoying a farm break together and I thought I'd take a break from swimming through a pile of wondersuits and muslin wraps to stop by here.

I finished work on Friday with mixed emotions. Excited at the prospect of what the next few weeks will bring but also sad to bid farewell, albeit temporarily, to work. It's one of the reasons I am currently overwhelmed with gratitude for the privilege which is maternity leave. Some of which is even paid!! It was not on the table when I had Miss I so it is a new thing for me and what peace of mind it brings.

At the risk of inducing nausea I quite truly love my job. Of course there are days when it’s a grind, when my motivation wanes or when words simply fail to materialise and I’d rather be on a beach with a gin and tonic. But, on the whole, I love going to work. I like what I’m paid to do, I l really enjoy the company of the people I’m paid to work with and, of course, as I’ve canvassed before, I love the platform it provides for a work wardrobe.

On the brink of such a large break it is easy for me to don rose tinted glasses and only recall the good bits about work….because for the next twelve months any bad bits will be a distant memory. But even without a break forthcoming I try to be grateful for the simple fact that I enjoy my job. Because my first proper job was not like that (not even close) and neither were my ‘professional’ pursuits whilst we were living overseas.

So today’s post is a short one. I’m grateful not only to have a job that I love but to have a job that also gives me the opportunity to pursue an even greater love; my growing family. On a lighter note I am also overwhelmed with appreciation for my late-stage pregnancy crack; cold pineapple and watermelon. Taken together, or separately, they never fail to bring me joy.  

Now it's your turn. What are you especially thankful for at the moment?  Big or small, share what is making you smile.

*I got distracted and napped for so long yesterday afternoon that I didn’t post this earlier. 

Pangs of envy

Listen I know jealousy is not a flattering shade. On anyone. We’re all old and wise enough to know that envy achieves very little. But, of course, knowing that doesn’t actually stop the old green eyed monster from stopping by once in a while. At least not for me. And lately? I’m big enough to admit it’s been stopping by quite a bit.

It’s always triggered by the same thing. Childbirth. Which is a pretty relevant topic for me, being 37 weeks’ pregnant and all. In recent weeks I have heard of three instances where friends’ of friends’ have had their babies so quickly that it’s happened at home or in the car on the way to hospital. In all three cases, mother and baby were healthy and thriving despite the circumstances. My reaction has been identical each time; relief everyone was ok quickly followed by intense and frequent pangs of jealousy. Insane, visceral jealousy. Why were they so anatomically well equipped to deliver a baby so fast? What kind of sweet deal did they strike with mother nature?? AND WHERE WAS I WHEN THEY WERE DIVVYING OUT THOSE ARRANGEMENTS?

It’s the same whenever I hear of someone delivering their baby in under five hours, or anyone who describes their childbirth as empowering or says, as another did, that delivering her child wasn’t as bad as a knee reconstruction she had had earlier.  Now I’m sorry but to my mind that begs one very pertinent question. What the hell kind of knee reconstruction did she endure?? Was she awake while they chipped away at her joint to realign the ligaments?? Did they skip that bit where a nice anaesthetist arrives and dispenses a GENERAL ANAESTHETIC???

At this point you may be wondering why I am so ungracious in the face of such happy and straightforward baby deliveries. As callous as I may sound I don’t actually begrudge anyone for having a fast or empowering birth and I would never EVER wish a long or difficult birth on anyone. Nonetheless I am overcome with envy when I hear of bodies which deliver babies so easily. And, seeing as though you asked - didn’t you? – I’ll tell you why. Because my experience with childbirth was not fast or empowering.

Theoretically I could have driven from Sydney to Perth and still have made it to a hospital in plenty of time to deliver Miss I. Considering my body was experiencing violent spasms every few minutes I couldn’t have actually driven anywhere but, the point is, there was no chance of me delivering at home or in the car. Because I was in labour for 38 hours. That’s right. Thirty. Eight. Hours. And before you even think about dismissing my description of ‘labour’ as ‘labour’ let me tell you more.

My contractions started at five minute intervals. They were strong from the get go and they never got further apart. Every childbirth book and antenatal teacher will tell you that the point at which contractions are just five minutes apart is the time to get to hospital. It’s not uncommon for contractions to begin at 30 minutes apart and whittle their way down to five minutes and then as the final stage approaches just a minute or less apart. So when mine started that close together I could only conclude one thing; my baby was coming fast.

How. Wrong. I. Was. My baby was coming but, my god, she was going to take her time. After 12 hours’ I assumed I’d be raring to go. And, yet, I had not dilated. Not one bit. After 24 hours and still no progress I was exhausted and disheartened. By 28 hours I was barely lucid an,  after suggesting someone put me down like an animal, an anaesthetist promptly arrived to put me out of my misery. Fortunately he dismissed my dramatic suggestion and opted for the less drastic injection; an epidural. And, like great swathes of child-delivering women all over this world before me, I was instantly grateful. For his very existence as much as the marvels of modern medicine.

Ten hours later I was the proud, shattered and positively delirious mother of Miss I. And by delirious I mean truly delirious. Not in any romantic use of the word – I actually felt like I was inhabiting a distant and unfamiliar planet and I remained in that state for a few days. This state was naturally compounded by the fact I was now responsible for feeding a living breathing baby around the clock.  (Our seasoned antenatal teacher shared one piece of wisdom in this regard that I will never forget; childbirth would be much easier if you didn’t become responsible for a newborn baby immediately afterwards and equally that caring for a newborn baby would be much easier if you weren’t recovering from the physical demands of delivering that newborn).

One silver lining of Miss I’s birth (apart from the adorable bundle herself) was that I was on the other side of the world to most of our family and friends; I wasn’t exactly fit for public consumption. Two lovely friends who visited us the morning after Miss I’s birth left so wide-eyed that I still feel seeing me that way may have had a strong contraceptive effect.  A few days later, after clasping her eyes on Miss I for the first time, another friend commented that if there was ever a baby worth waiting 38 hours for she was lying in my arms. I agreed. But, with my hand on my heart, let me say this. I wouldn’t love her any less if she had come in 3 hours. I promise!

So Mother Nature if you’re listening (or reading) and you’re having one of those days where you hand out coupons for fast births in the next few weeks PICK ME! PLEASE PICK ME!! I promise I’ll work on my jealousy issues.

What makes you insanely jealous? And please don’t say nothing. Tell me I’m not alone in succumbing to the occasional pang of envy??

A heartening speech. In disheartening circumstances.

I rarely blog about politics because it’s not a topic I believe I can offer a particularly nuanced or sophisticated take on. Unlike, for example, my favourite royals. But after last week? I can’t not venture there. In all honesty my views on this matter are more about principles than they are about politics anyway. So. Let’s talk about Julia Gillard’s performance in parliament. She came out firing in acknowledging and condemning sexist and offensive conduct from Tony Abbott.  And, politics aside, I couldn’t agree more.

In my view she nailed it; she spoke with conviction and eloquence, her argument was cogent and the passionate delivery of those words – long overdue – felt cathartic to watch. Internationally it was an instant hit. Some said she excoriated him, others suggested Barack Obama follow her lead and, well, my favourite UK writer, Caitlin Moran, in her own inimitable fashion, suggested Gillard had torn Abbott a new orifice. And I’m not even going to say what most of the mainstream press said. Because some of it made my want to cry and because I sincerely believe they missed the point entirely.

The circumstances in which her speech was delivered were not ideal, and whilst it might seem naïve to say that didn’t impact the power of her words, in my view, it didn’t.

The government’s handling of Peter Slipper and the lewd scandal in which he stars has been tardy; there is no hiding from that. But the opposition cannot wipe their hands of him; from 1993 until just last year he was one of their own. At the 2010 election Tony Abbott stood beside Mr Slipper declaring him not only a valued politician but a valued friend.

That is relevant not in relation to the government’s response to the broader situation but because it puts Julia Gillard’s direct response to Tony Abbott in context. Like so many of the cheap political points Abbott constantly seeks to score against Gillard, it is hypocritical. It is hypocritical to slight the government on the basis of its affiliation with Peter Slipper when for decades and decades, the liberal party supported him and Abbott counted him a personal friend. If they were in the reverse situation, there is every likelihood, if not certainty, that an Abbott-led government would have acted similarly in not disposing of Slipper immediately. They, too, would have afforded him the luxury of due process.

Many of the concessions Gillard has made in office were required to form a government at all. Because no party won a majority at the last election, the government was up for grabs with three independent ministers calling the shots.  Those ministers met with both Gillard and Abbott and those ministers have made it explicitly clear, on the parliamentary record, that had they given the mandate to Abbott he would have made the same concessions. He told them as much. And yet Gillard is constantly goaded by Abbott for being a liar who can’t be trusted. But worse than that he regularly uses her gender, explicitly and implicitly, to attack her.  

So, last week, when Abbott so provokingly recalled Alan Jones’ revolting words and said the government’s handling of Slipper would cause it to ‘die of shame’ the scene was set for a showdown.  And it was less about Slipper than it was about Abbott. Gillard had had enough and was ready to take him on. And that meant raising the inevitable; her gender and the offensive way she is treated.

Despite some now saying she is using her gender as a shield I disagree. Vehemently.  I think she has avoided mentioning gender for so long because for so long I believe, she believed, it was irrelevant. And yet? It hasn’t been. She has been called barren, she has been told to make an honest woman of herself, she has been called a witch and a bitch and as Anne Summers so comprehensively covered, she has been discriminated against and persecuted, on the basis of her gender.

Sexism and misogyny are ugly words but what is even uglier is the fact they remain alive and well. And, uglier still, the fact we’re not supposed to say that. And that’s what made Gillard’s words so powerful. She broke the unwritten rule of staying silent. We have reached an insidious point in the quest for gender equality where the mere suggestion of ill treatment on the basis of your own anatomy is deemed irritating at best and vexatious at worst. It is why instances of discrimination or blatant sexism are most often dismissed out of hand by the target as much as anyone else. The treatment of women who do pursue action for sexual harassment or sexist conduct is a persuasive case in point. They are always cast as money-grabbing, troublemakers, disrupting the status quo.  Against that backdrop why would anyone speak out?

I know from my own personal experience that I have always opted for silence over confrontation when I have encountered less than acceptable behaviour on the basis of my gender. And I can hazard a solid guess that the women among you have too. And the question I now ask is why? This isn’t 1930 or 1960 or even 1980. It is 2012.  

And it’s the reason why I thought having our prime minister, regardless of her political affiliation, stand up and call time on being subject to insulting and offensive treatment on the basis of her being a woman was so heartening. In the most disheartening of ways

My favourite reading material on the matter

Words many have rehearsed yet never spoken

An apology to Paul Sheehan

Corinne Grant on The Hoopla

Why Gillard’s speech was brilliant

Jessica Irvine on The Punch

Living on a see-saw

Someone who reads this blog recently confessed that reading it makes her not want to have children. In fairness she said she finds the whole idea of parenting quite frightening anyway, but, even still I was sad to hear my words have had that effect. Like every parent I know I am constantly amazed and overwhelmed by my love for Miss I. She blows me away. She is only two but the two years since she made her foray into this wild old world have, hands down, been the most rewarding, rich and happy of my life.

As I suspect is the case with all toddlers a day doesn’t go by that isn’t enriched with more joy than you could ever imagine. And I don’t mean joy in an abstract fashion. I mean joy that manifests itself daily in all manner of simple ways and is blissfully inescapable; toddlers live every moment the way greeting cards encourage us all too. They dance like no-one is watching and they sing like no-one is listening but of course if there is an audience they’re happier still. Their love and affection knows no bounds nor does their constant quest to seek out fun and laughter. Whether it’s a tap in the park, a watering can in the garden or discovering a funny new word like ‘smelly’, they’re capable of squeezing every ounce of life out of it. And it’s a pretty fabulous journey to be part of.

I feel utterly blessed to have Miss I in my life and I could write about that week in, week out, but I don’t for a few reasons. For one thing, I suspect I would lose your interest very quickly if I posted about the love, joy and wonder Miss I unfailingly brings to every day. Because it happens in much the same way. Every day. And that would make for a very repetitious blog. And, aside from getting repetitive, writing glowing reports about Miss I every week would overlook two glaring realities of parenting.

First, I don’t expect the whole world to rejoice in my darling girl’s every milestone the way Mr G and I do. Fortunately I can spare you those details because, instead, we subject grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends to whenever they’re within earshot. Secondly, as every parent knows, the flipside to the highly charged mini love affair that is raising toddlers is the hard stuff. I didn’t study physics but I suspect it’s the whole “for every action there’s a reaction” dynamic at play.

Daily life takes on a greater intensity when living with a little person. It just does. There are mornings when simply sharing a bowl of weetbix is the funniest, most entertaining ten minutes of your day courtesy of your toddler’s delightful mood. There are other mornings when sharing weetbix is like some form of torture, where the weetbix are the wrong shape, the milk’s come from the wrong bottle, the bowl is wrong, the spoon is wrong, the cup is wrong and ten minutes very quickly feels like three hours. This funny little see-saw act somehow just becomes a way of life.

And truthfully? It is frustrating at times. I don’t say that to fear monger or put any one off having kids. I say it because, for me, it’s the way it is and to say otherwise would be disingenuous. But it would be equally disingenuous to say that the see-saw makes me question having children. It doesn’t. Not even close.

One of the extraordinary twists I’ve discovered about parenting is that the hard bits, the tough days and the impossible moments, are powerless in the face of my love. At times Miss I is incredibly effective at testing my patience, challenging my sanity and even compromising my perspective, but, somehow nothing she ever does gets close to my love. It’s immutable. Absolute and unchallengeable. And an absolute pleasure. It is completely different to romantic love but falling in love with a little person is every bit as lovely. And it comes with the added bonus of them unashamedly worshipping the space you occupy*. There is a photograph of Mr G and I in Miss I’s bedroom and no words will ever do her reaction to it justice; she lights up as if she is carrying the secret to life, love and endless happiness right there in the palms of her hands.  

That look alone is enough to make me recommend having children to anyone who wants them in a heartbeat. You will be astounded. Daily. Having said that, I’m not sure making any decision about childrearing on the basis of this blog alone, is wise. I am but one mother in this big world and as we explored recently I am not exactly a pin up for how it is done.  But I wouldn’t change that for the world.

*I am aware this window is limited. I believe in years to come “worship” may be the polar opposite of Miss I’s reaction to any space I occupy. Until that day, however, I will drink up her adoration while it lasts.

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?