Bits and pieces

Sometimes I think about a potential post and then wonder if I'm 'allowed' to write it that way. Then I remember this is just my little blog so I can write whatever, and how ever, I like; there are no rules. So, today, instead of covering one topic I'm going for a mixed bag. I'm even throwing in some advice for free. 

Bouncing back

Regular readers will recall that 2013 began in the doldrums for the NABM clan with Mr G struck down with meningitis. I am happy to report that Mr G has made a full recovery and is back in his usual good health. As an aside, my estimation that 2013 could only get better has so far proved true.     

Great (low) expectations 

I realise it sounds more than a tad defeatist but once again I have been reminded of the enormous benefit in expecting the absolute worst. As you know I was apprehensive about Mr G starting his new job but I am thrilled to say, so far, the new arrangements have entirely exceeded my expectations. This is purely because my expectations were exceedingly low. 

As a starting point I imagined he would never, like ever to quote Taylor Swift, be home. I assumed I would be solely responsible for things on the home front at all times. This is very often true but it means if one or two nights a week he makes an appearance, well, it's like all my Christmases have come at once. Except after the Christmas we just had (see above) this is not welcome. No the nights he is home are better. It's like my annual quota of rocky road is delivered all at once. 

Coping with comfort

I'm not going to lie and pretend there haven't been tears or the occasional 'I can't bear another solo dinner/bath/bedtime' text. There have been both. (Remember THIS???) But for the most part I have been reminded that, in the same way that living costs always seem to swell with earnings, our ability to cope swells with what is required. We don't always want to and it's not always pretty but it's comforting to remember we are usually capable of whatever lies ahead. A few months ago I often wondered how on earth I would ever manage with two children on my own. Now I can't remember any different and I do it without thinking. I trip up, my patience wanes and I don't always relish every single minute of it but I also can't remember the last day that I didn't laugh. Again expecting the worst sometimes delivers the best.      

Be careful in the kitchen

It turns out people cut their hands at home a lot. I know this because in the weeks when Mr G is the go-to man for injured hands, his phone rings. All. The. Time. Wine glasses, filleting knives, blender blades - they all do considerable damage. So here is my advice for free; be really careful handling all of your kitchen implements. Aside from protecting your safety I am also, selfishly, aware that somewhere else in the world there is a home just like mine. And by the time you injure yourself and get yourself to emergency, someone's phone will ring like Mr G's. It usually rings the minute a baby is just settled or a tired adult has entered a deep slumber. And it's cruel. So why don't we avoid all that hassle and just be careful in kitchen? Excellent.  

Restaurants are lovely. (Someone else cooks and cleans!!)  

Confession time. Until last Friday night I basically hadn't stepped foot out of the house after 7pm since Miss L joined us back in early November. When we had Miss I we went out to dinner quite a bit when she was really young because we could easily pop her under the table, asleep in her car seat. That wasn't possible this time around because although Miss L may have obliged, Miss I is a little bit too big and a lot too loud to hide in a restaurant. So at home I have been. Until Friday when I broke my night-time hermit habit and ventured out. And what fun it was! We went to Chiswick which deserves every bit of hype it's garnered. The food was amazing...I especially liked the bit where I didn't have to prepare it or clean up. Magic!   

For added trivia the last time Mr G and I went out for dinner was six days before Miss L arrived. I was so full of baby at the time that I actually couldn't fit dessert in which is tragic (and unheard of) for a dessert-tragic like myself. Friday night's dessert - Mango Bombe Alaska - more than made up for it. Truly it was the best dessert I've ever sampled. 

A night off is not the same as a holiday
I'd been so excited for my night off that it had somehow escaped me that come Saturday morning I would still be the director of childcare and home affairs at NABM. Alone, for the most part, because Mr G was tending to someone's damaged hand. In future I will try to remember that going out for dinner, albeit luxurious, is not the same as checking into a child-free resort for 48 hours. 

Even terrorists are funny 
I'm aware Miss I has had a little bad press here lately. Between terrorism and her ambulance antics I concede the picture I have painted is not entirely accurate. The truth is I wish I had a video to capture her every word at the moment. No description can do her justice; she is so funny and sunny and completely mad. And at the end of the day when she is tucked up in bed I try to remember her every expression. Isn't that a lovely thing about motherhood? That even terrorists' mothers love them?   

What's going on in your world? I haven't said it for a while but I LOVE it when people comment so please say hi! 

A battle in the urban jungle

Today I am going to tell you a story about a photoframe. How dull, you might be thinking. What on earth could I possibly have to say about putting a few photos in a frame that could be remotely interesting? My innate knack for making even the most ordinary and straightforward things extraordinarily complicated means the photo frame in question is actually much more than a wall hanging. It is a trophy of yet another battle I forged - and won - in the urban jungle. A reminder that sometimes it is the destination that matters. That some journeys are best forgotten.   

Mr G has just celebrated a milestone birthday. A few weeks ago, after already organising my own gift for him, I decided that a frame with a few snaps of three of his biggest fans would be a great present from our girls. Despite putting this suggestion to them weeks in advance neither took any initiative in getting the project off the ground so I was left to do the legwork. C'est le vie. 

One of my lovely friends is a big fan of both the NABM girls and was kind enough to offer to be our photographer for the morning. Aside from being a finance whiz, a doctor in training and a wedding-cake-maker, this friend is also quite talented behind a camera. So off we went to her place dressed in pale pink one morning. The photo-shoot was a lot of fun and despite some terrible weather and two occasionally reluctant subjects it was a roaring success. So roaring in fact that choosing which images to frame became quite onerous.

All of this was done in plenty of time for Mr G's birthday. At least it would have been if I wasn't me. Because whilst I've had three decades to familiarise myself with my various foibles it's obviously not been enough time for me to actually conquer them. Identify them? Easily. Overcome them? Not yet. It's true that I'm not a disorganised person but I am also not super orderly. In fact I have an annoying tendency to ensure I am never too organised. (Which I realise is an oxymoron to certain members of the population).

The best example of this tendency is literally academic. At uni I never submitted an assignment late but I never got one in early either. I always did the preparation early enough; I researched weeks ahead, printed off the relevant articles, photocopied various books so I had all the material ready to go. But I could never bring myself to commence writing - not even one word - until I had just enough time to complete it. No pressure, no game. And the thing is because that method works, mostly, I sort of stick to it. Not intentionally but it seems to be the way things pan out.

And so it was with my photo project. The images were there, I had created shortlists of all my favourite images and divided them into colour, black and white, portrait and landscape. The heavy lifting was done but I deliberated about the choice for more than a week. I concluded a multi-frame was the only way to go but then deliberated for several more days about which to choose first; the frame or the photos. After several unsuccessful shopping trips, two days before Mr G's birthday, I finally chose one. I took it home picked my images for each of the six shapes and took them off to be printed. If I had been more organised I should have thought to do all of this online. But, of course, I didn't. I like going up against time.

I put the images on a USB and went to my local Westfield. This was a day where my budding Al Qaeda representative was in daycare so with Miss L snoozing in her pram this was a relatively civilised exercise. Well, it would have been. Sadly my USB didn't work so I had to go home and put them on another one. I returned later that afternoon but their computers didn't appreciate my new USB either. One guy behind the counter was nice enough to try it on his machine and it worked so he printed them off. I collected them straight from the press and then raced to pick up my favourite terrorist. By the time the small people were tucked into bed that night Mr G was home from work so I had to wait until the next day to put the photos in the frame.

I waited until both girls were snoozing at lunchtime on Friday before getting to work. And, wouldn't you know it, one of the photos had lines through it. Big, ugly, thick lines. And naturally it was the only photo I had printed in that size. I realised a mad dash to the photo shop was in order. Oh well, I thought to myself, it's one photo so I will be in and out quickly. Naturally enough - because I actually had something to do - both girls had massive sleeps which is almost always welcome. Except when their crazy mother has a project to complete.

So. Perhaps because I am completely insane I trooped to Westfield with both the girls at 4 o'clock on a Friday afternoon. Because of my earlier USB problems I emailed myself single the image I needed so it was on my phone and I took the cable with me. How smart I thought to myself. I got a park very easily but realised as we unloaded that I only had the stroller in the car, not the double pram. In a nod to my possible insanity, I put Miss L in the stroller and let Miss I hold my hand. What could go wrong in ten minutes? Everything. 

When we arrived at the shop and I tried to retrieve the email I discovered the image was so large it wouldn't download from the server to open in my phone. This meant I couldn't save it to my phone which meant I couldn't access it on their machines. I explained my dilemma to one of the sales attendants and politely enquired if I could access their wifi (which was popping up on my phone) to download the image to my phone. No. Absolutely not, they said. I would have to find wifi somewhere else in the centre and I could then email them the image directly. (If only I'd known that when I was at home with a decent internet connection).

I went in search of the Westfield concierge and they said wifi is not available anywhere in the centre, with it being 1985 and all. A man nearby overheard me and pointed me towards the Apple store. All of their computers are online and available to use. So to Apple we went. I quickly logged on, forwarded the email to the shop and headed back down there. My search had led me to three different floors in the complex at this stage and because I had a pram and a wild toddler simply getting from one location to another was a miracle mission.

But we were almost there. I arrived back at the photo shop where the sales assistant told me my email had arrived but they were having trouble retrieving the attachment. She said "The man who looks after the emails is on his break now so you'll have to wait 15 minutes until he gets back." There were four other attendants in the shop but apparently only the man on the break uses the email. Again, with it being 1985 this seemed entirely reasonable. 

At this point Miss I was impersonating an ambulance running around the store simultaneously threatening to break several thousand dollars worth of equipment whilst also compromising the hearing and sanity of everyone nearby. The sensible thing to do at that point would have been leaving. To cut my losses and head home. I had another more significant birthday present for Mr G already wrapped at home and could easily have given him the frame with one streaky image to be replaced in the coming days. But I am not sensible. I am stubborn and a bit insane and wanted  Mr G to open a perfect frame. So I persisted.

Staying in the photo shop whilst we waited was not feasible due to the human ambulance in my company so we went for a wander. I then remembered I hadn't bought Mr G a card from the girls. Again my inclination towards not being too organised came into play here. I had browsed several large card selections in the days previous but resisted buying one in case I saw a better one closer to the day. Yes, David Jones has an awfully comprehensive selection but I think perhaps I should wait until late on a Friday afternoon and try browsing the selection in the company of Miss I. 

So in conclusive proof of my insanity we entered a newsagent. It turns out newsagents are heaven for small children unencumbered by a pram and they are equally hellish for the silly parents who take such toddlers inside.

Miss I: swiping hoards of balloons "Look Mummy b'loons Mummy!!! I like b'loons Mummy. I take all the B'loon homes?"  
Me: [Snatching several packets of balloons back and returning them to the shelves] "No darling, we'll put them back. Just help me choose a card for dad's birthday."
Miss I: "Lollypops!! Look Mummy!! I like lollypops. I take all the lollypops home mummy?"
Me: "No put them back please."
Miss I: "NO!!! Mummy I TAKE LOLLYPOPS!!!"
Me: hissing and wresting several chupa chups from her clenched fists "No, they're all staying in the shop."
Miss I: Finds low open fridge and grabs three water bottles. "Otay Mummy. I like wa-dder bottles, I take all the wa-der bottles my home."
Me: Returning bottles to fridge. "No."

This was followed by shrieking, a moment of floor lying and me grabbing the closest, tackiest, card in the shop whilst also swooping up Miss I. With Miss I in something of a headlock under my arms I handed over an obscene amount of money for the ugly card. "My grand-daughter never lets go of her pram when she's out with her Mummy and baby brother," the sales assistant helpfully informed me. "That's terrific, would you like to swap? This one's going cheap." Amazingly she wasn't interested. 

We returned to the photo shop only to discover the Email Expert was still on his break. Now I know this isn't ideal - promoting less than ideal behaviour and all - but at this point I brought in the big guns for Miss I. I bought her a mini cupcake on the proviso that she sit still until the man returned to the shop to help me. She obliged and with Miss L chilling out watching the world go by in her pram calm prevailed for at least a few minutes. 

When his break was up, the Email Expert materialised and told me I'd have to go back up to Apple and resend the email. Tears were not far from my eyes at this point. Upon learning that the reason for my visit was a faulty photo his shop had printed the day before he finally took pity on me and offered me his computer out the back. If only I'd tried tears earlier...

So the girls and I hustled into the back of the store and Miss I sat at my feet whilst I logged on to Gmail. Just as I pressed send on the image, the computer shut down. "What happened?" the Email man and I asked at the same time. I looked down and realised the little person at my feet had turned the power off at the wall. Oh. Boy. At that very moment Miss L decided to let her presence be known and broke into an impressive and unrelenting cry. Did I mention that it is now 5.45pm on a Friday evening? Dear readers, what was I thinking???

The Email Expert rebooted the computer and was waiting to see if my email had sent. Meanwhile I needed to feed Miss L immediately. I coaxed Miss I into the pram with the promise of a Peppa Pig episode on my phone and started feeding Miss L (as discreetly as possible in case David Koch was anywhere close). Because something had to go right my email had sent before the computer was switched off so by the time I finished feeding Miss L, I had the photo in my hot little hand and was finally ready to go home. 

Fortunately I realised my housekeeper/nanny/chef would be waiting at home with dinner ready so I could just lie down, retire to my private quarters and enjoy a cold glass of wine whilst they fed and bathed my children. AS. IF. I was staring down the hardest part of my day; the feeding, bathing, reading, bedding fiasco on my own with the added benefit of being exhausted and having two super grumpy girls. Fun times!

The good news is twofold. Mr G was totally awestruck when he opened his perfect frame and even more so when I relayed the story of how it came to be. Now it hangs on the wall and it's  not only a lovely visual feast but it's also a trophy. A reminder that like Bear Grylls is a warrior in the wild, I too am a warrior in the urban jungle. Whilst he counters nature's elements, I conquer  urban life's equivalents. (And, not to detract from his feats, but there are times when a stroll through the Amazon seems positively urbane compared to the jungle that is city living with small children.) Bear and I are more similar than we might seem. We both take on tasks that are not altogether necessary, sensible or even enticing. But what seems ridiculous to a passer-by makes sense to Bear and I. Because we know survival against the elements is a wonderful drug. 

Tiny terrorists

Forgive me, dear readers, for I am about to sin. It is not nice to boast and it's particularly tiresome to boast about your own offspring but I cannot not share this with you. She is not yet three but it is already abundantly clear that our beloved Miss I is gifted. Obviously as her mother I am biologically wired to view her abilities with rose tinted glasses but I promise even an objective bystander would very reasonably reach the very same conclusion. 

She already sports the unmistakable combination of traits of a person capable of creating international headlines. Should she choose to pursue it, and goodness knows Miss I only pursues what she chooses, a bright future awaits her in the field of terrorism. And, again, reluctant as I am to brag, I suspect she would be best suited to a position right at the top of the tree. The dictator, the top dog, the chief controller.

I know this because for some time she has expertly, effortlessly really, occupied that mantel in the NABM household. Now I know it is hard to extrapolate from a small family of four to the entire universe but pop over for half an hour and I defy you to reach a different conclusion. The girl is made for it.

At the conclusion of a recent long weekend (not the variety where the government bestow a holiday on the Australian public just the variety that regularly reign when you are responsible for two small children) Mr G asked a telling question. "Do you feel like we've been held hostage by Miss I all weekend?" Save the 'weekend' bit and he was bang on. 

There are days, even weeks, when living with Miss I is not dissimilar to living with a terrorist with a bomb strapped to her chest; one wrong step and the whole place is engulfed in flames. Whilst selfishly this can make for trying times I have to remind myself that it's valuable experience in her future line of work. 

From what I understand there is no room for equivocating when you're a dictator zealously committed to dragging a large population towards your ideology. When it comes to terror, deviations from the dictator's rulebook simply aren't tolerated. And so it is if, for example, the wrong person attempts to strap Miss I in the pram. Or her mum speaks to her dad in the car without her express consent. Or someone suggests that plane is not pronounced 'Mal'. Or ravioli, I mean 'raviolo', is not served for every meal every day. Or someone drives too fast. Or someone drives too slow.  Truly, her eye for detail when it comes to departures from her master plan is extraordinary. 

Come to think of it, so is her unwavering commitment to her personal beliefs regardless of their relationship to reality. (Yet another quality which will no doubt lend itself nicely to any organisation harbouring extremist ideologies.) When one of Miss I's rules is infringed the offending party is punished severely. No questions asked. No logic considered. No matter how big or small the offence may reasonably be considered in the eyes of the offending party, the punishment is the same. 

Whilst some people have to learn how to implement personal boundaries Miss I was born to enforce them. With zero tolerance. It is quite breathtaking. But I can't lie to you; raising a child so obviously gifted in her aptitude for inflicting terror certainly makes some days tricky. But who am I to stand in the way of nature's clear intentions? Besides, even if I wanted to, I wouldn't get it past my household's answer to Pol Pot would I?

Instead I just take it in my stride and wait for the day she can channel her iron clad will into something more worthwhile than resisting a bath. In the meantime I'm also hoping and praying and crossing all my fingers and toes, that Miss L is cut out for something entirely different. Like meditating. Aside from benefitting me I imagine that would also stand her in good stead when it comes to hosting a support group for siblings-of-terrorists. Goodness knows that's only a matter of time. 

Do you have any budding terrorists in your life? Or are your children gifted in any fun ways? Like following instructions or occasionally considering reason?

MicroSolutions. Go.

Look, technically, it's a little late to be talking new year resolutions but it's still January so I'm pressing ahead regardless. Plus, come to think of it, I really doubt there is a regulator who would forbid me from posting this. So resolutions it is! Now I don't know about you but I'm not one for making big resolutions. This is because I like to save myself the disappointment of reflecting a year later and realising I still haven't run a marathon, signed up for a triathlon, learnt Spanish or indeed experienced any desire to do so. I save myself the trouble and don't even pretend it might happen. 

I do, though, at the start of a new year like to have a think about the year that's been and ponder - very gently, with no pressure - what the next year might hold and how I'd like it to unfold. This year my big picture mantra is to enjoy my time with the girls. Being on maternity leave means for most of 2013 I will be free from the work/mother/home juggle, the commute, the mad dash to get home, cook dinner, bathe and bed children before collapsing into bed myself. It's a privilege, notwithstanding the fact it's a privilege with plenty of trials, and I want to make the most of it. That was my 2013 big picture covered.

And then I read this article on Mamamia about micro-resolutions. Unlike the big and daunting goals people traditionally set themselves in January - quit smoking, lose weight, run a marathon, learn French - these are tiny little goals that have the potential to make daily life much easier. Things like putting the keys in the same place every time you come home or actually using the compartment in your handbag for your mobile. They're very do-able and whilst small they can address some of life's more irritating daily battles. Small change, big rewards. The whole notion struck me as completely genius. 

And, incidentally, made fantastic car conversation fodder. As Mr G and I drove back to Sydney with the girls, after our Christmas hell-iday was dramatically extended, we talked micro-resolutions and re-coined them MicroSolutions. After much brainstorming these are the ones I settled on for 2013. 

- Banish transitional clothes. In 2013 in NABM HQ clothes are either hung up/folded and put away or put in the laundry basket. Surfaces such as chairs, chests of drawers, the top of the laundry basket or my desk are no longer acceptable places for the temporary storage of clothes. Our bedroom looks so much better for this already.

- Return phonecalls, texts and emails within 24 hours. I have become terribly lax with correspondence which is quite rude and quite annoying because I invariably spend more time internally bemoaning my bad habit than it would take to reply or return the phonecall. If you're waiting for a reply please feel free to hold me to account. So far I think I'm almost up to date??

- Use mobile phone compartment in my Bermuda Triangle handbag. So simple, saves so much grief and yet is so tempting to overlook.

- No picking at skin. It's not pleasant but it's true. I have a terrible habit of picking at the skin on my arms. I do it when  when I'm thinking, when I'm not thinking, when I'm relaxed, when I'm stressed, when I'm waiting, when I'm hungry...basically I do it whenever I'm breathing and my eyes are open so it's time to stop.

- Complete domestic jobs as and when required. I am very good at commencing household jobs and then abandoning them halfway through. For example, I very frequently soak clothes in nappysan and then leave them there for a week before bringing myself to complete the task by emptying the bucket and putting the clothes on to wash. Similarly I often put loads of washing on and then forget about it until the next day.... or the day after....when I then discover the wet clothes still in the machine. Previously I could reliably rely on Mr G to complete these jobs (I call this teamwork!) but given his new schedule it would be most surprising if he could duck home at lunchtime to hang out the clothes.

Now it's your turn! What Micro-Solutions would improve your daily life? Or do you have a Macro-Solution you're sticking to? Share!  

A letter to David

Let's talk about breastfeeding. And David Koch. Because if there is a news story closer to my chest this week I'm yet to learn of it. If you haven't heard, or read, on the weekend Koch remarked that women should be discreet and a bit 'classy' when they are breastfeeding in public. Now because Miss L still feeds very frequently and because I like to venture beyond my front door, at the moment, I breastfeed in public rather a lot. So, as you might imagine, I have a few things I need to say. I figured it was best to just pop them in a letter to David. 

Dear David

My initial reaction to your televised, and subsequently controversial, comments was discomfort. Your sentiments irked me. For lots of reasons. Instead of ranting about it I would like to have a frank discussion about why I dislike your comments. I'm taking this approach because of a tweet from a male colleague whom I admire a lot. He asked, very sincerely, why it is not acceptable for males to have and express their own opinions about breastfeeding. I think it's very acceptable for men and women to have opinions on all subjects including breastfeeding. I'm quite generous like that. 

There are, however, certain subjects where direct experience bolsters the accuracy and utility of certain opinions. For example, I'm sure you would agree that any opinions I hold about piloting A380s are less nuanced and helpful than, say, those of an actual A380 pilot? And so it is with breastfeeding. I have absolutely no issue with you, or any other person, expressing their opinion about breastfeeding. Again I'm being very reasonable aren't I? But when someone's opinion clashes with mine, like yours did, in an area where I do hold some direct and relevant expertise, I simply ask them to consider my take. 

Are you expected to take it on board and revert to my way of thinking? Absolutely. No of course not but I will feel better for having tried to reach consensus. Because while it's not always absolutely necessary for all of us to agree, about everything, all the time, sometimes, there is greater utility in finding understanding. And so it is with breastfeeding.  

I don't believe you intended to be insensitive or inflammatory in suggesting women be discreet whilst nourishing their bambinos from le breast. But the thing is, because you haven't, to my knowledge, actually breastfed a baby, there are a few tips and tricks you won't have had cause to discover. And to someone who has had cause to discover those, your comments were a little insensitive. Or at least lacking in strong practical application. Given that you openly support breastfeeding - I understand your two daughters are in the midst of it right now? - I thought I'd fill the gap I see in your knowledge.

I have chosen to breastfeed both of my babies and, to date, it has been a successful exercise. I did not choose this option because I revel in the opportunity to reveal my flesh to members of the public. Truth be told the flesh-revealing aspect of the exercise is not something I relish. At all. I didn't birth my babies, lose my modesty and then jump for joy at the prospect of getting half naked in front of strangers, family members and friends. I find it a little awkward. 

Even after many months of doing so, first with my eldest and now with my younger daughter, I still squirm inside my head at every feed that is given outside my home. I persist because the milk is readily available, it's nutritious and, even with the embarrassment, it's a lovely thing to do. I sacrifice a smidgen of my own modesty but I'm ok with that because in the greater scheme of things, I think the benefits outweigh that minor drawback. I don't ask, or expect, to be lauded for that choice but I would like that choice to be respected. Not simply the choice to breastfeed per se but the fact that doing so sometimes entails a degree of discomfort on my part. 

At this point Kochie, you might might argue 'Well if you don't want to feel uncomfortable just be extra discreet and everyone will be happy'. This is precisely the point at which your comments sounded insensitive to someone who has breastfed in public. Because, not for lack of trying, it is not always possible to be discreet. Believe me this. Whenever I feed in public I try to be as discreet as possible, as much for my own comfort as anyone else's. But my babies, like many others, do not always oblige. Breastfeeding is not a mechanical process and getting a baby attached does take a little bit of effort. In my experience, that effort is multiplied exponentially when attempting to do so under the privacy of a wrap. I don't believe my babies are in the minority in that they invariably squirm and squawk until I remove the offending fabric. I have come to accept it's easier to quickly latch them without a cover and then proceed with the feed as modestly as possible. See even with the best intentions my pursuit of privacy often fails. 

And do you know who that makes uncomfortable? Me. And my guess is it makes me far more uncomfortable than even the most prudish person in my surrounds. Because unless that prudish person is also responsible for feeding a writhing, hungry and screaming baby at the exact same time as they're exposing their naked anatomy to anyone nearby, I struggle to see how their discomfort could be anything but minor in comparison.  

David there are two underlying assumptions in your comments that bother me. The first is that discretion is an openly available choice for all breastfeeding mothers; that any flash of naked flesh from a feeding mother represents her decision to flagrantly flaunt her body. I can only speak for myself but you know what? So, so, so far from true. Actually laughably implausible. I promise David, practically on behalf of all feeding-women-kind, even if you see a mother completely expose herself to feed an infant she is not hoping to attract another man or woman's attention. 

The second assumption I would like you to consider amending is that a feeding mother should prioritise the sensibilities of strangers in her presence above her baby's and her own. Really? Personally I would rather the onus sit with the surrounding members of the public to look away or accept that a mother feeding her baby has nothing to do with them and everything to do with the baby, than saddle the mum with another layer of responsibility. Because, trust me, she is already responsible for at least one living, breathing, and helpless baby and as far as responsibilities go it is pretty relentless. You know, 24/7 around the clock, kind of stuff. You've got kids, you know what it's like. Kochie her plate is kind of full so if you could find it within yourself to carry part of the load - simply by averting your eyes - that would be thoroughly appreciated. 

Truthfully David I cannot imagine there are very many mothers in this world who choose to breastfeed to make you, or anyone else, feel uncomfortable. The reality is there are lots, like me, who do it regardless of the fact it makes them uncomfortable and probably just as many who don't because they aren't comfortable in public. And, of all the different reasons to choose breastfeeding or not, discomfort about doing it in public seems an unhelpful one. But one that will multiply when comments from high profile individuals like yourself confirm the perception that members of the public aren't actually okay with breastfeeding. Because if you are okay with breastfeeding the reality is you may see some flesh. In that event, count yourself lucky that it's not you doing the flashing David. 

Kind regards 

Georgie

Stepping up to growing up

Towards the end of last year we had a nail-biting couple of weeks as Mr G applied for a new job. (Of course compared to recent events it was not nail biting in the slightest, but at the time, it was nerve-wracking). He is a doctor and the job he applied for, and very badly wanted, is the first on the road towards his specialty of choice. The stakes were compounded because these jobs are only offered once a year so missing out would have meant  waiting another full year for another shot. The applications, interviews and associated machinations were tough but they were nothing compared to the week or so that ensued as we waited for news. Admittedly I was only a bystander in the process but given the amount of skin I have in the game (our life!) that mattered little. Landing the job he wanted was a long shot but land it he did. We were both ecstatic; it is something he has worked towards for such a long time and, while it only puts him on the first rung of a very steep ladder, that first rung is pretty important to clear. So we were both quite beside ourselves.

It was at least a fortnight before I grew apprehensive but gradually my mind filled with doubts which felt drastically at odds with my initial excitement. I wanted this for Mr G as badly as he wanted it himself so why was I suddenly unsure? That expression ‘be careful what you wish for’ sprung to mind. When the goal was simply getting the job it was abstract enough for me to overlook the reality of what that job might actually entail for Mr G, for me and for our little family. When the job became his that reality became harder to ignore. It dawned on me pretty quickly that the reality is going to be tough. For all of us.

For a start, for the first half of the year, he will be commuting to a big hospital that is about 45 minutes from where we live. (There is no point moving because he will be changing hospitals regularly for the next few years plus remember the brilliant storage I have here??). He will be on call every second weekend and every second week. A weekend on call means ward rounds at 7am on Saturday and Sunday as well as responding to any calls throughout the day and night. A week on call means between Monday and Friday the phone might ring at anytime outside of standard hours and he will need to be there. So that’s pretty intense right? Plus I don’t imagine that having lots of real lives at stake is altogether stress-free. So, no matter which way you look at it, it’s not going to be easy breezy.  

Obviously it will present a few challenges. It means I will be doing a lot of single parenting which scares me because, as I have mentioned on other occasions, I believe I parent best as part of a team. Particularly one with Mr G who happens to be a fantastically capable and supportive team-mate. But last year when my fears first crept in about Mr G’s new job, it wasn’t the daily logistics of the new chapter that scared me. It was the big picture. It is a grown up job with grown up demands and there is something daunting about all of that. Not because he’s not up to it but because he is. Because we are actually grown ups and because, in my head, I sometimes forget that. Or deliberately overlook it. In either case, with the new job, there is no escaping the truth. We are adults with real responsibilities and this is our grown up life. And for some reason Mr G getting this job really rammed that home for me. Even more so than giving birth to our two little girls which seems strange but we’ve got a whole year to ponder that! For now though I am holding on tight. Because next week the grown up chapter begins. I suspect you might hear more about it as the weeks whiz by….

What makes you feel grown up? DO you like it, or do you like to overlook it?

One hell of a holiday

Oh. Boy. I was expecting to rejoin you all in 2013 feeling rested, rejuvenated and ready to rock and roll. How wrong I was. If I’m honest, which I usually am, I am scrambling to believe it is in fact a new year. The past week or so steamrolled my little family and, now, as the dust is settling and the worst is thankfully over, I am absolutely knackered. So, I join you as a slightly broken woman, slightly disbelieving it is possible to feel like this after a holiday.

Where to begin? Shall we start at the lowest point of my recent holiday? I think so. It does a fine cameo as the lowest point of my life (in recent memory, at least) which is quite nice I suppose. It means we can only go upwards from here.

It was about 7pm on new year’s eve and I was sitting in Grafton hospital’s emergency department. Mr G had arrived by ambulance and was barely conscious. My dad sat beside me while we waited for the results from a CT scan that had just been taken of Mr G’s head. Dad and I were both recovering from the shock of seeing Mr G disintegrate before our eyes, not to mention the forty-five minute car ride during which Dad’s youngest granddaughter gave her eight-week old lungs a mighty workout. Frazzled already, I was now feeding Miss L whilst fielding a distressing phonecall with a distraught Miss I in the background. She was back in Yamba with my mum and sister and wanted to know why both her parents had suddenly disappeared. I was scared and the salt in the wound was a moment earlier in the day for which I will never be awarded spouse of the year. My heart was being tugged in a million ways and none of it felt good.

It’s fair to say no one in my family had a particularly pleasant new year’s eve. Eventful, yes. Pleasant, absolutely not. 

It started inconspicuously the previous night when Mr G complained of a headache as we hopped into bed. He took some panadol and we both assumed it would pass. Not so. In the middle of the night I was awake feeding Miss L and Mr G was still uncomfortable and unable to sleep. I sent him upstairs to the spare room thinking a room away from our feeding infant might help his slumber. Not so.  

Early the following morning he came in and asked for more panadol. This is where I hang my head in shame. I was feeding Miss L while also trying to entertain Miss I. Mr G wanted more panadol but it was upstairs. At this point I may have snapped a little and suggested he could have got it himself considering he was just up there. In my very weak defence I was sleep deprived and irritable and hadn’t contemplated that Mr G was suffering from anything more sinister than a headache. Imagine my disgrace when I later learned my poor husband was actually in the throes of meningitis? It was exquisitely painful; his head at the time and my heart forever afterwards. The fact I did actually retrieve and administer the panadol did nothing to quell my remorse. I didn’t do either graciously.

There is a special kind of regret reserved for moments when you treat someone you love more than anything in the entire world badly and it is compounded when that moment coincides with the exact moment they quite reasonably need kindness and love more than ever. It is then compounded exponentially when they are lying in an ambulance and you are horrified that it might be the last meaningful exchange they remember.

So. That was a fun car trip. I rarely entertain morbid thoughts but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t as Dad and I drove to Grafton hospital. 2013 was not looking remotely enticing.

After an eternity the CT results came back clear at which point they performed a lumbar puncture. That confirmed what the doctors had suspected; Mr G had meningitis. The initial results were not conclusive about it being viral or bacterial so he was treated for both. He was kept in hospital for a few more days and as all manner of drugs were pumped through his body he slowly regained some colour and vigour. He is already feeling much better and with a couple of weeks’ rest he will hopefully make a thorough and speedy recovery.

The whole experience shook me to the core at a time when, frankly, my core was more flimsy than firm. In one of life’s nifty twists of irony, the afternoon before Mr G’s headache came on, I had a mini-meltdown. Eight weeks' of broken sleep and feeding, on top of Christmas, daily beach trips and nightly social activities was getting to me. Mr G and I decided the following day I would do nothing except stay home, read and feed Miss L as required.

Obviously that didn’t happen. The next few days were tough; driving between Yamba and Grafton, worrying about Mr G, wrangling Miss I, feeding Miss L and wondering how on earth I could keep myself sane enough to continue doing it all for the foreseeable future. Fortunately we were surrounded by a hoard of family and friends, all of whom were a tremendous source of help and support. Even still, it was hard with a capital H.

The day we took Miss L home from hospital I remember thinking to myself, ‘Right, this is the bit when life is about to get really real.’ I knew two kids was not for the fainthearted and I wondered if I was up to the task. Since that day I haven’t had time to contemplate it; the reality of the task is you just keep going. Life did get pretty real back in November but not nearly as real as it felt last week. Life with two small children and a husband sick in hospital is as real and daunting as my life has ever felt. The upside, of course, is that things can only get better. At least I’m sure they will soon. 

I hope your break was less eventful than mine and that you greeted 2013 with more enthusiasm than I did. I can’t finish this without sharing one piece of advice. If anyone you love, or even like, ever asks you to get them panadol, get it. And give it to them with a hug and a kiss.