Conceding defeat

I’ve resisted writing this post, but, for reasons that now escape me, I think the time has come. I’ve resisted it for one reason; it requires conceding an argument to Mr G. And not a one off argument but one that pops up often enough to classify as a Routine Household Dispute. Until now I’ve defended my position because, well, because I like being right. But I can’t pretend anymore. I’m going to put my pride to the side and confess in the hope that you may provide some insightful tips to remedy the errors of my way. Or, tell me, in all the circumstances, I'm actually right anyway. Up to you.

Here it is. I very frequently occasionally take my frustration at the girls out on Mr G. There. I said it. (That noise you can now hear is indeed Mr G whooping for joy, so sweet is this admission to his long-suffering ears.) I can’t tell you how many times Mr G has gently suggested this might be the case; that perhaps my sudden frustration at his bowl in the sink has more to do with the general chaos in the house than his bowl. I have been steadfast, offended even, in my refusal to accept his suggestion. Ever. The implication – that I can’t rationally separate my emotions from the culpable party to a blameless one - infuriates me. Probably because it’s precisely what’s going on. And in a moment of obvious weakness who likes having their shortcomings pointed out? Not. Me. 

It’s apt that the occasion, which provided concrete proof I really was barking (literally) up the wrong tree, happened in the car because the car is my Achilles heel. It happened back when we were still rolling as a family of three (yes it’s taken me this long to admit it). We were driving to the central coast. To say Miss I travelled badly would be an epic understatement. She slept for about 25 minutes and then yelled for the next 40. Being in a confined space with a screaming toddler is exquisitely painful and when it’s your own flesh and blood your heart and head actually start to bleed. At least it feels that way. We sang to her. We fed her. We pulled over. We passed her toys and books. We tried everything but she was just miserable. And loud. So very loud. By the time we were both equally miserable we were too far gone; we were closer to our destination than home so it made sense to plough on. (Or just shack up in Gosford, sell the car and say put for the rest of our lives). Being the rational and stable person that I am I decided to get loud too.

Me: How much further do we have to go?

Mr G: Hmm maybe another 30 k’s.

Me: Are you serious?? You said it was only an hour from Sydney and considering we’ve already been in the car for OVER an hour we must be closer than that?

Mr G: Did I say that?

Me: YES. You DID actually. Why would you LIE to me?

Mr G: Er I don’t think I did. It’s usually about an hour but the traffic is pretty heavy.

Me: Well you obviously tried to trick me. Why would I make up that you told me it’s an hour?

Mr G: Why would I try to trick you?

Me: Well you know what else? You’re driving really badly. If I was driving we’d be there by now.

Mr G: You’re being a bit crazy.

Me: I’M BEING CRAZY?!?!? WHO DECIDED TO EVEN DRIVE HERE AND TELL ME IT WAS ONLY AN HOUR WHEN IT’S OBVIOUSLY ABOUT THREE??

Mr G: I know you’re stressed about Miss I but I don’t think we should have a fight because of that.

Me: Oh yeah that’s really mature to try and blame this on our child. I admit it might seem a little coincidental that Miss I is also going crazy at this moment but actually I’ve been meaning to tell you for ages that the way you hold the steering wheel/indicate/change lanes/breathe DRIVES ME MENTAL.

Mr G: You’re being crazy.

Me: [Internal blinkers are now flashing. Maybe I am being crazy because Miss I is going berserk? CONCEDE NOTHING!!] Look you can blame this on Miss I if you want but I can see straight through it.    

Now that, my dear readers, is what I believe they call projecting. Projecting my anger and frustration at Miss I’s distress straight on to Mr G. I’m not proud of it. I try to avoid it but sometimes I just can’t help it. I know from friends and family that I’m not the only wife or mother who occasionally succumbs to this trap. I mean, if I really were the only person on this planet who did this, my god, Mr G got unlucky in the whole wife lottery. Plus the term ‘projecting’ wouldn’t even exist would it? So, for those playing along at home, let’s assume some other people do this too.

 

What’s curious though is that when I’m alone and one of the girls is causing me some distress there is no outlet for that angst. It just dissipates quietly. Because it has to. It takes patience but it’s patience I seem to have less of when Mr G – my co-conspirator in this whole family fiasco – is around. In his presence I let it boil over. Because I can.

 

You might read this and predict that my marriage is going to crumple. I sincerely hope, and also believe, that’s not the case. Without getting too carried away, routine household disputes aside, we have a very happy time together.  And while technically I’ve never conceded fault I certainly put it out there afterwards that things got a bit hectic earlier and perhaps I wasn’t playing with my A-Grade saint game. Hahaha.

Now it’s over to you. Do you ever take your frustration out on someone other than the true target?  Or more importantly if you don’t HOW did you learn not to??? 

Moving slowly

So it turns out I’m a member of the slow blogging movement. My membership is not official. There is no register (that I’m aware of), no selection process and no rigid criteria. So, technically, I suppose I might not actually be a member but since I learned of the movement’s existence I’ve decided to embrace it and, until I receive official correspondence advising me to the contrary, I’m declaring myself on board. Slow blogging simply means posting less often; once a week rather than twice a day.  The idea is quality over quantity and whilst I can’t make any claims to the former, I can to the latter. Slow? Very.  

Before I finished work to have Miss L I figured I’d be posting here a few times a week. That’s how often I did when I started and I assumed I’d pick up where I left off. I assumed wrong. I had overlooked the fact that whilst I wouldn’t be working in the sense of going to an office four times a week, I would still be working in the sense of looking after a toddler and a baby. In fairness neither scenario lends itself particularly well to oodles of spare time. Funny that! Even with Miss I in childcare a few days a week, free time to blog hardly abounds. Try as I might, between drop offs, Miss L’s naps and life, once a week is the most I can manage. And that’s fine because I’m not a news site, I’m a slow blogger!!

The slow blogging movement borrowed its name from the slow food movement which encourages people to eschew fast and frantic for leisure and long in the preparation of their meals. Frankly I think there is room for both. In the bloggosphere and the dining table. There are times when a quick dinner is the only thing but equally when time allows there is plenty to be said for slow cooking. And when that involves a lamb leg covered in sumac, sitting in a shallow bath of white wine in the oven at 150 degrees for five hours, the result is mouth-wateringly good. Perfection even. I know this because my sister made it this weekend and it was heaven.

So lovely was the whole weekend in fact that I didn’t touch my computer or even give it a second thought. The upside was that I had a nap everyday. This was partly because I could but also because my beloved Miss I, who has slept predictably well without drama since she was about 6 months old, had a few horrific nights. That bit wasn’t fun at all but the napping, the relaxing and the eating in between was. Oh boy the eating was good*. The downside was I didn’t write a blog which is why today you are stuck with my random ramblings about being a slow blogger instead of one of those intellectually challenging and insightful pieces I usually post. You know about photo frames and the like? Ha!

What did you get up to over Easter?

*Turns out my sister, my Mum and I all had the same idea for the Easter break; baking. Between us we made and devoured; Donna Hay’s white chocolate and macadamia biscuits, the Monday Morning Cooking Club’s Easter Chocolate Cake, Le Pain Quotidien’s baked cheesecake, Anneka Manning’s Date Crumble Slice, Rocky Road and the piece de resistance? Margaret Fulton’s Sticky Orange Buns from her original cookbook that was gifted to my mum on her 21^st birthday. Margaret, on the strength of these buns alone, you are the very best cook this country has ever bestowed on this world. End. Of. Story.   

The truth about order

I suppose like every person pregnant with their second child, whilst  carrying Miss L in utero, I gave some thought to the topic of birth order. I wondered if I'd feel differently towards my second baby or if his or her arrival would change my love for Miss I or even if it would be possible to love another child quite as much as Miss I. I was curious to see how the matter of maternal love would play out in my little heart.   

I'm a middle child and growing up, I'll admit, there were times when I envied my siblings' positions. My sister for being the oldest and my brother for being the youngest. I imagine wherever you are born in a family most of us will have, at least occasionally, considered the relative drawbacks and draw cards of our own position. 

It's quite awful but I do remember asking mum and dad, more than once, to nominate their favourite child. (Thinking back I may well have been the only one posing this ridiculous question but I sincerely hope I wasn't.) Whether it was just me asking or it was in unison with my siblings, my parents always answered the same way. Don't ask ridiculous questions. We love you all equally. I was consistent with my response. "Yeah everyone says that but who do you really love more? There's got to be one."     

I've never had reason to doubt their answer but I was always curious; do parents really love their children equally? Having my own children has taught me it is. It's also taught me that if there is one saying that sums up the truth about birth order it's this; what you lose on the swings you'll make up on the roundabout. 

Yes, the first born will bask in their parents' undivided attention for at least nine months. Yes, there might be a little more fuss before they first join the world, they will receive fewer hand-me-downs and they will enjoy having their run of the house and all the toys for at least a little while. But second and subsequent children reap the reward of parents who have actually got some experience under their belts. They know how to feed, cuddle and even settle a real baby. Bonus! Plus they will have the entertainment and distraction of a sibling around the clock.  

It is swings and roundabouts. There are times when I worry that the lovely Miss L is in the background. That she's not the sole star of the show like Miss I was for two and a half years. Those feelings never last long though because the flipside is all in Miss L's favour. Because I have done this before, because I know this time passes and because I am not quite so worried about getting everything right or wrong, I am free to enjoy Miss L's baby days more. My love is no different but my ability to enjoy it is. Vastly.  

On many occasions since Miss L graced our family I have found myself thinking, and saying, how magic it would be if everyone could just jump straight to their second baby. Not because I would ever ever want anyone to miss the first baby. It's just the experience, second time around, is less overwhelming. The difference the arrival of a baby makes to the lives of two previously childfree adults is without precedent and the only way to acclimatise is to live through it.

I know there are people who find that acclimatisation easy but I think they're in a lucky minority. Even parents blessed with the most contented little babies face a big transition first up because even contented babies need constant attention. It's why I think even with a more difficult baby it is still far easier second time around. Because you're match fit.  

And it's the reason meeting Miss L has been a completely different ball game. Not because she is any more or less demanding as a baby. She feeds and sleeps and plays in much the same way Miss I did. The primary difference is me. I remember when Miss I was about the age Miss L is now I still felt vulnerable. I wasn't completely convinced I'd ever get a full night sleep again or that I wouldn't be operating a human milk bar at all hours. My head was constantly filled with the length and frequency of every feed and sleep. I worried that with one wrong step I might end up on an episode of Supernanny. 

I don't feel like that this time. I know I'm capable of the task and I know how fast it will go. The walking and talking Miss I is a living reminder of that. It means I can't look at my lovely little baby without wonder. I still can't believe she's ours and I can't believe she's nearly five months old. I stare at her often and hope her uncomplicated baby days never end. She is sublime personified.

There are times when her simplicity makes Miss I feel impossibly difficult; Miss L grins happily if she gets so much as a smile whilst Miss I is melting down because the wrong parent poured her milk. But there are also times when Miss L's loveliness can't compete with the humour and fun bursting out of her older sister. When Miss I says to me "Mummy! I haven't cuddled Lulu all day!!" as if it's the most disastrous state of affairs imaginable, when in fact it's only 7.15 in the morning and Miss L isn't even awake. 

The thing is, they both have their moments. Good and bad. Happy and unhappy. But, with my hand on my heart, I can tell you I don't have a favourite. At least not for any longer than a minute. Or an afternoon at the absolute longest.  

Do you think everyone does love their children equally or do some have favourites?

Switching off

It’s been too long since I’ve made any sweeping generalisations about men and women so I’m just going to jump right in. In some ways men are better at life than women. I realised this, not for the first time, the other day while reading an interview with Emma Isaacs on a site called Coping with Jane. Emma is a hugely successful entrepreneur, the chief executive of Business Chicks,  a wife and a soon-to-be mother of three. Just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill, exceptional overachiever.

In the interview about balancing work and home she said this. “I spend my life trying to think and act like my husband when it comes to parenting. He thinks absolutely nothing of walking out the door and surfing for half the day whereas if I was going to do something similar, I’d experience some level of guilt and a lot of internal talk about whether I’m making the right decision or not.”

I nodded furiously at that point. It might surprise you to learn that I don’t set out to be neurotic or to make life especially difficult for myself. But, as you may know, I’m good at it. Without even trying I have a knack for complicating things. Naturally I find it comforting to read other people, especially those of the extremely capable variety, are similarly afflicted.

Emma’s words resonated and reminded me of a recent Sunday afternoon, a perfect case in point. On the surface life looked pretty rosy. It was 3pm and all our weekend jobs were done. Groceries bought, clothes washed, dinner already cooked and the house was in relative order. My head, by contrast, was in chaos. Free time!! How to spend it?!? Mr G was taking the girls out for a walk and my mind was swimming with choices. A nap? Watch some telly? Write a blog? Go with Mr G and the girls? Oooh what to pick??? Sitting here typing that out it’s easy to see this was not a difficult choice. Not remotely. The options were all attractive and my pick was hardly going to change the world. 

Well try telling that to my mind. I was swinging wildly between each of my options, weighing up the merits of my various choices, considering the alternatives, undergoing a full blown SWOT analysis of each and basically carrying on as if my choice would somehow dictate my entire life’s purpose and worth.

Initially I decided to read on my bed. Then I thought, no, I should sleep while I can. And just as I had pulled the eye mask over my head I pulled back the covers, jumped out of bed and called out to the tribe who had just departed the house, “Wait for me, I’m coming!"

My deliberations were along these lines: If I don’t sleep I’m not looking after myself properly. If I don’t blog, I’m not a good blogger. If I don’t spend time with the girls and Mr G, I’m not a good mum and wife. If I don’t read all the papers, I’m not engaging my mind enough. If I don’t stop all this silly carry on I won’t do anything with my spare time except drive myself spare!!

Once I was out of the house and walking Mr G asked why I had changed my mind. I got about 30 seconds into explaining the mental gymnastics I had just endured when I saw the look in his eyes. It’s the look that says “Oh boy you really do make life unnecessarily complicated sometimes.” Yes sir, I do.  So, like Emma, I’m going to give my husband’s approach to spare time a go. There is something to be said for mindfulness but there’s also a lot to be said for knowing when and how to turn it off. And if that time is not a Sunday afternoon I don't know when is.

Are you good at switching off? Or do you gently torture yourself over all of your choices? Anyone??

The (elusive) end

I'm not going to lie to you, I've had a funny week. And not in the haha sense. Nothing too major but after a month or so of feeling pretty content I went and changed the game on myself. I swapped my favourite motto, low-expectations-high-satisfaction, for its annoying twin, high-expectations-low-satisfaction. I found myself complaining to Mr G at the end of the day that I wasn't getting anything done. Which wasn't strictly true. I just wasn't getting much done besides looking after the girls, feeding us all at regular intervals, cleaning the house, paying the bills, writing a blog, booking flights to Brisbane, seeing friends, washing our clothes, arranging Foxtel, doing the groceries, toilet training a toddler, buying Miss I new shoes, getting Miss L immunised and answering every curious terrorist's favourite question, 'Why?', approximately eight thousand times an hour. Despite completing these tasks (and more) I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't doing enough. Reading an article in Marie Claire about high flying women under 30 did nothing to alleviate my concerns. "I don't do anything and I'm so tiiiiirrreeed!!!"", I wailed. "What is my purpose even?!?"   

Nothing like a little existential crisis whilst sleep deprived. This time I'm happy to report I seem to have nipped it in the bud early. Possibly because I am too tired to waste energy thinking about anything other than coffee or sleep. But also because I read two things that helped me clarify my tune. Big time. The first was this piece from journalist Wendy Squires about losing her mum. The second was a response from Bec Sparrow. It reminded me of something I wrote (with far less eloquence and poignancy) last year. 

Two weeks after Miss L joined this world, I read about a young woman's death. She was 17 years old and lost her life at schoolies. For many days it made me think. Not about schoolies, or teenagers, or balconies. But about life and death. There was a sad parallel between what was happening in my world and what I read was happening in someone else's. A brand new life beginning while  another ended. Not after a long life but prematurely, at the end of school. On the cusp of what is always a new chapter but in this case a chapter that will go unwritten. 

I didn't post this at the time because, well, for lots of reasons. At best my words, reflecting on the death of a person I had never met, seemed trite. At worst they seemed callous. The innuendo in gaining perspective from a family's tragedy put me off. No matter how much wisdom something awful triggers it is never worth the price. Not even close. But wishing I hadn't the cause to think or feel something, sadly, doesn't change the reason or fact I did. And this week was a good time to be reminded. 
  
In an ideal world losing a child is a fate no parent would face but sadly we don't live in an ideal world. In this imperfect world fates that are less than favourable are faced all the time and while that's not worth revelling in it is worth remembering.

As a parent of a newborn it is impossible to forget the fragility of life. Falling pregnant, carrying a baby to term and delivering a healthy child are among the early, not insignificant, hurdles every new life must clear. It is morbid, I know, but it is also true that those hurdles are not always cleared. In pregnancy, like life itself, there are countless obstacles and there is no blanket guarantee that any of us will overcome all of them.

At the time I kept thinking about that young woman's parents. How cruel and tragic and sad to have their daughter robbed from life. Having successfully cleared all of the hurdles to bring their daughter into this world and get her to the point of finishing school, they had her taken away before they had a chance to watch her grown up life unfold. It is unfair and unfathomably wrong. But it happened anyway because life can be unfair and wrong.  

Because the ugly truth is that none of us are guaranteed anything more than the day in front of us. Not for ourselves nor our children. Whether it is accident, tragedy, illness or something else, we don't have the power to prevent the unfathomable. And while that may seem a horrible thing to dwell on it actually isn't. At least not entirely. Because the corollary is that really the only thing that matters is what we're doing right now, on this day, in this moment.

It is easy to forget. It is easy to fall into the trap of believing there is some elusive end point from which time everything will be okay. To think life will be better or more right or happier when we get a promotion. Or lose three kilos. Or find a husband. Or buy a house. Or have a baby. Or have a grandchild. There are unlimited variations on the sentiment that greater fulfilment is just around the corner but they have something in common. They are equally futile. Because, and forgive me for sounding pious - I say this more for my own benefit than yours, fulfilment is in enjoying the things we have. Because we never know how long we'll have them. I am so bloody lucky to have two healthy, thriving girls and while it's hard to maintain that perspective in every moment I'm trying for at least every day. Because there are no guarantees.    

Heavy stuff I know! How do you remember not to sweat the small stuff?

Something no one knows

A few years ago my mum introduced a Christmas day ritual that we continue to adopt and even adapt for other occasions. The topics change but everyone at the table is asked to share a few bits and pieces. This year we had to talk about our personal highlight of 2012, what we're most looking forward to in 2013 and share something that nobody else at the table knew. With a big group it's a good way to include everyone in the same conversation for a little while. There are always laughs and, despite the odd protest, everyone enjoys it.

Some great unsung tidbits were revealed. I learned one of my cousins saved his friend's life using CPR, that one of my aunts had started selling cakes to her local cafes and that my great uncle had spotted his neighbour dancing in the nude just recently. Seriously. I did not make that last bit up.

Anyway. I wracked my brain for something to share that no one knew but I couldn't think of anything of note. Being the over-sharer that I am and having a blog means a great number of things about me are public knowledge. A few days later though it dawned on me that there was something to share that no one (except Mr G) knew. Naturally I rectified that immediately and will fill you in too.

When Mr G and I moved overseas I started a blog. Long before this one came to be I set up Oxford's Other Half. I wish I could tell you it is a famously successful anonymous blog with a cult following. It's not. It didn't last long enough to attract even a single reader. The fact I didn't tell a soul it existed probably sealed its fate. I wrote two posts before giving up; it obviously wasn't my time to commence an online diary. 

For a bit of fun today I thought I'd share one of those posts. Two things to note. First, Mr G was as keen to remain unnamed back then as he was when NABM was born so I called him The Student. Second, I can't share the first post because it makes me wince. I wrote, full of optimism, that I would only blog until I secured employment. That didn't happen (unless you count a few awful temping positions) and it wasn't for lack of applications. My ego remains bruised today even though I know how that part of the story panned out. It was hard. If you're smart, which we both know you are, you may deduce the reason my first blog failed to flourish might have had something to do with the thrashing my self esteem  was sustaining, one rejection letter at a time. You would be right. 
  

Bikes and associated trauma

With bags unpacked and a little home-making underway, bikes were our first stop. They're an essential in this town and we were told to get in quickly as decent second-hand bikes get snapped up at this time of year. We headed up the road and picked out two suitable-looking bikes, helmets and bike locks. It's been a good 20 years since I had ridden a bike regularly. I might not have forgotten how to do it but I had certainly lost any comfort I ever had. I was terrified the whole ride home (less than five minutes) and resigned myself to the fact I would happily walk everywhere for the next two years rather than take on cars, buses and angry pedestrians on my bike. I prefer walking anyway.

Not deterred by my terror or apprehension, The Student convinced me to get back on my bike. Literally. We were almost home after a successful hour or so of riding. My confidence was slowly building, though my knuckles remained white from gripping the handle-bars as if my life depended on it (which, funnily enough, is exactly how I felt with cars and bikes whizzing passed, ready to knock me off at any moment). Some road works meant we detoured to the pavement briefly - apparently a no-no in town but confusingly is ok on certain footpaths.

One very grumpy man was not impressed and made his disapproval vocally obvious in my direction. A few metres ahead I hopped off my bike to collect some lunch and told The Student about his tirade. Unfortunately by that stage the grumpy man on foot had caught up to us and began an even-louder, even-angrier verbal assault at the pair of us. The Student said sorry and explained that i was just learning. The grumpy man yelled "if she can't ride a f****ing bike, she shouldn't be f****ing riding". He had a very valid point. In fact, I'd made the same point to the Student earlier that day. Nevertheless, I burst into tears at the man's anger. My confidence was shattered and we walked our bikes the rest of the way home. Again, walking was looking like a pretty attractive transport option.

A few weeks on from then and I'm happy to say I'm using my bike every day and enjoying it more and more. Though I still hate helmet hair. 

PS My bike riding was almost as short lived as Oxford's Other Half.

WHAT was I thinking?

When I was toying with the idea of starting a blog I wondered whether I would have enough to write about. I need not have worried. These days I dream of a week passing without anything worthy of writing about popping up. By worthy I don't mean significant in a life changing way; I mean worthy of writing because if I didn't channel my subsequent frustration into words I would need intensive and expensive counselling which I can't afford. So, for now, my dear therapists, you hear my trials.

I would forgive you for wondering whether I occasionally resort to using a little creative license to colour my blog. I don't. Not because I'm above it but because I don't need to. Without trying it seems my life bulges with bloggable events. Last week I regaled you with the events of just one, admittedly long, Friday afternoon. Despite that post comprising more than a thousand words I missed out a couple of highlights. Using 'highlights' to mean additional logistical hurdles which in hindsight were quite entertaining but were hellish to encounter. 

You might remember that it was 6pm before I could finally leave Westfield, on that fateful afternoon, having stumbled over every obstacle imaginable in my simple quest to fill a photo frame. Imagine how relieved I was hen we finally approached the car? Now imagine seeing Miss I clutch on to her dress in a way that meant only one thing. Bathroom. Now!! I swooped her under my arm, ran back up three travelators as we couldn't risk the lift not coming immediately, pushing the stroller with one hand, while mentally willing Miss I to hold on and myself to hold it together. Fortunately we both did.  

Anyway before I had time to wake up and enjoy more than a few hours of civility I was smack bang in the middle of another disastrous day with the soundtrack from the previous afternoon blaring in my head on repeat. "WHAT was I thinking???" 

Again, I want to go into detail. Not because I desperately want you to know my every movement but it is the details which properly convey the depth of my despair. Using 'despair' to mean my life. And as this is my therapy I can't not tell the whole story. So here I go again. 

It was Mr G's birthday on the weekend in question. A few months earlier Mr G was notified that he would be completing a compulsory training course over the weekend of his birthday. The course was being held on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, starting at 7.30am each morning and finishing around 6pm with a dinner on the Friday night. The timing was not negotiable so we decided we'd postpone a proper celebration until later in the month. Initially I assumed it was just your garden variety training course. The "Go-Along-Listen-To-Lectures-Eat-Morning-Tea-Mingle-Make-Awkward-Small-Talk-With-Other-Attendees variety of course. It wasn't. It was a variety I did not previously know existed.  Allow me to enlighten you.

Aside from giving up a whole weekend and a day of annual leave to sit in a stuffy room, they make you study in the lead up because you sit exams whilst you're there and then require a mark of 80 per cent or higher just to pass. And the kicker? They charge you more money than you can possibly imagine for the privilege. What a hoot! Would you believe there is even a waiting list for such torture?? 

Anyway. The Tuesday evening before the course Mr G mentioned that he would finish after lunch on Sunday. In a moment of incredible clarity insanity I decided that organising a small surprise picnic for his birthday in that window of spare time would be a good idea. And it was. Except for the bit where I had to organise a small surprise picnic. Because even small surprise picnics requires a good deal of organisation. There are emails and phone calls to invite friends; outdoor tables to borrow; napkins, candles and balloons to buy, alcohol to be arranged, eskys set up, food to be made. The list goes on. 

I figured an online grocery order being delivered on Saturday lunchtime would cut out the hassle of shopping with the girls and would arrive in time for me to prepare food for Sunday. Which would have been great except that I pressed 'Sunday' for the delivery so the food didn't arrive until half an hour before the picnic commenced. This meant on Saturday afternoon, barely twelve hours from my hellish time at Westfield, after realising my error, I had to take both the girls to Coles to do a mad shop. WHAT WAS I THINKING??? No really WHAT???

Because the picnic was a surprise and because Mr G was having a pretty intense old time at his course I couldn't exactly not prepare something a little bit special for dinner on his actual birthday. Before I could stop myself on Friday I even asked what he'd like for dinner and dessert. This meant that between 4 o'clock on Saturday afternoon and 3 o'clock on Sunday afternoon I cooked: a marinated lamb shoulder, beetroot, sweet potato and dukkah salad, a peach crumble, roast chicken and walnut sandwiches, blondies with white chocolate and cranberries and a lime and coconut birthday cake. All from scratch. All whilst wrangling, feeding, bathing, bedding and playing with both girls on my own. I did not do all of this because I was trying to set some kind of record for stupidity or martyrdom. I did it because I didn't think properly. Actually that's a lie. I didn't think at all. 

The funny bit is that when Mr G walked in the door on Saturday evening the house looked gorgeous, the table was set, presents were wrapped, both girls were asleep, dinner was ready to go and I burst into tears and confessed that my mental heath was severely compromised due to one of his presents and a surprise party I was organising. I'm not sure that's the ideal outcome; blurting the secret to the guest of honour - in tears - but sometimes life isn't ideal. At least not all the time. Fortunately though the Sunday afternoon picnic was.   
 As my therapists feel free to pass on constructive life advice you think might help me. Or, even better, because we're not constrained by protocol, feel free to share any of your own daily disasters in the comments. It will make me feel better. Make them up if you have to.