Farewell for 2011

The festive season is upon us. Christmas is a few days away and just around the corner from that, a new year beckons. Like many lucky Australians I'll spend the last days of 2011 and the first of 2012 at the beach - with a two-night stopover in the Southern Highlands for a wedding in between. Wedding jaunt aside, I'll be at a coastal town in northern New South Wales where I've had the great fortune to have spent virtually every Christmas holiday of my life with a clan of extended family and friends, spanning several generations, who do the same. It is a time and place I treasure every year.

Among the unforgettable friendships I've forged in Yamba is one that sparked seven years ago with a lovely man who I went on to marry. As I say, it's a lucky place. And the luck continues as the clan expands and we can now watch a new generation of beach babies making it their own. Having spent many years being among the resident babysitters, it's lovely and mind-boggling, to be engaging babysitters to mind babies that belong to us. Mind. Boggling. At least we know what to expect.

2011 has been a big year. Oppressive regimes have been toppled in Tunisia, Egypt and Libya, inspiring citizens of Syria, Yemen, Jordon and Algeria to fight the same cause in their own countries. Death prevailed for dictators Osama bin Laden, Muammar Gaddafi and Kim Jong Il. Great minds in Steve Jobs and Christopher Hitchens were lost. There was a beautiful royal wedding and my other favourite royal gave birth to twins.

On a personal note I gained a darling new niece, acquired a sister-in law, got a wave from the Duchess of Cambridge and had two close friends meet their beautiful sons. Another BFF discovered she is carrying not one, but two, precious peas. My own baby started walking, talking, turned one, lost her toys, learned to sing and finally sprouted a tooth. In that order.

I started a blog, started back at work and started saying the F word. I blogged in Barcelona, survived the motorways in France, roamed Rome and bid Oxford farewell. I avoided packing up our little home for as long as I could, survived the long haul flight and battled bureaucracy to re-establish life on this side of the world.

But, the beauty of a blog is you might already know that. And if you don't, but you want to, simply click through the pretty pink links.

I'm taking a break from technology and will sign off from Not Another Blogging Mother until I return to Sydney in January. Thank you so much for reading, commenting on and encouraging this little project. I wish you a fabulous festive season, the happiest of new years and a relaxing break. Who knows what 2012 will bring.

Georgie

High fives, a water bottle and buckets of gratitude

Today was Miss I's last day for the year at her Sydney nursery* and because it was only a half day we're already home and she is sleeping soundly while I type. Earlier in the week we took in little Christmas presents for each of her teachers and as I wrapped them and wrote on their cards I was struck by the fact my homemade rocky road** seemed rather inadequate. Yummy, yes. Indicative of my gratitude, no. How could it – or any other object – reflect my appreciation for the lovely, kind, patient, caring and fun women who entertain and look after our darling girl?

My gratitude swelled once again today as we bid them farewell for the break. "You must be looking forward to having some time off," I said to several. More than one replied "Yes but I'll miss the children so much." That may read like a flippant platitude but having watched them with Miss I and all her teeny peers for five months now, I know it's completely sincere. And it is touching beyond belief.

I can't imagine many jobs that would be as physically exhausting, mentally trying and emotionally draining as looking after a roomful of small children. Sometimes being there for ten minutes makes my head spin. Yet I've never got the impression they'd rather be anywhere else. I get the impression every time that we arrive that they're delighted to see Miss I. And at the end of the day when they give her high fives, kiss her little hands and say 'bye bye' as many times as she likes (generally five times to each) they seem sad to see her go.

Recently I replaced one of Miss I's water bottles, a minor detail, yet two of her teachers immediately noticed and exclaimed with delight because they know it's one of her favourite things. She beamed back at them and my heart melted.

I'd be lying if I said there haven't been moments where I've wondered if having Miss I in daycare in the city four days a week is the best thing for her. Usually when we're stuck in traffic on the bus at 5.45pm I conclude that it's not. But I'd also be lying if I said I ever spend my work days worrying about her. I genuinely don't. I see the smiles she gives them, I see the way they delight in her and I'm confident the arrangement is so much better than fine.

I blogged recently that being able to combine work with motherhood is a dream for me. A big part of that dream is possible because of six lovely teachers. And for that, I am so much more thankful to them than any quantity of rocky road could possibly convey. But it's a start.

What, or whom, are you thankful for at the moment?

*I say Sydney nursery because next week she is having an excursion with Mr G and will attend a nursery in Wagga for four days.

**Making rocky road wasn't entirely selfless. I thoroughly enjoyed taste-testing throughout production and may have kept a few bits for myself.

A feeding rut

In the space of six months my world has changed in big and little ways. Relocating back to Sydney and starting work have been among the bigger changes whilst forgoing my beloved café in Oxford, for example, is one of the more minor adjustments. Though it's something I still miss terribly. Not because I can't track down a decent coffee here – quality caffeine abounds - but because there is no exact substitute for the friends and free time with which I frequented it. Once my domain, free time with friends is now a rarity.

But I've digressed, sorry! Somewhere in the middle of all that's changed, something has transpired that I wasn't expecting. I've developed a reluctance to cook. My love for food hasn't dwindled but my love for preparing it has vanished. This is unusual because although I'm no cordon bleur chef and wouldn't survive an audition on MasterChef Kids, cooking is one of my favourite pastimes. And this was especially true while we lived in England. Until I started blogging, cooking was as close to a hobby as I had in Oxford. Unless drinking coffee and discussing the Royal Wedding counts?

I loved picking out different meals, planning the week's menu, doing the shop and then preparing each of the dishes. I loved having friends over to try new dishes on. It never felt like a chore because I genuinely liked doing it. At this point you might be thinking I had too much time on my hands. Which is true. But as anyone with lots of free time will tell you, any diversion which provides enjoyment, entertainment AND nourishment, is the holy grail. So I indulged myself and counted cooking as my creative outlet. Mr G would have to wrangle with me to get the kitchen for even one night a week*.

A few beloved recipe books were on constant rotation on my bedside table for a nightly flip through. I had a subscription to Delicious. magazine which I treasured and devoured every month. I bookmarked foodie blogs which I visited often, as much for mid-week meal inspiration as entertaining. I remember thinking cooking was such a good thing to enjoy. Given the frequency at which mealtimes pop around I figured deriving more pleasure than punish from the task was positive. And clichéd as it is, feeding friends and family IS fulfilling and lovely. So I happily fed my family and friends and revelled in doing it.

Now? I don't even know who that crazy woman is. She's nowhere to be found. I'd rather eat the same dish six nights a week than venture anywhere near my pile of well-worn-and-now-forgotten cookbooks and experiment with a new recipe. Let alone compile a shopping list which requires additional research. Which is why I eat spaghetti bolognese as regularly as some people eat weetbix, because I know the ingredients off by heart**. As for feeding friends, I'm embarrassed to say that ordering takeaway has become de rigueur when we, um, 'entertain' friends.

I expected to lose interest in all things culinary when I had Miss I but, give or take the foggy first few weeks, I didn't. Cooking remained a passion. I dearly hope it returns soon. Because I have to admit spag bol is beginning to grate.

*It's only fair that I add that I now wrangle Mr G into the kitchen every weekend to prepare as many meals for the week as he possibly can in a few hours. 

**The other reason is spaghetti bolognese is freezes beautifully. Freezing meals requires less cooking and less washing up.

 

A capsule of clothes

You know those glamorous spreads in glossy magazines that espouse the virtues of a capsule wardrobe? You buy a few classic pieces with a couple of up-to-date accessories to create a suite of versatile, chic and sophisticated looks that will take you from the office, to the cocktail bar, to the fashion show, to the country retreat and back to the office, effortlessly? Well, normally I read them and wonder whom, aside from the magazine's editor, has a life to match the clothes. Let alone the disposable income.

But earlier this year I actually bought myself a capsule wardrobe. And, I have to say, it ranks among my sartorial successes. It doesn't take me from glossy event to even-glossier event but it takes me from workday to workday with a combination of outfits, with ease, not too much ironing and – hopefully - a scintilla of style. As far as work wardrobes go, I think that's a solid accomplishment.

A combination of factors led me to my capsule. Most significantly I was offered a job and my work clothes of old no longer fit worked and, in any case, were sitting on a ship somewhere destined to reach Australia's shores by 2023. Familiar readers might recall I got news of my job while roaming Rome*. Joy. So after sharing some Prosecco with Mum over lunch, I set off down the Via de Corso in search of some work threads. Joy of joys of joys.

It was one of those halcyon shopping experiences. There were lots of things I loved. Everything I loved was available in my size. Everything fitted and – best of all – the garments were interchangeable. I inadvertently created a capsule. This is what I bought: navy cigarette pants, a cream blouse, a caramel and navy pencil skirt, a fitted navy blazer, a coral and navy striped top, a caramel cardigan, an emerald green silk dress, a navy belt, nude patent court shoes and a vibrant 'statement' necklace.

Being Europe (but not being Prada or Chanel) everything I loved was affordable. Truly. And, after four months on constant rotation, on a cost per wear basis, each garment is practically paying me. In fact, I might check my pockets. My work colleagues – if asked – could attest that I wear these clothes. Every. Single. Day.

It might have been beginner's luck but I'm now a capsule convert. I've got to hand it to those fashion bibles - they know a thing or two about shopping. That even mere mortals like me, without a life as glossy as their pages, can learn from. The only issue I now face is when on earth will I ever be back in Rome to replicate the success?

Are you a capsule shopper? Or more of a one-item-at-a-time type?

*Familiar readers may recall there was a brief time in my life when being in places like Rome, Barcelona and the south of France was a reasonable possibility. Current readers might find this hard to reconcile with my current life as a quasi-single mother. I am with them.

A house of dreams

To covet thy neighbour's home is a sin. I think. But in my neighbourhood, to not covet thy neighbour's home is impossible. So I sin often. Surely we all agree the desire to own something that belongs to someone else is quite human, hard to resist and innocent fun? Presuming, of course, one doesn't go too far down the garden path and steal the goods in question. I imagine that could very quickly end up not being fun. But I refuse to believe a sideways glance over my neighbours' fence hurts.

Almost every day – often twice – I walk past a particular terrace home that I adore. I look at it longingly and wish it was mine. Tucked away in Paddington's streets, it's painted a sublime shade of cream with a stylish and slightly bold olive green trim. It is framed by a sweet picket fence and manicured trees.

Each time I walk by I imagine what it would be like to live there. It is frustratingly discreet but I just know if – when! - I ever catch a peep behind its elegant façade, it will be as perfectly to my taste on the inside as it from the outside. And if I lived there, obviously, I'd love the very privacy that currently drives me to distraction.

It is my dream home. Which is convenient because it's just around the corner from where I live now so it will be a manageable move.
Realistically my life wouldn't change much if I lived in the terrace of my dreams. Well, aside from the fact, I'd be a wholly contented woman - smarter, more organised, better dressed, funnier - without a worry in the world. Only joking, Mum! Clearly I'd still just be me, but living in a really tasteful and cool space.

The point is, my lingering looks across the street make me wonder. Do you think the people who live in my dream home, covet someone else's home? Obviously, not mine. (Unless they have some perverse hankering to take part in a social experiment to see how the other half makes cramped apartment living work.) But is there a house they walk or drive past that they can't help but watch in wonder? Or do they love their own home so much their eyes never stray?

Sydney has its fair share of positively dreamy real estate so I suspect it's probably impossible for them not to, at least occasionally, succumb to the sinful act of fancying another's. I'm convinced it's out there so I now wander the streets consumed with the task of finding it. The sooner I find it, the sooner I can relocate them and the sooner we can inhabit their old digs.

Now am I the only person who finds fantasising about other people's houses quite fun? Do you have a dream home? Or do you live in your dream home? If you happen to live in my dream home would you like to swap?

Breaking in Brisbane

This weekend I had a short but, oh, so sweet break in beautiful Brisvegas. I was only away 27 hours but I managed to fit in a wedding celebration, a christening, a delicious brunch*, a spot of lipstick shopping**, several decent catch ups with treasured friends, a too-short catch up with my brother, cuddles with multiple adorable babies, a sleep-in and a comprehensive read of the weekend papers.

Travelling unencumbered by Miss I is nothing if not efficient. And, in my humble opinion, a totally deserved experience.

I very nearly missed my 10am flight on Saturday morning, which given the brevity of my trip would have been tragic. I was so excited to have Mr G back in residence, relishing the fact I had relinquished all parental responsibilities, that I totally lost track of time.

I was luxuriating in a long shower when Mr G asked what time I'd like to leave. I called out that a little bit before nine would be fine. Unfortunately it was already nine. And I still hadn't packed. Oops. Cue some frantic dressing and packing and we were off.

Thankfully we're close to the airport so I made it in time and without a stroller I breezed through without delay. I cursed myself for not leaving extra time purely because a spot of airport shopping would have been sublime. But alas! I'll summarise the rest of my break in highs and lows.

The highlights

 -Sitting on a plane, without being responsible for anything other than my very small handbag. Reading, napping, thinking, listening to music. Bliss.

- Seeing several of my very best friends. There's little in the world as lovely as old friends and Brisbane - very generously - houses many of mine.

-Getting dressed up – leisurely - with one of the above-mentioned friends.

-Applying make-up without having to fend off a lovely pair of little hands from my bronzer, blush, lipgloss and mascara. With the added bonus of not needing to retrieve any of those items from the bin after the fact.

-Waking at 7am on Sunday, closing my eyes and falling back asleep til 8.

-Being collected from the airport by the two smiliest people in my life.

The lowlights
 
-Receiving a picture message featuring Mr G and Miss I thoroughly enjoying the hospitality in the Veuve Clicquot marquee at the Polo in the Park, which they just happened to stumble across. It's a little childish but I would have preferred a picture of them both covered in food, a few tears, with clothes, dishes and toys piled up in the background as if Cyclone Yasi had hit our apartment, with a message saying 'I don't know how you do this'.

-Misplacing my phone, frantically assigning the task of relocating it to Mr G – via my brother's phone - only to discover it was in my pocket all along. Actually that was probably the lowlight of Mr G's weekend.

-Very nearly missing my flight home because I spent too long chatting to my brother outside.

-Arriving home, realising the weekend was over but my typical weekend tasks – blogging, catching up with Mr G, getting work clothes organised, planning meals - remained outstanding. There's just never enough time these days.

How was your weekend?

*We went to Brewbakers in Albion which was delicious.

**I chose a very bright and cheerful fuschia shade Fire & Ice from Revlon.

A moody moment

Recently I succumbed to the most unpleasant of moods. It descended over me like a thick, dark, impenetrable curtain and was at an hour before I was able to peep from beneath my fury to find a shadow of reason.

It began at the airport. It was before Alan Joyce unleashed the full force of his powers by grounding the entire Qantas fleet but I hold him vicariously responsible because it was a few of his Jetstar staff who conspired against me.

I was at the check-in desk with Miss I who was sitting in her stroller. After checking in my bag and receiving our boarding pass the lady asked me if I would like to check in the stroller. I thought it was an odd question. I was travelling solo so if I checked in the stroller how would I navigate myself and Miss I through security and along to our boarding gate? Whilst also inevitably having to variously retrieve my wallet, a dummy, sultanas, and wipes from the depths of my bag?

Miss I is now too big for the Baby Bjorn, she is too heavy and wriggly to carry long distances and far too unruly to walk alone. And, therein lies the genius invention for parents on solo missions with toddlers the whole world over. A stroller! A lightweight, travel-friendly, airport-ready, stroller! It's hard to imagine a setting that requires a stroller MORE than a large airport terminal.

So I said I didn't want to check it in. The Jetstar attendant said if I took it to the gate there was the possibility it wouldn't fit on the plane so I would have to get there early to see. This exchange gave me the impression that I had a choice. There was an hour before boarding so I said I would take my chances. Quite honestly, I thought without the stroller there was the possibility I wouldn't make it to the plane at all.

I'd be stuck at the security gates trying to chase Miss I whilst removing my shoes, watch and emptying the contents of my bag on the conveyor belt. And I figured I'd need the stroller at the airport more than I was going to need it for our five day holiday simply because I'd be accompanied by lovely grand-parenting hands at our destination. Fortunately, this theory proved true.

With stroller on hand, off, we pushed. At the gate I asked if there was room on the plane for the stroller. I was met with thinly veiled disdain. 'You had to check that in upstairs', a lady barked. 'It's not allowed'. I explained that I was given the option of coming early to see if it could fit. Another lady, as uninterested in customer service as the first, came over. Together they rolled their eyes, growled into their walkie-talkies and berated me for bringing it. As if I was on a little folly of my own with a frivolous accessory like a stroller just for the fun of it.

Eventually a crew member took the folded stroller and a few minutes later we boarded the flight. (What then ensued merits its very own post). After disembarking the plane, several rotations of the luggage carousel confirmed the stroller had not accompanied us. When I finally tracked down a staff member I was told it had been "confiscated" because I had "refused" to check it in and consequently I would have to collect it at "my expense".

I was so many shades of angry and I lost my cool. Steam flew out my ears and a few cross words flew from my mouth. Admittedly the staff in Ballina were not responsible for the situation but, my goodness, they didn't make it any better. They just kept repeating the words 'confiscated', 'refused' and 'my expense', as if I was a criminal who had smuggled contraband on the aircraft, not a mother who was bringing along an essential tool of the trade. I know it's a low cost carrier but I thought the low cost bit was because they don't give you food or have fancy interiors, not because they don't carry prams. I now know it does.

The whole episode made my blood boil and it made me wonder what makes you angry? Have you had any moments of fury lately?