Reading anyone?

This week I’m doing something a little bit different. Last night I had dinner with a group of girlfriends and as we meandered through a variety of topics it dawned on me that I have read quite a few really interesting articles recently. I promised the girls I would email them links to the various bits and pieces I was banging on about and then I thought if I’m doing that for them I may as well share them more broadly here. It may not fly and if it doesn’t I promise this will be the last time I burden you with a bunch of URLs.

But if you are after some reading material I promise you could do worse than click through to these.

News about news

It’s been a pretty eventful few weeks as far as news goes. This is particularly relevant and worrying to me as an employee of a large print publisher but equally as an avid and loyal consumer of journalism. Quality, independent journalism is a vital function in any democracy; it keeps governments and individuals accountable. Diminishing the freedom and impartiality of our press by any measure will leave Australia immeasurably poorer. The commercial conundrum that print publishers are fighting is the reason widespread job losses are on their way. It is sad, not least because, mostly the journalists who lose their jobs will not do so because of their own personal failings. It will be because the commercial structures they supported, ultimately, haven’t supported them.

If there is any positive from the forces that are currently rocking print media it has been the abundance of terrific journalism in their wake. Fortunately for you this means you need not rely on my unsophisticated dissection of the media and instead you can rely on these authoritative sources. If you want to know more about the state of Australia’s newspapers these are my must-reads.

Why does independent journalism matter?

Malcolm Fraser on why democracy should not be up for sale. Ever.

What happened at Fairfax?

Paul Barry's take on Gina Rinehart

Former editor-in-chief of The Age shares his take on Gina-Fax

Mothering matters

Onto a very different topic I read two thought-provoking blogs on parenting. In the first a mother of three small children, whose husband travels a lot, admitted that she occasionally regrets having children. It was thoughtful and sad rather than callous and cruel. In the second piece author and journalist Sarah MacDonald responds with a kind and considered message to the author of the first piece. She promises parenting will get easier and less labour intensive as her children emerge fromtoddlerhood. I loved every word and I loved that she responded with empathy, compassion and thought. Sing it for solidarity.

I regret having kids.

It gets better! Sarah promises.

Bookmark for when youhave 30 minutes clear

This is a loooong, almost academic, piece about juggling family and work from a Princeton professor who worked in the Obama administration. It is worth every minute of your time. Its headline Why Women Still Can’t Have it All is defeatist but her views are frank,interesting and insightful. I haven’t quite formulated my thoughts on it – other than to recommend it highly - but when I do a post will follow.

Did this REALLY happen?

I’m a tad ashamed to admit this but I have been following the Baden-Clay murder case in Brisbane quite closely. Ok, obsessively. The whole thing is unimaginably sad and tragic…and I can’t pull my eyes away from every printed detail. This is the latest.

I didn’t watch the Grant Hackett interview on 60 Minutes butfrom everything I read afterwards I felt quite uncomfortable about it being broadcast. David Penberthy hit the nail on the head in his analysis here. He put words to my discomfort perfectly.

So that’s my week in reading. Have you read anything great lately? A book, a magazine, a blog post? Please share!

Friends with extraordinary benefits

I have something of a milestone birthday this week. It is my third ever birthday with a '0' on the end. I am firmly in the camp of acknowledging, enjoying and celebrating birthdays. I like cake quite a lot and consider my birthday one of the best annual occasions to indulge. I know lots of people prefer to let birthdays pass without fuss and others who dislike the opportunity they present to assess another year gone by. 


As you know I don't restrict myself to birthdays to review – often critically – where I'm at, and I suppose one upside of this arrangement is that I tend not to beat myself up on my birthday. Instead I choose to eat cake. Which I intend to do this year with appropriate gusto.


As the day has approached I have been thinking about the first three decades of my life quite a bit and something stood out among my thoughts that I wanted to touch on. I have one very minor regret about my wedding day a couple of years ago. I chose to speak on that occasion and there was one sentiment I didn't express to a group of people in the room that I wish I had. As it's something I think and feel often, I thought I'd use the excuse of this birthday to share it.


I'm no artist but if I imagine my life as a picture, without a particular cluster of people, it would still make a perfectly lovely drawing. But with the inclusion of this cluster the picture is infinitely brighter, more vivid and more alive. Those responsible for so much colour and joy are the people whom I'm lucky enough to count as my friends. To whom I am indebted and grateful for everything they have added to my thirty years. 


They are mostly women, some whom I've known for almost two decades and others far less. Together they are the brightest bunch of people I know; they are all kinds of smart, funny, kind and driven. Some I see often and many, because of distance, I don't see nearly enough. But their effect is the same. They have provided my life with so much more fun, laughter and enjoyment than I could ever have mustered on my own.


Over the years there has been plenty of support, advice, counsel and conversation but invariably when I think of the girls I count as close friends, it is the laughter I remember and treasure the most. I actually wrote in my very first blog post that I consider female friendship to be one of life's blessings. To the lovely girls who have extended their friendship in my direction over the years and made me recognise it as a source of real joy, thank you!! Please know how much I adore, admire and appreciate you. Sadly, I won't have you all in a room anytime soon but rest assured when I eat cake tomorrow you will be in my thoughts.


I have two questions today. How do you approach birthdays? And, or, who do you appreciate in your life that might not know it?

A matter of function

Tempting as it might be to tell you all about our recent house move, I'm going to resist. I won't tell you about the torrential rain. Or the fact the moving weekend coincided with Mr G working a series of nights between 11pm and 9am so he was insanely sleep deprived. Or the fact we couldn't rope in any of our usual helpers to mind Miss I. Or the fact our landlord is withholding our bond for a fridge he instructed us to leave under the stairs twelve months ago and failed to collect and has since been confiscated by the body corporate.


I won't tell you about any of those things because there is something far more pressing we must discuss. A little while back I bemoaned to you my waning interest in the Family Tetris Challenge that daily living in our apartment presented. Moving the hairdryer to get to the laundry basket or moving the ironing board to get to the mop and then battling the laundry powder and napisan to pry the bucket from above the washing machine. Many readers seemed to relate to the topic. So in the interests of providing a small community service and maintaining full disclosure I have to confess: I have found a solution. And that solution, my dear readers, is smart, functional, aesthetic storage. Oh, sweet storage. Has a finer thing ever been invented?


With the obvious exception of rocky road I think not. I would go so far as to suggest that many of the world's problems could be solved with better storage. Imagine how crime rates and anger levels would plunge if humans all over could easily retrieve the soy sauce without engaging in the equivalent of a six-point turn in their kitchen? With great storage solutions I truly believe there is potential for real gains in human happiness.


I know this because the flat we are now renting has been renovated by a genius. I'm not sure who they are but I love them deeply. They thought of everything. This place has built in storage everywhere. The apartment isn't huge but it's hugely satisfying because there are storage solutions in every room. And they're smart. The shelves are good distances apart – some accommodate tall vases and jugs whilst others are perfect for roasting trays and serving plates. There are cupboards that fit suitcases and others that fit towels, sheets and blankets. The kitchen is so functional that it makes me want to cry, sweet tears of joy, every time I use it. There's a place for everything. And even a place for things I don't have.


The bathroom cabinet is a thing of magic. Behind mirrored doors are shelves that easily fit every random bathroom product you can imagine – I'm talking everything from deodorant to the hairspray I use twice a year to the foot scrub I use even less. It also fits every pharmaceutical item in our household. And, best of all? It's all visible and within easy reach. The only slight improvement I made was a cosmetics organiser I bought from Spotlight for $13.95 that is now my favourite inanimate object in the world. It sits in the (spacious) top drawer and looks so beautiful that I often open it just to stare. Want a brush? Or blush? It's all there within easy reach. No more scrambling for the mascara as I herd myself and Miss I out the door.


I have taken to walking around saying 'Functional! It's just so functional!' several times a day. I know this is a tad odd because whenever Mr G hears me say it his facial expression indicates I might well have crossed some line. But that is the power of storage. It's transformative. I realise this honeymoon phase may pass. Most likely when we expand our family headcount later this year. But until it does I will remain resolute; storage is the way forward.


Can you relate to my love of storage?

Two little lines

A little while back I shared the news that I am with child. Pregnant, blooming, expectant. I am all those happy things. I have known for quite a while now and when we made the discovery many weekends back my first instinct was to share the news. With my family, my friends, my work mates, my readers, the barista at work, the guy who mans the cupcake stall at the markets. Basically everyone.


"Hellooo...there's a tiny speck of cells in my tummy right now that will – all things willing - grow into a baby!!!" Of course I resisted the temptation knowing it was far too early and completely inappropriate to go down that path. Particularly at the cupcake stall.


Instead I wandered around with this fantastic, invisible secret growing inside me. Pregnancy is many things but in the first few weeks, for me, it's nothing but a unique bundle of emotions; excitement, apprehension, wonder, love, fear, delight, disbelief. There is joy so close on the horizon but it is also precarious. Part of me wants to leap straight into the dream and imagine the perfect baby lying in my arms but there is another part that wants to wait before falling too far. It's a fluid and silent tug of war that dissipates slowly - to a point - as the weeks whiz by and scans confirm the dream is edging closer.


Seeing the first indicator of the life that might be – two little lines - took me straight back to the day when I discovered the tiny dot that is now Miss I. I couldn't help but relive the experience and marvel that, by comparison, this time around is far simpler. I doubt that will ring true in November but certainly the circumstances immediately surrounding the discovery were. By a loooong way.


Let me paint you the picture first time around. Mr G and I got married on a wintry Saturday in Australia before flying to England on the Tuesday. We'd left our jobs in Sydney and were going to live in Oxford for the next two years where Mr G had been offered a scholarship to complete his masters degree and play rugby. We had a whirlwind week in London with friends before jetting off to Croatia for our honeymoon. Three weeks later we returned and made our way to Oxford where we didn't know a soul. I had the names of two Australian acquaintances whom are now dear friends, but back then were strangers who just happened to be making their way just north of London too.


From the moment we arrived I felt yukky but put it down to the massive few weeks we'd just lived. After a week of this – with several instances of me battling episodes of nausea triggered by mild food - Mr G came home and casually mentioned he had a pregnancy test. I remember laughing and saying 'Ha imagine how much our life would change'. The 'Ha' was on me. 


Two lines emerged. Six positive tests later and many more Google searches to ascertain the chance of getting six false positive results (slim to none) I realised it was true. I was pregnant.


In itself it felt miraculous. I experienced some patchy health a few years ago and some of those issues had the potential to complicate falling pregnant. Before we left my doctor here warned us to prepare for a long road. It turned out that road was very, very, short for which we are eternally grateful. Nonetheless it was a daunting discovery given we'd both just left stable jobs and were living in a student flat on the other side of the world. Before we could even begin to digest it two days later Mr G went to Scotland on a rugby tour for ten days.


I was alone in an unfamiliar town, without a single friend, without a job, without a visa to get a job, without a clue what to do. And I was pregnant. My sister was only a few weeks away from giving birth to my first beautiful niece and I wanted to wait for that to unfold before sharing our news that a cousin might soon follow. 


I clearly remember going into a bookshop to peruse the pregnancy section. I eventually chose one and got an almost illicit thrill from handing it over to the cashier. He probably couldn't have cared less and might not have even noticed my selection but to my mind, after Mr G and myself, he was only the third person on the planet to know I was pregnant.


It was one of the strangest weeks of my life. So you can see why this time around - with stable employment, baby equipment, plans, friends and family nearby and even some experience - the discovery was considerably less daunting. Despite feeling no less extraordinary. 


Has your life ever surprised you or taken you in a different direction? 

What a sapper!

My alter-ego is a sapper. A sapper is a term I have learned from Mr G. Apparently in sporting teams it's the label given to those members who seem to sap the life out of the team, the game and, well, life itself. Now I certainly haven't experienced that from playing sport but I know what it means. We have all encountered someone who despite their best efforts is so negative that it is hard to remain remotely upbeat and sustain the will to live in their presence.

Anyway. I bring this up because I recently burst into tears and explained to Mr G that I'm not coping very well. Now, fear not, lovely readers because this mini melt-down was not of the 'call-in-professional-help' variety; just a routine 'a-good-cry-will-do-me-good' moment. They're about a quarterly occurrence so it's not the first time Mr G has lent me his ears and shoulders for an emotional detox.

Ostensibly the large trigger was that we are in the process of moving. Our lease is up soon so we've embarked upon that life-affirming journey of finding a rental property in one of the world's tightest residential markets. Good times. Just juggling the basic criteria of budget and proximity to our work places and Miss I's lovely new daycare centre is proving a tough ask*. And that's before we commence the unbearable act of actually packing. And unpacking. Argh.

It's undoubtedly a biggie as far as life's little logistics go but the impending move was not the only reason for my tears. My life is quite busy. Not in an I'm really important and have to rush from meeting to social function to pilates to the beautician to my next social engagement and have weekends booked up for the next three years way. Just busy in terms of juggling home and work with a toddler. Mr G is as devoted as husbands and fathers come but he also works long, odd, rostered hours that he doesn't control. It means he works many weekends and nights which means I do a lot of solo parenting rather than the team approach I favour.

Doing this for a few months whilst feeling sub-optimal due to the lovely baby I'm sprouting has taken a toll. So it was time for tears. I set about explaining to Mr G how frazzled I am and how things are suffering; for one thing I'm not feeding Miss I enough vegetables; I'm already proving unfit to mother our unborn child because occasionally for a few hours I forget that I am actually carrying a child and I ate feta cheese because I didn't realise it was on the contraband food list; the house isn't organised enough; I don't earn enough money; I'm tired a lot and haven't been exercising and the list went on.

As I rattled off my long list of concerns I realised how silly they sounded but in the privacy of my own head I hadn't been vetting the veracity of my feedback. A good way into my detox Mr G made an astute diagnosis. A sapper with some form of Tourette's had taken up residence in my head: only providing angry and negative feedback in aggressive bursts. I actually laughed out loud because we seem to talk about sappers a bit and when he put it like that it was so true. In real life I would really, really, dislike my alter ego.

So I agreed to evict the sapper with no notice. There is plenty going on at the moment – between finding a new home, navigating the trials of toddlerhood, growing a baby, work, my blog and everything in between – the last thing I need is a sapper in my head of all places. I woke up the next morning and felt a few hundred kilos lighter. Sometimes tears and a little laughter do a world of good. The same cannot be said for sappers.

*Irritatingly for the purpose of this blog's timeliness since writing this, we have found a gem and moved in. This is, however, a stellar development for the purpose of my real life. Yay!

And then she was two

Somehow, it would seem, I have been a mother for two whole years. Our baby girl and the light in our lives, Miss I, turned two on Saturday. Where has that time gone?? A few weeks ago Mr G and I were looking through some photos from when she was first born and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Part of me wanted to laugh out loud; because the birth is now two years behind me; because we've survived; because our tiny bundle is now a walking and talking girl who makes us laugh. But I also felt sad because that time has passed. Miss I will never be that tiny baby again and until I sat down and really looked at those photos I had forgotten she was quite so small and fragile. 


On the odd occasion, ok frequently, I share with you the frustrations that I encounter shepherding Miss I through life. For me, motherhood isn't an entirely effortless pursuit. But it is a road densely filled with joy, affection and laughter.  On a daily basis, tantrums notwithstanding, Miss I's kisses, smiles, giggles, funny words, silly dance moves and insistent instructions make me laugh and melt my heart. Watching her personality unfold as she grows and learns is easily the best thing in life. 


Last year on her first birthday I shared a few things I had learned. Today I will do the same. 


Two years go really fast. Despite the fact that some one hour blocks, usually between 5 and 7pm, last a lifetime you will blink your eyes and suddenly the baby in front of you can open doors, climb furniture, pretend to blowdry their hair while wearing high-heels, do running cuddles and insist on choosing their own clothes. 


The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Every time we ask Miss I what she dreamt about her answer is the same: cake. I can't say i don't know where she gets that from.  


The radio, or music, is a godsend. No one appreciates my dancing more than Miss I at the end of the day. A bit of background music combined with me busting some terrible moves is the perfect tonic to soothe my tetchy child through the nightly dinner preparation/cleanup/witching hour. I'm not sure who it serves best but it seems to ensure sanity is intact.  


With just a handful of words the world very quickly becomes a toddler's domain. No. More. Stop. Up. Cake. Just about does it. Anything beyond those is a bonus really. 


Little people are capable of experiencing a wide range of emotions in a very short time frame.  Miss I is more than capable of navigating hysteria, delight, tears, frustration, happiness, bewilderment, shock and joy in any given hour. Funnily enough this induces much the same reaction in me.


Transparency is endearing. Toddlers are not big on facades. If their Dad leaves the room they will happily burst into tears, if they want to be really close to their Mum they will jump up and place their nose square on with hers, if they want a toy someone else is enjoying they will snatch it or alternatively stage a show with their displeasure the shining star or if they want to explore their inner nostrils they will do so with abandon.  Although frustrating at times, this transparency is possibly the most delightful aspect of spending time with little people.


It is possible to grow, deliver and nurture tiny babies who will emerge as funny, caring, crazy and delightful toddlers. Which still blows my mind. 

Routine Household Disputes

Routine Household Disputes (RHD)
Definition: Issues, usually relating to household logistics, of minor consequence that emerge repeatedly throughout cohabitating adult's lives. When taken cumulatively, despite their minor consequences, RHDs can be infuriating.

Let me paint the picture. Last night I was sitting up in bed engrossed in a magazine while Mr G was pottering around getting organised.

Mr G: How do you think the Greece economy will affect out household in the next few years?
(Actually he didn't ask this question. At least I don't think he did. I was so engrossed in my magazine I don't know what he asked.)
Me: Yes.
Mr G: Are you listening to me?
Me: Sorry what did you say?
Mr G: Is that a bridal magazine you're reading?
Me: Yes. As a matter of fact it is. Of these dresses which one is your favourite?
Mr G: Are you kidding? Why are you reading a bridal magazine? I have been wondering why that's here.
(At this point I should point out for any new readers that Mr G and I are already married. We had a lovely wedding almost three years ago and there are no repeats on the horizon.)Me: Because I love weddings and I got given it an event. Anyway there's something else I want to talk about.
Mr G: I can hardly wait.
(He didn't say this in words but his facial expression did.)Me: I'm planning a blog on our routine household disputes.
(Very not thrilled face crumple from Mr G)
Mr G: Oh you mean the one where we argue about how much I do around the house without help?
Me: Err, no. Not that one.

Because that one doesn't exist! Well only very occasionally. Mr G then went on to explain that the reason it seems like he has a higher error margin in the laundry (RHD #1) is because of the sheer volume he washes compared to me. He ends up responsible for lots of colour run disasters whereas I very rarely do. According to Mr G this reflects my meagre laundry contribution measured in quantity. Naturally I argue it reflects my superior skills. But that's not the dispute I need to discuss with you.

Given the change in weather Mr G and I have been locking horns over one particular issue: temperature. Is there an issue that causes more angst between cohabitating adults?? Certainly not in this household. Mr G is largely immune to the cold.

Take Tuesday morning, for example. It was a crisp 11 degrees in Sydney and Mr G was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. "Would you like to get a jumper?" I caringly asked on the off-chance Mr G had mistaken our home town for Darwin as we headed out the door. "If you have a good immune system you don't need layers*." Say WHAT??? (RHD #2) I should say that Mr G is intelligent and trained in the medical profession. And yet!! I actually suspect the cold weather does affect Mr G: his judgement in particular.

Which brings me to our RHD #3. Read carefully here because I need your help. We play this game where Mr G opens every window in our apartment and I close them. And then he opens them and I close them. Then he opens them and usually I go a bit berserk. (This pattern is repeated in our RHD #4 where Mr G unplugs every appliance in our house. Daily.)

To be fair Mr G agrees that in winter, at night time, windows can be closed. Joy! But. First thing every morning he opens them. Why? Because he says keeping the windows open warms the apartment by letting in the heat. From WHERE, I ask often?? So my question is this - does opening the windows in winter warm the house???

Think wisely before you answer because my marriage depends on it. Kidding! The beauty of RHDs (as opposed to Extraordinary Houshold Disputes) is they don't have the ability to derail a relationship. See most RHDs turn on which party has the right answer; and being definitively right – on any issue – in the NABM household is a wonderful, wonderful thing. So am I right???

Do you have RHDs? If you share I promise I'll tell you you're right!

*While I've been writing this Mr G actually texted me a link to this article.