Season's greetings

Hello!! Remember me?

I used to write here quite frequently but since welcoming Miss L into the world I have been neglecting my dearly beloved blog and all of the lovely people who take the time to read it. I promise this is not because I have forgotten it or you. I can't tell you how many witty, sharp and insightful missives I have composed in my head these past few weeks while feeding my blossoming baby. Sadly, though, I can tell you how many have made it to the computer. Because that count is nil. If only there was an iDevice I could plug into my head that would automatically download, edit and format my thoughts into neat and entertaining posts to publish? Actually that might not work. The truth is not all of my thoughts are fit for public consumption.

Anyway. In the weeks between finishing work and having Miss L I had every intention of writing like a mad thing to have some posts in the wings (which have been in my head for months). I was then planning to impose a six week amnesty on blogging which I would explain to you all in advance. I figured any spare time I could find in those early weeks should be spent napping and that's the only part of the plan that's held. There were no 'weeks' between finishing work and having a baby, I still have those unwritten posts in my head and I didn't ever explain my blogging plans.

And now, the day before Christmas, a month since I last wrote, I sit with my seven week old baby in my arms while I tap this out on my iPad with one finger, to wish you all a happy festive season. (There is nothing like feeding a baby to develop proficiency in 'life skills that can be completed with one hand'. I am yet to master the act of buttering toast with one hand but I will persist). And, in addition to sending you the season's greetings, it's also time for me to close down for the year. After almost eight weeks' off can you even believe my audacity?? 

I have now made my annual pilgrimage to Yamba (a post on that experience will be forthcoming in the new year) where we'll spend a few weeks with my extended family. It is a sacred time and a holiday that need not mix with technology. Yamba is a computer free zone for me and it's a rule I refuse to compromise*.

So until next year NABM will lie dormant. I will be back with a vengeance from the 10th of January, from which date you will struggle to ignore me. At least that's what I hope will happen. I wish you all a very merry end to 2012 and hope that, however you spend the next few weeks, your days are filled with laughs and loved ones. Thank you for continuing to indulge me by visiting this tiny corner in cyber space. It brings me more joy than I can say. 

Happy eating, beaching and resting!

*With the glaring exception of posting this blog which has taken me several attempts to complete. 

A Royal bebe to be

I woke up on Tuesday morning to the splendid news that my favourite duchess is with child. At first I was slightly irritated she hadn't called me herself but then I remembered that she doesn't have my number. Nor my name. Such a shame. Throughout the morning my phone beeped, inbox pinged and my twitter feed filled up with commentary on the royal bebe in waiting, or indeed bebes as many are speculating, and I have to admit my heart sunk a little. And not just because I didn't hear the news from the royals themselves.

I am thrilled that a baby is on Will and Kate's immediate horizon. The blessing of a baby is something I'm reminded of regularly in the blissful, albeit sleep-deprived, bubble from which I'm writing.(From this bubble I'm also often reminded of the breathtaking ability of a certain toddler to mimic a terrorist who is zealously committed to holding her subjects parents hostage but that, my dear readers, is a post for another day).

Having children is something I wish upon anyone for whom the experience appeals and Will and Kate have both expressed such a desire. News they're expecting is joyful, lovely and exciting so why the sinking heart you ask?  I feel dreadful that Kate is so ill and I'm a tad devastated that their happy news emerged the way it has. The trouble with my imagined royal friendship is that I feel oddly protective of them. And dour as it might seem, right now, they have my sympathy.

The early weeks of pregnancy are precarious and peculiar enough without being violently unwell or heavily scrutinised. I don't think it's uncommon for even the least queasy pregnant woman to wish, even temporarily, she could just sit out the first loong 12 weeks of gestation without having to stage all manner of masquerades to hide the speck of life inside. Pretending to sip wine when in actual fact you're struggling to stomach lemonade, fronting up to work with your regular enthusiasm, finding enough foundation to mask the grey pallor discolouring your skin, assembling outfits that hide any sign of a bump and generally participating in normal life, is quite exhausting in those early months when, really, all you want to do is sleep. 

Imagine being one of the most visible, photographed women in the world during that strange time? Then, add in not just mild nausea but illness so severe that it requires hospitalisation, which in turn means your secret is out. To the entire world. Instead of enjoying even 12 weeks knowing your secret is safe in the privacy of your own marriage, news programs and betting agencies alike are speculating as to whether you are 8,9,10 or 11 weeks along. And to fill time  they're also using your public schedule to guess where the new life may have been conceived. All of which they're doing while camped outside your hospital room. It's enough to make a woman violently ill. 

So while I am overjoyed that my favourite royals are in the family way I am sad that it has come out this way. A private pregnancy was never going to be possible but I do wish their plans to share the news with their families on Christmas Day had been possible. Not just because it would have been on their own terms but it would have bought them another month of privacy. Which would have saved us all another month's worth of magazine covers running a variation of the story that Kate is pregnant. Because not even their most loyal friend, ok fan, wants that.

Answering big questions

Some questions are perfectly suited to explore during an ad break on tv. A few of my personal favourites include “Would you like me to get you a tim-tam and a blanket?” or “Would you like me to massage your shoulders until the show comes back on?” or “Gosh it’s amazing how much you fit into every day.” Ok the last one is actually a statement but I really like the sentiment. Perfect tv questions are generally conducive to short conversations that can easily cease the minute Homeland returns.  And then there are other questions. Questions so big that answering them requires turning the television off, boiling the jug and settling in for the long haul.

And so it was when Mr G recently asked “How are you feeling about having another baby?” The long and detailed response I gave then is moot now so rather than mulling the hypothetical I can tell you, at this early stage, how I am actually feeling about being a mother of two gorgeous girls. Lots of words immediately spring to mind. Grateful. Happy. Tired. Lucky. Relieved. Empowered. Did I say tired??? For your benefit I’m going to put my fogginess aside to try writing some actual sentences now because I’m guessing a post full of single, unrelated words would make for uninspiring reading material?

First up, a few weeks ago I celebrated the existence of maternity leave and  it is now time to give a very warm round of applause to its lovely sibling; paternity leave. How any new parent could get through the early days and weeks without a partner on hand is beyond me. If you have done that or know anyone who has please give yourself, or them, a HUGE hug from me and then shout yourself a Chinese massage and a large slab of Rocklea Road. Because you deserve it and more. For now paternity leave means Mr G is on hand in the NABM household for another few weeks which makes for a happy home. It means we have some time to enjoy our new family and get to know the lovely Miss L without the reality of work.  

And let me tell you, in the eyes of her besotted and biased mum, Miss L is just lovely. She is a tiny, soft, sweet and adorable bundle with whom we have fallen utterly in love. I am reliving my awe at newborn babies all over again; I still find it bewildering that anyone’s body is capable of growing a perfectly formed little baby, let alone, my own. And then there is that truly remarkable moment when you meet the tiny person who blossomed in your bump. For me the bond with each of my baby girls wasn’t strong or real until I actually met them. Then it was different; there was a face, a name and a person to whom my love could attach. 

It’s like my heart undergoes a spontaneous, slap-dash renovation and quickly erects a large new wing ready to be filled with love. It’s obviously not furnished or decorated because the finer details of the love are yet to take form but it’s there and it’s lovely. And it grows with every feed, with every stroke of their soft skin, with every bath and every interaction.

Lots of people warned me that having two children is a big step up in terms of logistics. That family life gets very real when the number of children equals, or exceeds, the number of adults in the household. We are at adult to child equilibrium now and whilst I wouldn’t describe it as a leisure lifestyle I will say this; going from one child to two is NOTHING compared to going from no children to one. Bringing Miss I home for the first time was terrifying.  Everything about being responsible for a baby for the first time was daunting. Second time around is different. The task itself isn’t any different – feed, bathe, dress, feed, change, settle, feed and repeat every few hours for a few months – but the angst and fear is no longer a big deal. I guess the fact we are already accustomed to caring for another small person around the clock has helped makes this transition easier*.

Having said that it also means this time we have the adjustment and well-being of another little person to consider which throws a different dynamic in the mix. How Miss I would handle the new addition was something I thought about a lot towards the end of my pregnancy. My thoughts didn’t achieve much but my suspicions that it would probably be one of the harder parts of bringing a new baby home were well founded. Miss I is madly in love with her new sister; her eyes light up when she sees her, she forever asks for cuddles and kisses which she bestows with varying degrees of force affection and she tells her “We’re nearly home L” if we’re in the car and Miss L is crying. It is heart-bursting stuff. But. Remember that see-saw I talk about when looking after little people? That. On steroids. The highs and lows are faster and less predictable than ever before which, funnily enough, creates something of a see-saw for my own emotions.

But so far we are all in one piece and despite the odd bump when the see-saw thrashes us downwards life is a lot like Miss L. Just lovely.   

*For now. Naturally I reserve the right to re-evaluate my views when I am regularly responsible for looking after both girls on my own.

Then three became four...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cold watermelon and maternity leave

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pangs of envy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A heartening speech. In disheartening circumstances.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My favourite reading material on the matter

Words many have rehearsed yet never spoken

An apology to Paul Sheehan

Corinne Grant on The Hoopla

Why Gillard’s speech was brilliant

Jessica Irvine on The Punch