Long time, no write.

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Many things have been happening around the Archer Residence. Most of which take up a lot of time and energy.

Some of them don’t.

I’ve released the “inner nana” and taught myself to crochet. I have just completed my very first project and I am now the proud owner of a hand crafted and absolutely gorgeous knee rug. I am spewing I didn’t go a bit further, as it’s not quite big enough to snuggle under on the couch! The Inner Nana is also quite keen on baking and whipped up her very first sponge cake. Ok, to be perfectly honest, on the same day, the Inner Nana whipped up her second and finally third sponge cake. Nana is a little scared of going back into the sponge cake waters and has returned to more familiar cupcake territory.

Obviously, the Inner Nana is a Nana of many talents, as the housework is more or less under control, and thanks to Masterchef; the Bloke of the House and I have rekindled our love for cooking. The Bloke has cooked the absolutely most perfect steak imaginable. Rare eye fillet resting on a bed of mash with wilted spinach. We’re eating like Kings and Queens in this house. Right royal, we are. Tonight, it’s quiche lorraine with shortcrust pastry made from scratch thank you very much.

Working full time has created it’s own series of challenges. The washing machine finally decided to die a glorious and spectacular death (damn, there went my liberation) only to be fortuitously resurrected by an unexpired extended warranty  This meant that instead of the Washing Machine Man replacing two or three broken parts - all of which he had in the truck; he’d replace the whole motor and I’d get another five years out of my washing machine. I was without a washing machine for 17 days. Yes. I counted them. I had two trips to the laundromat – with children in tow. I never thought I would publically say I LOVE my washing machine. But there you have it!

Cooking, crocheting, housework… Harriet’s a busy girl!

Oh, and there’s Bloody Bejewelled Bloody Blitz on Bloody Facebook, too. 

Each game only takes a minute… but hells bells, time flies when you start playing that stupid game. Of course, they reset your high score every few days so the challenge is *always* there. And to be the best in your group of friends is such a delightfully satisfactory feeling. With an undercurrent of WHAT do I think I am doing, obsessing over a stupid Facebook game… And did I mention it’s only a minute? Like in the time it’s taken me to write this masterpiece, I could have played 20 games, beaten your high score and been the legend of the playground for like you know five minutes or something… Yes. Ok. I am obsessed. I nearly bought a new mouse because I couldn’t click fast enough.

But seriously, $96 for a super swish laser mouse so I could beat the highest high score in the universe? Sanity prevailed and I backed carefully away from the Mouse Display and resumed my usual programming.

I gave Farmtown the arse, though.

There’s a timewaster from Hell. When I started to stress out about crops to plant if I wasn’t going to be home in time to harvest them, I knew it was time to give it the sack. The guilt I felt when I was having network problems, got kicked off and couldn’t finish harvesting someone elses crops… The feeling of panic that set in was bizarre… It was only a stupid GAME fer feck’s sake.

I didn’t mind it at first. It was fun. I had maybe ten Farmtown Friends, I’d go work on their farms then play around on mine for half an hour then go and do something else. Then I had 15 Farmtown Friends, then 20 and finally about 30. It became a chore. I didin’t want to go online in case someone saw me and wanted me to harvest their crops for them.

It was worse than hiding from door-to-door salesmen on the off chance they’d knock at your door. Because these were people I’d like to chat to under normal curcumstances. It was like they’d all ‘discovered a wonderful business opportunity that could change my life’!

But sanity again prevailled, and I first let my fields go fallow for a while. Then I didn’t visit the site for a couple of weeks. Then I deleted all my “gifts” and then I finally bit the bullet and blocked the application. I felt a giant weight lift from my chest. And I am not the only one! More than a few of my Farm Town Friends have given up the farm in search of something else more meaningful (you know, like housework… Hey, wait a minute… the housework started coming together oh about three or four weeks ago. Just around the same time as I downed tools on the farm!)

Ok, Farmtown’s gone. I’ve accepted I have a problem with Bejewelled… The house is tidy, and there’s cupcakes in the cupboard. The creative juices have started to flow… Who knows, maybe it won’t be five months til my next update! Stay tuned… But I’d make sure you’ve got a cuppa and a cookie or two before you sit and wait…

 

Zen and the Art of Car Maintenance (or things that make me go GRARGH)

The Bloke of the House went away on Thursday for a very long weekend of fishin’ and man stuff, leaving me home alone with the Big Kid and the Little Kid. That in itself doesn’t make me go “grargh”.

Well, it does a little tiny bit – but only because the kiddies and I can sorta, maybe just a teeny-tiny little bit, get up each other’s noses on a weekend when we’re left alone together and there’s housework and grocery shopping and all those other bits and pieces that need to be done about the place. Although they’re more than happy to have the consequences of these bits and pieces, all they really want is a piece o’ they mama! Even if it’s the YELLING Mama

So I thought to myself very carefully “I knows, I will do all the housework at night, then I can play with the kiddies on the weekend, and there will be no need for yelling and maybe, perhaps, you never know… Some FUN could possibly be had.

Except I did not factor in the thing that made me go GRARGH!

The Big Kid came to work with me for a couple of days last week (as a side note, he was PERFECT, and compliments were received from the childfree along the lines of “if all children were like the Big Kid, more people would have kids”) anyway, Big Kid and I returned to the Big Red Car after a hard day’s work – Bags in, seatbelts on, off to pick up the Little Kid and get some tasty take away for dinner…

Except for the whole NOT actually going anywhere part. No ‘brrrrrrmmmm’ when the key was turned in the ignition because the whole key would NOT turn. Not in gear, not in anything and NOT going!

GRARGH!

Big Kid is under control, but the Little Kid? Has to be collected and soonish – WHAT would Ferris Do?

Call the Auto Club, of course.

So I called the Auto Club who confirmed what I thought… The key is stuck in the ignition.

 He hotwired it for me and got me going (yay!)

But he forgot to tell me how to turn it off (oops!)

 I had to call them again to find out how (and they are not supposed to hotwire cars like that, apparently, so the poor bloke is in trouble for doing me a massive favour) and they sent another man to turn the car off for me.

So here’s how I see my weekend… Driving around with a car with NO casing on the steering column, key stuck in the ignition AND whipping a screw driver out of my handbag to start and stop the car…

Of course, I couldn’t actually get it to start with the screwdriver when I tried to do it… Anyway, the Bloke has a Very Handy with Cars mate, so I gave him a call. He, being Very Handy with Cars and all that, was able to confirm that the key was indeed irretrievably jammed in the ignition and that I needed a new ignition barrel. Stat!

He started the car, laughed at my wussy girlie wrists that were incapable of turning a screwdriver in a teensy hole and starting a car, and parked it up behind the roller door for me.

He also laughed at my fear of car being stolen in its whole “doesn’t have any casing on the steering column and look! There’s a very handy screwdriver sitting on the seat” state of glory.

GRARGH!

Anyway, aforementioned Handy Mate located a sparkly new ignition barrel for me – and all I had to do was collect it.

Not a problem, load the kids in the car and drive casually over to the spare parts man and pick up the spare part.

Not a problem at all… Except for the whole “can’t turn the screwdriver because of the wussy girlie wrists” thing. Oh, and the “auto club guy turned the car off by unplugging the fuel pump and then I’ve parked the car on a slope all night and the fuel tank is at the back of the car” thing.

GRARGH!

Oh, and the parts shop shuts at midday, I haven’t had a shower and it’s 10.30am.

GRAAAAARRRRRGGGGH!

Showered, dressed, in the car, roll it down the hill and onto the flat. So far, so good (and nice to know one can actually roll an automatic if one needs to). Then I try to start the stupid thing…

Nope. No starting. Car No Go.

GRARRRGGGH!

I now have less than one hour in which to get this part. Breathe, breathe… centre oneself and calming thoughts and WHADDERYOU KNOW! It started.

YAY!

Turned the car off, bolted inside and bundled the kids out to the car. Inserted my trusty screwdriver into the slot and…

Nothing.

Sweet F.A.

NOT a peep. Just the sound of a car refusing point blank to turn over… And we’re down to 45 minutes.

Kids back inside whilst I called the Cavalry (hey mum????) But the Cavalry were off to the races, and were headed in the absolutely opposite direction.

I went back to wrestling with the car (plus I didn’t want my kids to see me CRY!) Still nothing. So, wiping tears of frustration and rage and general misery from my eyes, I called the Auto Club again…

NINETY MINUTE WAIT…

Then I really cried!

Then I calmed down a bit, called the parts guy and sent a taxi to collect my part with 23 minutes to go. And like magic, the plan came together and I had the part in my hot little hand. Yay!

Mission accomplished.

Of course, I managed to start the car the very instant the Auto Club arrived, because that’s what happens. So I moved my freshly started car, swapped it with the trusty ute and the stupid bloody thing is going to stay right where it is until Handy Mate arrives to replace that ignition barrel and I don’t look like a trainee car thief when I try to start it!

And what was the icing on the cake? What was the thing that really managed to completely and unequivocally made my day?

The sodding washing machine broke as well!

GRARGH!

 

Oops…

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

I’ve been a tiny bit busy lately. I know, any excuse for not updating you with the inner workings of my little brain. But I really have been busy.

You know that job I didn’t think I’d get?

I got it.

So I have gone from grumbling through three days a week of misery in the Hellhole Known as My Previous Employer to spending my days playing with numbers, reading reports and going on excursions (today, I saw the Premier). Much more satisfying and dare I say it, enjoyable. BUT I am now working five whole days a week. And I am now a commuter. Yes, I have joined the ranks that trek up the highway to the Big Smoke. This commuting trek is only for a relatively short time, at which point we shall be able to resume our usual programming, as I will not be spending three and a half hours a day getting to and from work. Unsuprisingly, this renders me somewhat comatose at the end of the day. My brain is full of exciting tales for your reading pleasure, so there is plenty for you to look forward to – eventually.

Now, just to tide you over, I am going to share with you a snippet or ten about my commute. My wonderful and courteous new employer believe that a happy work force leads to a productive workplace. This is such a change from working in the Hellhole (coffee, anyone? Piece of fruit? Oh, what about a massage…); and in the interests of convenience for the staff, they are running a bus so that we don’t have to squeeze onto the train, which is an adventure in itself.

My preferred mode of transport is the Train. This is primarily because the bus doesn’t always suit me; and also because, despite my advancing years, I still get car sick if I so much as put my head down in a moving vehicle. This means reading, writing – anything more than staring mindlessly out a window or having a wee kip means I am liable to lose my lunch. Whilst sometimes it’s nice to stare aimlessly out the window, on a regular basis it feels like a waste of *me* time. So I tend to catch the train. But the train comes with it’s own set of interesting drawbacks.

1. I catch a train fairly early in the morning. Not as early as some, but still early. Normally, I get there early enough to see the “special train”. The Special Train is a gentleman of advancing years. On a push bike. Wearing a hard hat. Every morning at about 6.53am, he blows a horn and pedals along past the platform as fast as he can. Making train noises. Cracks me up, it does. Every morning, just before the 6.56 arrives – there he is.

2. I get on the train at the second stop in the morning. This means that if I position myself close enough to the edge of the platform and if I have my elbows at the correct height, I can finangle my way into the carriage and get myself a nice, comfy seat. This is a good thing. If I got on one stop later… I’d be STANDING for the entire journey. That wouldn’t be so much fun. Coming home, I sometimes catch the bus, but mostly catch the 16.55. This train is Old Skool. It has compartments! It’s an old diesel loco and takes for ever to stop at all stations. But hey, can stretch out and relax.

3. Things I like about travelling on the train… I can read (no, I do NOT know why I don’t get sick on trains); I can catch up with reading reports and the like for work, too. But mostly, I just read. Uninterrupted 50 minutes of reading time – bliss! In the afternoons, I have been getting MX which is the free paper, reading it and attempting to do the puzzles before I toss down the whole thing in disgust when I stuff up the suduko. I used to be lucky to read a book in two weeks - now, I am reading about two or three a week. I like listening in to other people’s conversations, too. Like you know she’s gone all like weird you know like she’s studying and stuff like and she’s not mucking up like. Like. Teenagers are like you know… Like.

4. Things I don’t like so much about travelling on the train. Aside from the whole three and a bit hours total commute and all that… You’d be thinking that in the morning at least, most people would have had some kind of interaction with the whole soap and water scenario. Well, you’d be wrong. Soap is apparently optional for rather a substantial proportion of the average city commuter. And the wearing of the expensive clothing is not an accurate predictor of how close the wearer has been to the shower that day. This is most noticable when I am squeezing myself onto the Loop train in the morning.

5. I am also not so keen on the pressure I put myself under in order to catch a train that gets me home in time to say “Hi” to the Bloke Of The House and the offspring. After a particularly fraught evening involving skin of ones teeth and the sight of Fair Harriet RUNNING (and been damn grateful for flat shoes and the wearing of trousers, I tell you what); an alarm has been set up on my computer to advise me that it’s TIME TO GO NOW, ok?

6. And techincally, it’s not *A* train that I catch in the morning – it’s two trains. I have to change trains in the morning – push my way off the first train, using as many skills as I needed to get *on* it in the first place; trundle up and down ramps and across platforms to find the right train that’s headed my way. Then I get to shoehorn my way onto the Loop train. Quite frankly, this is an experience. An unpleasant one. Particularly for all the people who get whacked in the head and randomly stepped on by Little Miss Incompetent… Yes, that would be me. I’m a danger to myself and everyone around me, and I am armed with a backpack, so watch out!

So there you have it. This is week five of thirteen weeks of commuting. I am sure that by Christmas I will indeed be able to change trains without maiming anyone AND walk up the escalator at Parliament Station without being a coronary candidate three quarters of the way to the top!

 

101 uses for an Arts Degree…

I believe I may have mentioned at some point that in addition to being your humble correspondent and Wayward Domestic Goddess; I am indeed gainfully employed as a Slave for Wages in a large and bureaucratic nightmare. What I haven’t mentioned is that the aforementioned position is about as stimulating and challenging as a bowl of cottage cheese. Whilst I am not asking the eternal question of “Would you like fries with that?” I am sure that it is only a matter of time before the Powers that Be decree that the addition of a deep fryer behind reception can only be an improvement to the quality of service provided, and I can indeed add that phrase to my repertoire.

 

I may also have mentioned that I have a short attention span…Oh look, a tractor!

 

Now, where was I?

 

That’s right…Underwhelmed and under stimulated. In fact, to be perfectly frank, bored out of my tiny little mind. So what’s a girl to do? The last time I found myself in this position, I decided a spot of further education would be just the ticket. But I’ve been there and done that and got the pretty piece of paper hanging on my wall to prove it.

 

Pretty piece of paper…

 

Ahhh, I have an Arts Degree. What can one do with an Arts Degree? Hmm. One can deliver fries with a smile, wait on tables, clean toilets, make beds, fold laundry… Wait a second, that describes my life of Domestic Goddessery. No, there has to be more than that. Ooooh. Looking up stuff. I can do that. I am rather good at doing that and here’s a job that does just that…

 

What? Apply for another job? Are you insane? Find another job and leave the bosom of the large and bureaucratic nightmare? Where I am bored and frustrated and slowly going around a very twisty bend? What a splendid idea, chaps!

 

So I exhumed the resume – it’s a wonder how well parchment holds up over time; caught up with the last hundred years or so, whipped up a letter outlining my general fabulousness and sent it all off into the ether. Done. And dusted. And as a creative writing exercise, not a bad thing.

 

And then they called me…

 

Eek!

 

And no, that was not a mouse. THAT was the noise my faculties made when they left the building. My goodness gracious me, I felt like Sally Field at the Oscars – “They like me, they really like me”. But bloody hell, that means a job interview. And it had well and truly been a long long time between drinks. On the positive side, the last job I went for, I did actually get. On the negative side, that was so long ago that children who were born on that day can actually vote now! Things have changed, too. Back then it was all a bit of a chat and when can you start? Now, it’s all behavioural interviews and tell us about your strengths and weaknesses.

 

How does one make being a scatterbrained chatterbox with a really short attention span seem like an attractive proposition, anyway? And most importantly, what on earth do I wear!?! It’s the dead of winter, global warming appears to be on hold, or all the frozen air is being blown straight away from Antarctica or something and apparently it’s not the done thing to wear trousers to a job interview.

 

There was one thing to be done – pantyhose. I shall briefly mention here exactly how much I loathe pantyhose and the whole torturous contortionisms that are required to get ones slightly longer than average legs into a sheer nylon tube designed for legless midgets.

 

Anyway, pantyhose on, small children more than slightly freaked out (“what happened to your legs, mummy? They’ve gone all black” from the Big Kid, and “oooh take it off, take it off” from the Little Kid; which probably indicates how long it has been since I have worn pantyhose.) There were trains to be caught, and people to be impressed.

 

The auspices were not great – three hours sleep the night before, they had my name wrong at the door; and I had to wait for 15 minutes. Just long enough to get sweaty. Fabulous. The interview went well enough that I wasn’t upset with my performance. I made eye contact, I had some answers prepared. Not to the questions they asked, but since when has that been a problem? They seemed like lovely people, and the chances of me seeing any of them ever again?

 

Buckley’s and none.

 

I don’t think I am what they’re looking for… But I don’t feel like I have lost out. In fact, I feel like I have gained a lot from the experience. I have an up to date resume. I know I am attractive to a prospective employer on paper, at least. And I have successfully completed one job interview. Not only that, I have discovered that an Arts Degree could possibly be a passport out of Hell and even a ticket to a more exciting place. Most importantly, I have acknowledged that I don’t need to stay where I am forever. And failing getting out, I can always get some more education to stop me going postal…

 

Breakfast of Champions

This morning, I had an alarm malfunction of the operator kind. Aside from initially completely forgetting to even *set* the alarm, I then managed to set it for 6.00PM. TWELVE hours after I need to wake up. And of course, this happens on a morning where I absolutely positively have to be out the door by 7.00am, 7.05am. At The Very Latest. Now, thanks to Flylady (a topic for another time) and also in no small part to working for almost my entire adult life; I have a morning routine that runs like a well oiled machine -  when I just have myself to get ready, I can go from sleeping to out the door in 45 minutes; showered, dressed, bag packed, bed made,  breakfasted, kitchen cleaned up and wiped down, hair and face done and I am gone…But this morning, I had exactly and precisely 20 minutes to get ready (25 minutes if I used that spare five). Something would have to give… Ok, washing was up to date enough to leave; dinner – with a phone call, the Bloke Of The House can organise that; can’t make the beds because there’s people in them. Unpacking the dishwasher… I could skip that. Ok, I have gained maybe 10 minutes… But I cannot be late, I cannot go to work in my pyjamas; nor can I sacrifice doing the hair and face – I have a professional image to portray; and I don’t want to scare the natives. Bag is packed the night before, so no time savings there…There’s only one thing left, conceivably, to go.BREAKFAST.

Nooooooo.

I love breakfast. It’s my favourite meal; not simply because it’s the first food I have consumed in ten or so hours, but because it is, in itself, a wondrous thing. It’s the most versatile of meals. There are really no rules – it can be sweet, it can be savoury, it can be sweet *and* savoury all at the same time (maple syrup and bacon, anyone). It’s a meal that can be enjoyed at any time of the day or night. Gone are the days where breakfast consists of a bowl of soggy cereal, two bits of cold toast and a half drunk cup of coffee…Or an artery hardening plate of fried eggs and fried bacon, swimming on a plate of congealed fat and sauce. Breakfast can be anything you fancy.

 

There are  undeniable health benefits to breaking one’s fast; breakfast kick starts ones metabolism, breakfast eaters are better able to concentrate, and breakfast helps one control one’s weight so why would you *not* eat it?

Personally, I prefer to start my day with a bowl of home made muesli, some fruit and a good dollop of Greek yoghurt. This is accompanied by a large mug of coffee – NEVER instant. Life is too short for instant coffee, and when making a delicious cup in a French Press takes one extra step, and less than thirty seconds, why on earth would you NOT take the time. I like to prepare all the elements of my breakfast and sit down, uninterrupted, with the paper and consume both.  In fact, it is a Known Fact in my household, that once Mummy sits down with breakfast, there are to be no requests for more toast, more juice, more anything; no cries of “he’s looking at me” and “he keeps copying me”. It’s too bad, so sad, DEAL kids, Mummy has breakfast.

Weekend breakfasts, or days when we’re all around during the week tend to be a bit more exotic. Pancakes are a favourite, served with jam (four flavours) and cream or maple syrup and ice cream. Or bacon and eggs – perfect, golden yolks and crispy bacon, drained properly, and served with piping hot buttered toast. And there’s nothing like the smell of raisin toast wafting through the kitchen of a morning, mingling with the aroma from the espresso machine. Winter mornings call for porridge. A heart warming bowl of stodge, guaranteed to keep you full and warm all the way til morning tea time.

There’s also something incredibly civilised about going out for breakfast. Going out for breakfast enables one to catch up with friends, have delicious coffee brought to you along with plates of food; and best of all, somebody else to clean up the mess. In my Wicked Youth, (or back in Ye Olden Dayes), I used to go out with my girlfriends until we’d get kicked out of somewhere at 3am. Small children, advancing age and related wisdom put paid to that idea… and it also seemed to put paid to the idea of catching up on a regular basis. then someone hit upon the plan of BREAKFAST – it’s an occasion where small children are tolerated, smiled at and almost guaranteed to be amusing rather than painful as breakfast normally does not coincide with any known “Devil’s Spawn Child From Hell” times. In addition, it does not really impinge on the rest of your day. Breakfast at 9.00is, done by 10.30am or 11am and the rest of the day is your own.

 

Breakfast dates are win/win for everyone. Chance to enjoy some good company and some good food, can bring the kiddies if you must…

 

So do it…

 

Break that fast!

 

 

Harriet’s Home Made Muesli

(this will fill a 5l container)

1 kg rolled oats (not instant)

500g Processed bran

100g shredded coconut

100g flaked almonds

375g box of sultanas

 

Mix up in a giant mixing bowl and put into an airtight container. Sultanas can be replaced with dried fruit medley. Serve with yoghurt and fruit for a lovely breakfast!

 

   

 

Ellen’s Blender Pancakes

(You will need one blender)

2 cups SR flour

2 cups milk

2 eggs

 

Pop 2 cups of milk in the blender along with the 2 eggs

Whizz

Add one cup of flour

Whizz

Scrape down sides

Whizz

Add second cup of flour

Whizz

Scrape down sides

Pour dollops into a preheated fry pan. We like thicker, smaller panners, so only use 400ml milk. This feeds four nicely.

 

 

 

 

Mornings

I think I may well be a morning person. I like mornings. Even though I grumble and mutter, I quite like being the only person awake and functioning first thing at home. Of course, if anyone else gets up – that does spoil it. Particularly if said person is demanding a nappy change and a packet of Smarties at 6.30am. Yes, like more than 50% of that request is likely to happen… The bliss associated with sitting down to my breakfast and morning coffee with the paper, surrounded by complete and utter silence is immeasurable. Peace at breakfast time is very Zen for me. If I start the day with a good breakfast (and I am not actually talking about the nutritional composition of the meal); it sets the tone for the remainder of the day.

I like walking in the mornings, too. I love the fresh, unspoiledness of the town, when there’s virtually no-one else around. The only people around are other walkers and runners who acknowledge their fellow travelers with a nod. There’s no need for conversation. Silence is the key. Everyone is moving to their own soundtrack, with earpieces in – unless it’s a conspiracy of secret agents taking a morning constitutional? Then there’s the young lady in yesterday’s clothes being escorted to a car by a gentleman more sensibly clad for the weather. Makes me smile to myself, remember when, and think “what a nice chap, taking her home in the morning…” My walk to work takes me along the main street which starts off as tree lined and residential. I check out the renovations going on, and ogle the houses I secretly desire (there’s three at the moment – one’s finished, one’s a work in progress, and the other is a gothic falling down pile fit for nothing more than the wreckers ball). As the main street slips from purely residential to businesslike, I watch businesses getting ready for the day. It’s like seeing a Grand Dame in her underwear – still slightly shabby, curlers in, sweeping the floors. I walk past the medical centre. It doesn’t officially open until 8.00am, but before 7.30am, it’s almost standing room only in the waiting room. And it looks like the same people, sitting in the same chairs as they were sitting in last week. And at the blood letters next door, there’s already a queue to go in.  

As I get closer to the city, the cars going past increase, with bleary eyed commuters at the wheel. The drive through is doing a roaring trade; and the barista at the cafe down the street is struggling with the cafe umbrellas and tables. Squeezing through with a table slightly wider than the door frame without losing his fingers is like watching a 3D game of Tetris unfold. It’s the same every morning – will it, won’t it, back a bit and through. You’d think with all that practice, he’d remember from one day to the next… Then, it’s a quick nod and smile to the Scottish Painters. I know they’re Scots because they have the flag painted on the front of their van; and a quick wave to the little tailor. He’s a funny little chap and has been there since the dawn of time. His shop looks like it, too. But he’s a very good tailor apparently, just not that good at housekeeping.

Then I am at work, I aim for the main entrance, but am too early. This means I have to use the fire stairs. This makes me squirm a little as it’s the scene of a horrendous crime, and whilst the perpetrator is safely locked away; there is still, for me, a resonance of unpleasantness that no amount of disinfectant and scrubbing can erase. But I am here, there’s coffee, and it’s good.I do like mornings.

 

Pandora’s Box

This piece was written as a creative writing exercise for a Literature unit I took at University last year. It is supposed to be read as a monologue, and was written as a response to a question regarding prejudice.

For your reading pleasure, may I introduce to you “Everymother and ‘Pandora’s Box’“

PANDORA’S BOX

A nursery.

There is a cot; a change table with a pile of washing, mainly small baby clothes and cloth nappies etc. There is also a rocking chair with a small chest next to it. A woman enters and starts to fold the washing. When the washing is completely folded, she upends it and starts again. On the wall is a clock, it’s about ten to three. There is a lamp on the small chest and it is turned on.

I am so tired, you know that? I don’t think I have ever been this tired in my entire life. It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning, and I should be asleep. He’s asleep. He’d sleep through an earthquake. And the baby is asleep, too, finally. I didn’t think I’d ever get the baby back to sleep tonight, and now I’m still awake.

May as well fold up this washing.

You know, THEY never tell you about this, the bone crushingly aching exhaustion that comes with having a child. I suppose if they did, people wouldn’t do it. But THEY like to tell you about everything else. Everything you’re doing wrong, everything you’re doing that’s different to what they did…

But especially everything you’re doing wrong.

There’s a time between when you first find out that you’re pregnant and when you first start to tell people, that it’s all shiny and new and precious. When you hold that tiny glowing jewel of knowledge close to your chest, when you catch yourself smiling at nothing, and dreaming of what may be.

Then, you start to tell people, let them in to your small, glowing world and it starts.

Oh. You’re pregnant are you? Was it planned?

• That’s a bit sudden isn’t it?
• So, you’re going to get married now?
• What doctor are you going to? Oh him… I could tell you a thing or two about him. My cousin’s best friend’s sister’s aunty…
• At your age?

And this is from the people you know and love and trust and expect to at least be pleased for you. Everyone is an expert on pregnancy; even strange old men on trams.

Especially strange old men on trams.

When you start to show, it’s as if your face disappears. You’re just a belly with legs, nothing more. No one seems to look you in the eye any more, they can’t take their eyes off your belly. And you’re no longer an individual. You no longer have a separate identity. People call you “mum”. Health professionals, friends, relatives…

• And how’s Mum today?
• I don’t know; I haven’t spoken to her yet. But I’M fine, if you’re interested…

Your body is no longer your own. Total strangers, who normally would not even make eye contact with you take the sight of your pregnant body as carte blanche to touch you, rub your belly like the Buddha, incarnate.

I know someone who groped her groper back. This woman, a total stranger to my friend, started rubbing her belly and saying how lovely it was; so my friend reached out and copped a feel of her chest (makes action like polishing a ball with her hands). Talk about outrage! This stranger was so mortally offended that my friend invaded her personal space, invaded her privacy, that she started talking assault…

Yes, I know, ridiculous, isn’t it? This woman gropes my friend then cries foul when she’s touched in return?

And people feel compelled to comment on your appearance. It’s like pregnancy is the last bastion of political incorrectness… I mean you wouldn’t go up to a really fat person and say “MY GOD, you’re HUGE. If you eat that cup cake, you’re going to EXPLODE” It’s not nice. It’s not polite. It’s just not done. But hey, if you’re pregnant… anything goes.

• You’re so big,
• Are you sure you’re not having twins?
• What have you got in there? An elephant?

Judgement Day doesn’t end with the pregnancy, either. Once you actually have your baby, there’s another Pandora’s Box of expert opinions just waiting to be unleashed upon your world.

Breast is best and if you feed your baby formula, you’re dooming it to a life time of stupidity and disease. And what if you can’t breastfeed? Well, you’re obviously a failure as a mother and they should call the baby snatchers straight away. What if it’s not so much a case of not being able to do it, as not being able to…? To breastfeed your child, you need to be comfortable with your body because no matter how hard you try to keep yourself nice, that helpless little infant will do its damnedest to keep your clothing off his dinner.

Which leads to the whole out and about with the baby thing – some people just cannot deal with you breastfeeding your child in public and want to shuffle you off to a dim, dark corner somewhere; and while there are laws – we’re just too well brought up to create a scene. So effectively you’re damned if you don’t breastfeed and banished if you do. Breastfeeding is all about “YOU”, because you’re the only one that can do it, particularly at 3am.

There’s a group of breastfeeding advocates out there, let’s call them the Militant Bosom Ladies, shall we? They would have you think that breast is the only option and that if you dare think you’d like to be away from your baby and alone for a minute, you probably should have just got a dog. These are the women who, if you dare mention you’re considering not breastfeeding, will shove mountains of literature in your face and refer you to sites on the internet to convince you. Because you absolutely must breastfeed; making breast milk is a superpower after all. But if you try to convince one of these Militant Bosom Ladies that there are choices and options and breast is not for everyone – they are outraged. But they don’t think there is anything wrong with forcing you to their will, because Breast is Best, you know.

When your baby is a month or so old, you get matched up with a group of women who have babies the same age as yours. This is great, you can bond together and compare notes and tips, and even better, your kid has someone to play with.

Right.

At first, you talk about your babies and bond over a coffee and cake, but after a while it’s “Oh, isn’t he crawling yet?”; “What on earth are you going to do about the shape of her head?” and “My baby’s been sleeping through for ages” and before you know it, you and your baby are competing in the “Baby Olympics” – Motherhood has become a competition. Little Tarquin is signed up for violin and Japanese, and plays three different sports while you sit back, feeling inadequate because your child is barely walking, let alone running for Australia in the under threes. It’s as if children aren’t allowed to be just little kids any more. If they’re not participating in every activity known to human kind, you are a failure as a parent and obviously don’t care about your child, or its future.

And don’t even think about going back to work to pay for all these extra activities. That involves putting your child in child care and letting someone else care for your precious child. Being a mother is a full time job, but it’s really not all that stimulating. And when you’ve spent years getting an education or building a career, you really don’t want to discard it to stay at home with your kids.

Wrong.

Again.

By not staying at home, you’re going to make your kids turn into delinquents, into latch key children who run amok defacing the neighbourhood. Better to stay at home making cakes and being ready to take them to all these after school activities you’ve signed them up for.

Everyone has an opinion about how you’re raising your kids, and for some reason they feel justified in telling you, even if they don’t know you or your parenting style… Old ladies will point and comment just loudly enough for you to hear about how things were different in their day when your kid has a head banging tantrum in the middle of a shop. You’re too permissive if you let them run around; and too repressive when you keep them under control. Everyone has an opinion and 20c worth of advice for you. And you better take that advice because it worked for them!

And it’s women who do this to other women – women who look down their noses and whisper behind their hands about what you’re doing and not doing with your child. Women. The very people you’d expect to give you the most support and understanding are the ones most likely to criticise you and demean you and belittle your decisions in the name of friendship and the sisterhood.

A baby starts to cry.

The baby’s awake now.

The woman walks over to the cot and picks up the baby. She sits in the rocking chair and starts to feed it.

There’ll still be washing tomorrow…