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.

 

Better late than never…

A week ago today, my country grew up a bit.

The Prime Minister said “sorry” to the indigenous children who were forcibly removed from their parents over a period of about 80 years. He said “sorry” to the indigenous people who have been affected by decisions made by governments and enforced by people since white settlement.

It was absolutely fabulous. And it was about bloody time.

I found it really moving and genuine, and have a whole new respect for Kevin Rudd, who has shown himself to be an articulate, intelligent and compassionate man. It was wonderful that four of the five surviving ex Prime Ministers were there (and to see Gough Whitlam supporting Malcom Fraser was astonishing in itself); and the one who was absent only served to underline what a complete prat that he was.

And I’m sorry too. Sorry that it had to take so long for someone to say a simple word. More than 10 years since the “Bringing them Home” Senate enquiry was tabled in Parliament, more than enough for someone to have the balls and the conviction to do the right thing. The apology was not about money, and shouldn’t be about money – how much money would it take to replace the love of a child and a mother? More than anyone could imagine.

As Nana Fejo said “Families – keeping them together is very important. It’s a good thing that you are surrounded by love and that love is passed down the generations. That’s what gives you happiness.”

And she’s right, too.

 

Make mine a double…

A double vodka valium latte thank you very much, and whilst you’re there, can you please remind me why I had children instead of sticking to child?

Yes. Today was one of THOSE days. One of those days that make you want to get in the car, make sure it’s filled with petrol and drive as far away as you can…

It all started when the Little Kid woke on the wrong side of his cot, and decided we’d moved to Opposite World for the day…

Now, breakfast is my favourite meal. I could eat breakfast three times a day (and that is a topic for another time); for me, breakfast has a ritual quality where I savour my meal, read the paper and sip on a cup of coffee. I like breakfast. This morning, however, the Little Kid had other plans for me. I made his breakfast – yoghurt and some of my berries in the vain hope that this would stop him from eating mine, and sat down with my breakfast.

Bzzzzzzzzzt.

Wrong answer.

Hand over the berries, woman, or I shall scream. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

I hand over the berries.

Kid 1 Mother 0

Then the Big Kid gets up and is ready for his breakfast. He has raisin toast. The Little Kid doesn’t like raisin toast. I suspect this is why the Big Kid *likes* raisin toast.

LK: Want rase toast, mummy

Me: You don’t like raisin toast

LK: WANT rase toast mummy

Me: But you don’t like it..

LK: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Me: Rolls eyes, hands over a slice of raisin toast and promises Big Kid I will shortly make him another piece. I force Little Kid to actually place his buttocks on the seat of the chair instead of hanging off it like a slightly berserk monkey.

LK: I no like rase toast mummy WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Me: Told you.

Kid 0 Mother 0.5 (still made the flippin’ toast, didn’t I?)

Moving right along to dressing the Little Kid. You’d be thinking that clothes that were perfectly acceptable two days ago would pass muster… well, if you were thinking that – you’d be WRONG.

Hysteria ensues as Little Kid screams that his clothes DON’T FIT and I join in with YES THEY DO. Little Kid also announces he  does not want to wear a nappy, and I decree that indeed he does, as he still tends to pee in random places. NO NUK JUST JOCKS MUMMY. Some wrestling follows and Little Kid is dressed in different clothes, but indeed wearing a nappy and jocks. These clothes were only partially acceptable, as he proceeded to spend the bulk of the day semi-naked.

Kid 0 Mother 0

Time to clean up the kitchen after breakfast. This involves stacking the dishwasher, and in order to stack the aforementioned dishwasher, one requires the door to be open. The following conversation was heard…

Shut door. No. Shut door. No. SHUT door. No, I need it open. SHUT DOOOR!!!1!! No. SHUT DOOOOOOOOR!!!!1!1!111!oneone. NO! WAAAAAAAAH. I’m finished now. Door SHUT Yay!

It is important to visualise my part correctly with one hand on the wire basket, one foot on the door, and the other hand alternately batting away the Little Kid and shoving dishes in as quickly as possible.

Kid 0 Mother 1 (I think I won that one)

At some point during the proceedings, I had a small and very noisy tantrum of my own. With door banging and some shed talk and a small amount of rending of hair. This lead to a very interesting hair day.

One of my very favourite books[1] tells me that inside every yelling person is a person who is not yelling. Unfortunately today, my not yelling person is sitting in a corner with her hands over her ears and rocking gently whilst dreaming of a vodka latte.

Kid 1 Mother definitely 0

And for the piece de resisitance…

Apparently I had my shoes on the wrong feet. Yes, me. The Mother. The one who is more than capapble of dressing herself. Lace up sneakers, no less. On the wrong feet. And the expectation was clearly there that I undo the carefully tied laces, place my shoes onto the opposite feet and thus continue upon my way. I thought not, and said so. His reply – WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH SHOES WROOOOONNNNGGGG MUMMMMMMMMYYYYYYY

Kid 0 Mother 1

I tell you what, it’s a good thing this kid is cute. Or he’d have a one way ticket to military school in his sweaty little paw right about now.

Oh, and the events described above?

Took place between 6.30am and 7.25am this morning. Yes. Less than one hour!

---

[1] “Buddhism for Mothers” Sarah Napthali

 

pretty pieces of flesh

Crushes.We’ve all had them, and if we are normal, healthy and red blooded human beings, I am pretty sure that 99% of us still do.

But I am discovering, to my chagrin, that I seem to have an unconventional taste in Crushes.

For example,  I do NOT fancy Brad Pitt. I think he looks like he smells. Even when he looks fairly clean, he still looks like he’d have a right unwashed pong about him. However, Robbie Williams almost definitely does smell, but if he was taller, I would say he is almost attractive. Tom Cruise is another man I would not give up a roast dinner for. He too would smell – Of Brut 33. And Old Spice. Both at the same time.

When all my teen-angsty friends were crushing over Daryl or Shirley, I had my thing for Red Symons. Yes, that Red. He of the Mr Surly Grumpy-Pants fame. I had a thing about him. And Harrison Ford instead of Mark Hamill; Robert Carlyle – even in Trainspotting. And while Christopher Eccleston made a really rather HOT Doctor; David Tennant… Snaggle toothed and slightly grubby Englishmen give me great delight.

And whilst we’re on the topic of Tall Dark and Handsome – Doc Neeson. Phwoar, he used to really pop my cork. I met him once, and I was a dribbling fan-grrl I tell you. It was a very memorable evening, I tell you. I was taken back stage by my friend to meet his Uncle Bernard. He kissed my hand. I swooned. Now, I am a tall girl – but he towered over me. This incredibly tall man with piercing blue eyes looking down on me as I gibbered like a fool. And to think that today Uncle Bernard is pushing 60!

To finish off, I must recount the tale of Meeting Chris Isaak. 

I was on my way to my friend’s house and she called me just before I left to see what I wanted to do. I mentioned that Chris Isaak was playing at Southland and maybe we could go have a look. She thought it was a cool idea and off we went. We parked the car, checked out where the band was playing and got ourselves a good position to see the show, We weren’t total Fan-Grrls you know, it wasn’t as if we had to be frontrow centre or anything (unlike seeing Andy Prieboy in St Kilda with Mad M – but that’s a tale for another day). Saw the band, they were pretty good, then they announced that Chris Isaak would be hanging around to sign autographs.

The queue was immense, so we weren’t going to bother. We went and bought his CD, looked around a couple of shops and decided to hell with it, we had no other plans, we were just on for a chat anyway – so chatting in the queue and being all ironic and everything about being there was fine with both of us.

So we queued. For TWO WHOLE HOURS. We both expected that he would announce “autographs were over” at any moment, and just chatted and giggled about being fan grrls and how Mad M would be soooo jealous when we told her at work on Monday. Then it was our turn.

By crikey, that man is HOT. H.O.T. Swoonworthy blue eyes, muscular arms, sleeves rolled up – and that voice… Honey, dark chocolate smoothness as he looks up at you and asks how to spell your name… ahbadahddhahweedhhsaa. Lost all ability to speak, I did. And my friend wasn’t much better than I was. We got our signed cds and ran off giggling like the total fan girlies we really and truly were; then had to have a good sit down afterwards to recover.

And as for Mad M… She, of course, had to do one better. She went to the concert, queued up for THREE hours and got a tshirt, which she wore to work the next day. Bet her tshirt’s all worn out now. And I still have my cd!

 

Moving House

On the recommendation of some fellow Bloggers, I have made the gradual transition from Blogger to WordPress which appears to have many more fun tricks and cool toys to play with.

I have been given a Personal Challenge by a friend, and that is to write two pieces a month. I am making it a New Years Revolution to give myself a fair crack at the challenge, because that pesky life business has a way of getting in the way of best laid plans. However, stranger things have happened and inspiration can strike at any moment.

 

Can you remember….

The bloke of the house and I were having a discussion the other day about the humble mobile phone.

Now, I was a relatively early adopter of this technology – I justified mine as I needed to be contactable when my father was very ill. My parents were even earlier adopters – they had one of those Bag Phones… Gigantic and cumbersome, the size of a rather large shoebox – but for the parental units who liked to go off the beaten track – quite a practical, and really awe inspiring device, despite the need for both of them to stand on the roof of the 4WD – one to hold the bag and one to talk on the phone – in order for them to get any reception at all…

It was a lot better than having to leave messages at umpty dozen caravan parks in the (usually) vain hope they would call in there for a shower on their way to somewhere else wild and savage.

My first phone was a lot more modern… Mine was a flip phone, it was small enough to fit in my pocket and I didn’t need to stand on the roof of anything in order to use it! The main problem I had with mine was its tendency to go flat if I made or received more than three calls; accidently changing the language to Norwegian when I was on holidays (but my housemate had the same phone, so I could call him to get instructions to change it back); oh, and my housemate having an identical phone to mine and neither of us realising for two days…

But I sure felt special, I tell you.

There are indeed some benefits to having a mobile phone – if you break down in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, you don’t need to walk for kilometres in the dark and knock on the door of some freaky potential serial killer’s house and ask to use their phone. And you don’t need to walk back to your car with the certain knowledge that the aforementioned freaky serial killer has just cancelled your call to the auto club and is right this very moment stalking you down their very long driveway. Oh, and you’re not getting wet, either, because it is in the rules that cars must break down in the middle of the night when it’s raining.

It doesn’t matter that I don’t have a specific work number – I have a mobile, so can be contacted on that if there’s anything wrong with the kids. And when my dad was ill, I stressed less about being away from home for any length of time, and thus uncontactable.

I remember sitting at home, waiting for a call, for hours and hours when I was an angsty teen ager (and I have the hand-written angsty teen diaries to prove it… “why doesn’t he call me? I know there’s a phone at the cricket club. I’m sure he’s got 20c to make the call. I’m not going to drive down there…” I guess if I was a teen today, I could send him progressively angrier text messages, whilst I messaged my girlfriends on MSN. Or just plain go out and if he called, he did…

Now, though, my leaving the house litany is “purse phone keys” assuming I am alone, of course. Otherwise, it takes me ten minutes to reel off my list of “must haves” when I walk out the door – kids, nappies, snacks, toys, change of clothes, hats sunscreen wipes purse phone keys. I rarely leave the house without that tiny, pocket sized anchor to the rest of my life.

I rarely use it for “emergencies”, most of the calls I make are “darling, how much milk do we have?” or “can you bring the washing in?” and not forgetting the “where the hell are you?” call that I was not able to make when I actually was an angsty teen instead of the mature and responsible adult I am now.

Except sometimes I forget it…

And you know what?

It feels good, it feels free…

And really really naughty.

 

Hunting for the family

Let me start by saying I am not the kind of person who gets any joy from shopping. Yes, I enjoy the casual stroll around the shops, maybe buying something, maybe not. But shopping for a purpose does not make me happy. And shopping for food makes me less than happy.

The closest supermarket to my house is located in a small, slightly weird shopping centre. We call it Deliverance Village, because I always hear banjo music when I am there. Not only is the supermarket frequented by more than the average population of loonies, there is a particularly large number of elderly people. Now, I know I too will be an old person one day, but still. Old people are really annoying in supermarkets. They stop randomly, stare into space, smell strongly of mothballs and old, and accost innocent bystanders to tell them their entire life stories…

This is why internet shopping makes me very happy. I sit at my computer, glass of wine in one hand, shopping list in the other; pick out my selections, and press send. them less than 24 hours later, it’s delivered to my kitchen. Yes, my KITCHEN. All this for less than $8. Calm, pleasant transaction, and all I have to do is put it away.

BUT…

I have been dieting. I have been eating well. And most importantly, I have been eating a lot more fresh food. And fresh food is something the internet groceries do not so well. So I shop at the fruit shop and the butcher and the baker, with only an occasional need for a top up shop at the supermarket. This means heading to the local with list in hand for a quick trip around the aisles…

OR…

Hmm. We don’t need all that much. It’s not really worth doing an online shop, I’ll just go to the supermarket…with the kids. I really don’t need all that much stuff, and last time we went they were really good…

Yes. Well. That was last time. I bribed them with a snack to start off with – iced bun from the bakery. Mmmm sticky. The Big Kid hops out of the trolley when it started getting congested – six litres of milk and six litres of juice will fill up a trolley somewhat. The Big Kid is pretty good – doesn’t run away, will help more often than not. The Little Kid likes to Help. We start working our way through the list, and the first pass through the supermarket is – well – They Moved Everything Around.

Don’t you hate that?

I don’t go to the supermarket all that often, but I go often enough that I know roughly where everything is. But when They decide to rearrange things, it’s a Phil Spector Nightmare. First pass through, the trolley is getting full; and I seem to have lots of large things. This means the back of the little seat is starting to ummm move forward, I guess. The Little Kid is getting restless, so I let him out. Little Kid has been cooped in the trolley for half an hour, he’s more than a little restless so the first thing he does when he’s released is run…

STOP!

Half a dozen old dears stop dead in their tracks, and the Little Kid cuts and weaves through their legs. I am hot pursuit, wheeling the overladen trolley between the oldies and the shelf stackers. I catch him, threaten him with going back *in* the trolley… It’s all good. I go back to checking my list, and scouring the shelves for the things that were right there last time we came… So – I have one eye on the Big Kid, one eye on my list, one eye on the shelves and one eye on the Little…

STOP!

The Little Kid backs carefully away from the stack of really interesting and shiny things he has his paws on, and a couple more old dears gradually start moving again… We finally get to the checkout, Big Kid has managed to completely trash the packaging of a 12 pack of toilet paper by pretending it was a Ben 10 watch. Hmm. 12 pack of loo rolls v watch. Yes. I can see the connection. Little Kid decides that he has to Help unload the trolley. Little Kid cannot see over the trolley let alone pick anything out to put on the coveyor belt. I take things out, hand them to him, he puts them on the conveyor belt, I move them along… I call the Big Kid back with his Ben 10 watch err toilet rolls and give the Little Kid a banana.

By the time we got home, I was ready for a Bex and a lie down. But unfortunately, I had 90 million bags of shopping to lug up the stairs, then put away whilst keeping aforementioned children OUT of the shopping and from sampling tasty objects.

Memo to self: DON’T DO IT!!!!

 

Just a little wafer thin mint…

Just one little thing.

It will only take a minute.

Really.

A minute of your time is all that it will take.

So you feel compelled to say “ok”, because it really is only a minute and it really is a little thing.

But hang on, wait a second… What about that little thing you’re doing for Fred? And that one for Mary? Not to mention that wee five minute job you said you’d do for Tom in your lunch break? Then, that one little thing gets added to a pile of other little things and all of a sudden you’re facing a mountain of tiny little jobs that will indeed only take a minute or two. EACH. And that five minute job? Well, yes – the actual job takes five minutes, but it takes 15 minutes to get there, 10 minutes waiting to be seen and another 15 minutes to get back to work – and there goes your 45 minute lunch break.

Why can we not just say NO to a request for a minute of our time? Is it because we fear being seen as unreasonable and stingy – what’s a minute, anyway? Sixty seconds, what can you do in sixty seconds? Not a lot, so surely it’s no bother to help out…

Right now, on my desk, I have a little pile of paper – “You’re here til 5pm, can you just call this person for me” No worries, a phone call will indeed only take a minute – but there’s some follow up, a fax to receive, check that it has the right information, call back and confirm receipt of said fax and that yes it indeed does say what it needs to say. Then it needs to be handed off to the person who asked you to make the call, explanations need to be made and that one minute phone call has turned into an hour of your day.

And I have four of them, in varying stages of completion, that I have to check on becase I said “Sure, I’ll do that for you” And that work I have to do, regardless, gets rushed or pushed aside; and instead of leaving work calmly at 5pm, I’m running out the door half an hour late to pick up the kids, there’s a mountain of unfinished work to deal with in the morning and you just know that because you’re running late now; nothing is going to help you catch up – short of taking a leap through the gap in the space-time continuum or some judicious use of a transporter beam – your well-oiled evening routine goes completely out the window because you only took a minute to help someone out (because, ironically, they chose to leave work on time…)

Why can we not ask someone else for a minute of their time? Because we know damn well it’s not actually a minute we’re after and would feel guilty for offloading something to which we are committed. At home, it’s even worse, because you know that you could nag, beg, cajole, bribe, yell, scream and/or plead with a family member to pick up their socks or put their dishes in the dishwasher – but it only takes a minute to actually do it (rather than the three hours of nagging), so you do it yourself. Multiply that minute for the washing, that minute for the dishes, that minute to take the bins out, that minute to find the lost whatever it was that wouldn’t be lost if it’s owner took a MINUTE and put it away… by the number of family members you have, though and all of a sudden, you have lost half a day. You still have the same amount of jobs of your own to do, but less time in which to do them.

And where does that extra time come from? Your time. Your time to relax, unwind, watch your favourite tv show is eaten up by doing something for someone else that will just take a minute…

Remeber that scene in Monty Python’s Meaning of Life where the waiter offers the gigantic man “just a little wafer”…

STAND BACK!!!

I think she’s gonna BLOW!

 

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…

 

Park at your own risk

SOME EXPLANATION IS NEEDED TO START OFF WITH:

I live and work in a large, regional city. As with most cities, parking can come at somewhat of a premium.At the start of the year, it wasn’t too bad. Then the City Of Digging Stuff Up and Knocking Things Down (CODSUANKTD) gave building approval to build not one but TWO further lots of apartments on two of the remaining reasonably central carparks AND allowed a major shopping development to take place on the other one; and as a result more than 1000 car parks were lost. And lost permanently (unless the shopping centre brings back the Early Bird all day parking for $5 thing; which I seriously doubt.

As you can imagine, the consequences of the loss of 1000 carparks in the CBD has been an influx of cars parking on residential streets. And the residents are Not Impressed. They cannot get a park outside their own houses, and if they happen to get one, are virtually stuck there for the day, as they wouldn’t be able to get a park within a block when they get home. Now, part of this problem is caused by the aforementioned CODSUANKTD allowing people to knock down the old weatherboard house with off street parking for 2-3 cars and replace them with lots of three or four units with parking for 1.6 cars per unit on site. When the workers complained – the CODSUANKTD responded by telling them that if they lived in the Big Smoke, they’d have to park miles and miles and miles away… Now, I don’t know about everyone else, but I choose to live in a regional city for a reason, and this town is NOT the Big Smoke. So the CODSUANKTD decided that in order to be fair, they would implement a Park ‘n’ Ride system at a carpark roughly 2km from the CBD and run a bus every 15 minutes for a cost; and in addition they would convert half the off street parking within a 2km radius to 2 hourly parking and charge the residents for parking permits… Yup, charge the people who are paying inner city rates an additional $40 per car park for the privilege of parking out the front of their own homes.

Anyway, this brings me to the purpose of my tale.

I live just over 2km from the CBD, my kids go to childcare about 1.5km from home, and a smidge under 1km from work. The Park ‘n’ Ride would mean having to leave home 30 minutes EARLIER in order to maybe meet up with a bus, and end up having to walk 20 minutes to work. (Please note: it’s not the walk that bothers me, it’s the time factor). It also means travelling the same distance as driving HOME, so I’d be better off dropping the car off and walking from there! So with much calculating and experimentation, I have discovered that if I park at daycare and walk from there, it actually takes less time than driving and parking elsewhere, and I end up walking maybe 100m maximum more than I was previously (see, told you I didn’t mind the walk).

The added bonus of this is that because my fine young son is a slacker, and objects to walking further than he absolutely has to whilst carrying his brother’s daycare bag; it means I can generally get him revved up enough in the morning to be early so we get a “good” park. Now, there are roughly seven or eight (depending on size of car and parking skillz) car parks out the front of daycare; and there is a very strict albeit unwritten “ettiquette” to parking, particularly for the first three cars:

1. Car #1 MUST park as far forward as they can, because
2. Car #2 has to allow for getting kids out of the car around a telegraph pole that would be in the middle of the back door if they were parked further forward, which means
3. Car #3 has to park right up the exhaust pipe of car #2 in order to not block the driveway.

So, as long as Car #1 parks as far forward as possible, there is enough room for three cars in one strip. It works, we’ve worked it out, and it works every single morning. We normally get Park #2 or 3, but this morning, relegated to Park #5! And why?

Because a DAD DROPPED OFF IN PARK #1.

You do not DROP OFF in the parks out the front; drop offs are done in the carpark! And at 7.30am, the carpark is NOT congested, so there is no need to upset the day of at least three Working Mothers who have undoubtedly (at my house, anyway) already been up for hours and have spent the majority of that time yelling at assorted children to get ready and may or may not be caffienated to an adequate level to accept any degree of change in the morning. Not to mention the simple fact that preschoolers and toddlers are creatures of Routine and do not like changes thrust upon them, particularly when mum hasn’t had enough coffee.
And he parked badly, so when Car #2 and Car #3 filled behind him, then he left, there was only room for a very little car in Park #1.

I tell you what, if I get my hands on him…