Sleepless in sanity aka Motherhood

I am a bit of a walking zombie at the moment. I felt in good company though when Bang, my two year old, passed out while sitting in a shopping trolley today. If I'd been in there with him we would have both been mouth open, drooling, head awkwardly balanced against metal bars, rocking suddenly forward as we drifted off to la-la-land. Instead I was leaning against the trolley as I dragged myself around occasionally holding Bang's head up so it wouldn't fall off. I was getting some strange looks, but nothing new there!

I must admit though I am a little disappointed with my near exhaustion, I am a mother of toddlers, not babies, toddlers. You know the ones that don't need a breastfeed at 11pm and 3am, the ones that lull you into this false sense of security when they start sleeping through at 8 months. The ones that make you think that now they were 18 months and nearly 3 that you had seen the last of incessant sleep deprivation. 

Right? WRONG! 

There are these things that happen after the baby phase, but not straight away, they give you a 3-6 months to get used to needing 7-8 hours sleep again only to hit you with: 

TOILET TRAINING

Suddenly midnight and 3am are back on the schedule. "Mama, I need to do weeeeeee!" is the most common sound that drags me from sweet dreams, to pull down mini undies, usually with Buzz Lightyear all energetically flying through the air on them, effing Buzz! Or worse still, to change the bed because you were deluded enough to think that after two weeks of not wetting the bed, you had this superstar, genius child who was going to last the night without having a little dream about "weeee!" while lying asleep in his temporarily dry bed. Let me tell you there's a reason why there is a large part of the nappy aisle dedicated to night nappies disguised as "pyjama pants". 

DAYLIGHT KlLLlNG

And just when I thought we may get a full night's sleep plus that extra hour I've been missing for 5 months, back from Daylight saving ending, the sun going down just 1 small hour earlier which unbeknown to me translates in toddler world to rising at 5am. 5AM?!!! WTF?! 

I used to LOOOOVE daylight savings. I used to dream about the warm adventures that were available to me once that sun stayed up until 8pm. That was until I met two little people that you would swear were possessed all because some bright spark decided to muck around with the bloody clocks. It will come as no surprise then when I tell you I hate Daylight Saving with a passion now and have renamed it accordingly. 

All I can conclude is you have three choices:

1. Move to Queensland (I don't need to tell you what is wrong with this decision, do I?)

2. Don't have children until they are 7 or else keep them in nappies until then (joking! my toddlers seriously rock... especially when they are asleep)

3. Have a whinge on your blog and hope other people laugh at your demented state then GO TO BED and DON'T go on Twitter (I think this is probably the best option, not for any apparent reason of course)

How many years until I get a full night's sleep people? 

Ok maybe don't tell me as I'm not currently suicidal and don't want to be any time soon.

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The Problem with Mortality: Jim Stynes gone at 45

On the day of Jim Stynes state funeral an edited version of this post was published in the Tele

"All those moments lost in time...like tears in rain...time to die"

BladeRunner 1982

I’m not in to watching sport, in fact when my husband turns it on, daily that is, I go kind of mental and loudly threaten a 24 hour Jane Austen marathon until he changes the channel. But tonight the not so random Fox Sports channel specifically selected to watch a dedication to AFL legend Jim Stynes sent me a different kind of crazy. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I took in the loss of an obviously great man with a rare mix of humility, drive and amazing character. My heart broke as I imagined his wife and children facing a future without what was obviously the backbone of their reality gone. And as I saw the helplessness we all share when the enemy of our time rears it’s ugly head, to cut short another young life at only 45, it was almost too much.

Last year Sarah Watt died of Cancer, a month before her, Steve Jobs, weeks before that Gavin Larkin, a few months before that my cousin, and the list goes on like a morbid game of Chinese Whispers that leaves only grief and sadness in its wake.

We are surrounded by death, a day does not go by in which we are not confronted by mortality. Whether it be a car accident, a suicide bomb or an illness, the TV beams it to us daily. Not surprising really, given over 150,000 people die each day. What is surprising though is how we manage to ignore it, mainly because it is not our own and for years and hopefully whole life times we carve a path through life without looking death squarely in the eye. We live as if immortal.

Even when my Mother was diagnosed with Breast Cancer I managed to shelve the situation in the “she’ll be right” category of my brain and luckily she was. Today though my delusion is showing cracks and I don’t know whether it is maturity or just that the people threatened and dying now are peers, but my "eternal" existence is being challenged.

Jim, Steve and Sarah had children, so have I, they were happy, so am I, they were in their 40s, so am I, they were needed, so am I. There it is, the unfamiliar face of death taking someone my age, at my stage of life. It is despicable, wrong and absurd. But most of all it is insanely confronting.

It is an understatement to say I am not happy about this happening. The injustice of it is driving me quietly mad. I am sad and angry and desperate at this interruption to such brilliant existences. “It is NOT fair! this is not how it is meant to be” I scream as I try to return death back to its abstract box, miles away from me. But as I spin hopelessly in my new world without infinity, I realise I need a new way to look at this or I would be of no use to anybody.

Then I remembered what I had heard last year. When it became apparent that Steve Jobs was gravely ill, I watched his speech to Stanford graduates. It left me a blubbering mess then and compelled me to write about his life, but his words were like oxygen for those grieving his loss after he died and I so I share them again as we grieve again today for Jim Stynes:

“Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart…”

Steve Jobs, 2005

And when Jim Stynes was asked whether he thought what was happening to him was incredibly unjust he responded: 

“Life throws up challenges, life is unfair.
When you understand that, you can get on with your life”. 

Jim Stynes, 2010

He also admitted to being too busy to get a sizable lump on his back checked despite his wife urging him to go to the Doctor. Sound familiar? “Living” does gets in the way of life and if on the day we die we want to look back without regret, listening to those that have at last faced their own mortality is key. 

So maybe instead of seeing a seething monster when death reminds us it exists, we need to see a motivator with a light shining through our material and superficial trappings to our soul and heart. A filter that tears away the unimportant and uncovers what it is we want from our very finite life. 

Unfortunately these inspirational and wise words can’t reduce the intense pain of losing someone we love or the thought of our own self ceasing. But maybe if we accepted that one day our spirit will end with one final synapse firing in our brain. Maybe then and only then would we truly learn how to live, grateful for the things that matter, and looking for ways to find inner happiness and share it with those we love.

When life gets in the way and I forget what really matters I am going to stop and remember the great ones that don’t have the chances I have, to cherish their gorgeous family and friends and to stop sometimes and just be.

Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam Jim Stynes

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The Bøøb more lethal than The Slap?

'The Slap' captured my imagination back in October 2011 and last week aired in the US. If you haven't seen it yet it has to be one of the best series I've ever seen! Here is how the first episode got to me back then. 

Like a lot of Australians last night I sat glued to the ABC for the debut of ABCTV’s ‘The Slap’, the TV series immortalising the controversial novel of the same name. So there I sat, patiently waiting for the aforementioned slap to occur.

But then a different scene slapped me far harder than a whack ever could. There was a mother still breastfeeding her four year old at a BBQ. In front of a few six year olds, no less.

At this point a collective “Eeeewwww” echoed through Twitter and presumably loungerooms nationally. Then the defence began. Women tweeted furiously: breastfeeding is a natural and beautiful thing! A woman has a right to breast feed for as long as she likes, where she likes!

As a public breastfeeder myself up until five months ago, I have no issue with other women whipping them out wherever they need to. The choice is either a starving baby in pain, screaming it’s head off or a flash of nipple. I know which I would prefer.

Why I screwed up my nose at the scene and then groaned at those defending her afterwards was because this was not a depiction of a child needing a feed. This was a sad dysfunctional scene of parents failing their child on a number of levels. If a little boy is old enough to hit other children, break their expensive games consoles and wield a cricket bat at their heads, he is old enough to be taught the difference between right and wrong, and ordered off to the naughty corner. Instead his insipid mother offers him the reward of a comforting breastfeed.

This is all types of wrong and has very little to do with the rights of mothers worldwide to breastfeed in a “whateverworksforyou” kind of way.

Have we become so politically correct, so populist that we can’t stand up and say that this woman is turning something beautiful into something revolting and wrong? I hope not, because I was completely grossed out and I will not apologise for recoiling as I watched two people selfishly undermine a healthy foundation for their son.

There is something inherently wrong with abusing the responsibility we as parents have. We possess a huge amount of power over our children’s lives and threatening them physically or emotionally, is jeopardising the very framework of which they will rely upon for the rest of their lives. The bøøb, in this case, is as lethal as the slap.

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PARENT LOSES WILL-TO-LIVE AT INDOOR PLAY CENTRE

When I was a child-free, busy career-woman waking up to the sprinkling of rain on a weekend was kind of romantic and the perfect excuse to stay in bed longer. The worst that could happen is a picnic or BBQ would need to be moved undercover, but to be honest I wasn’t really rolling in picnic invitations. In fact most weekends I was suffering from at least a minor hangover, so really the world could have frozen over outside and as long as I had a doona I’d be happy.

Then two tenacious little wriggly things changed all that when they found their way through the perils of my uterean landscape into ovum heaven. Rain on a weekend now means only one thing and it is no longer a nice warm lie in, it in no way resembles a snuggle as you drift between hazy consciousness and la-la-land, and it causes worse brain damage than any amount of alcohol consumption. ‘IT’ is the INDOOR PLAY CENTRE.

Three simple words that in isolation are all quite innocuous, they could even be seen as quite positive, but when combined in this particular order contain the power to strike fear into the hearts of the brave, reduce the stoic to cowering messes of tears and transform the cool, calm and collected to hot, bothered and berserk.

Funnily enough the truth of this doesn’t prevent desperate parents from once again venturing into the fray at the slightest hint of rain. For some reason the last memory of play-centre insanity is overshadowed by the more recent hell raised by two trapped banshees, I mean boys, in the space formerly recognised as the home. Which, after a morning of rain, is easily mistaken for a small landfill site. And letting them loose in a ball-filled pit of despair seems like the better option to living in a tip for a day…until you arrive.

The noise itself, something akin to the screams of a thousand cats being strangled, would send any normal person running in the opposite direction, but to a parent on a rainy day, they stay the course, wildly hanging on to the hope that this time, despite blood pouring from their ears, it will be fun for all.

It really isn’t until you are through the door and you lose sight of one child in the multi-level tunnels, nets and padded shapes and the other disappears under a rainbow of germ-infested plastic balls that the horror returns and you realise the error of your ways. By then it is too late to retreat as your hell, is your children’s idea of the most fun they have ever had in their whole life.

On this particular morning I looked jealously at parents sitting at tables, relaxed with coffees, smug in the knowledge they can leave there over-four year old to fend for themselves, which is code for my child is now big enough to run into, push over, throw balls at everyone else’s children. Conversely I removed my shoes and ran around on padded vinyl, batting big kids out of the way and diverting incoming missiles as my 16 month old giggled his way through mazes and ball pits. My only consolation was knowing my hubby was currently squeezing himself through a wobbling, netted tunnel three levels above the ground in an effort to keep sight of our 2 year old, who was about to disappear into a mess of mangled bodies hurtling themselves down a 30ft slide on hessian bags.

Don't be fooled by the pretty colours and cute monkeys...this is HELL on earth.

There is always an island of respite with a sign above it stating, “under fours only”. Again a glimmer of hope returns as you drag your child towards the single level, fenced in, near empty toddler area, and almost hysterically sell-in the excitement of what is obviously the most boring area in the centre, even a dirty cup off the floor is more captivating, because god-forbid you could be allowed to relax for more than 5 seconds. Their sudden possession by the spirit of hell drawing them back to the rampaging levels of mayhem drives you back through the gate to hell again. And you watch as they head, giggling for certain injury.

We escaped this time with only a four year jumping on our 16 month old’s head from height no less, but xrays were not required, and other than the obligatory “Damien” impersonations as we try to extract our little energy balls from their extremely fun “pinball machine”, we escaped with our lives only just. But I know I left about ten years of my life in there and if I ever consider going again I require you to smack me in the head with a large shovel.

 ©2012, My IdeaLife, All rights reserved

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OUR FIRST KISS

Rodin's "The Eternal Idol"
Sketched by love-obsessed 25 year old me.

I sketched this in Vienna when I was 25. I was sitting on the floor of a Museum, as you do when you're a backpacker. It felt like my whole life's dream was encapsulated in this beautiful Rodin sculpture. I had left my then-boyfriend to travel for six months (which turned in to three years) and so my heart was aching as I drank in the lust this depicted. I obviously wasn't that heartbroken though as only days later I ran off to Bruges with a very hunky American. What? I was confused and besides the boyfriend ended up being a completely deluded, selfish git masquerading as a snag, so thank goodness I didn't save myself for him.

In fact ever since my first kiss 10 years earlier, I'd been in love with love. It was at a summer party and I don’t even know how it happened, I was sitting on this guy’s lap and next thing you know we were snogging and with tongue! It was divine, and as I closed my eyes I'm sure I saw stars (that had nothing to do with the alcohol consumed of course).

I actually think that kiss more than any Hollywood movie was the reason it took me so long to find 'the one'. From that moment on I judged the potential of every relationship by the first kiss. This was so illogical, not that kissing is logical at the best of times, but most of my best kissing had been with the biggest bastards on earth, and really that was all they would good for. A good pash and then see you later really. But for some reason I forgot this as my knees turned to jelly and my imaginary world clouded out any sense of reality. 

Think I might give my hubby a snog when he gets home as feeling a little inspired, not sure it will be quite the same with toddlers attached to both legs, but I'll give it a go.

What was your first kiss like? 

Did it turn you into a pashing bandit like it did me?

©MyIdeaLife, 2011, All rights reserved

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MUMMY'S FUNKY FRIDAY : Pumped Up Kicks

My recent Friday Night Lights stories got me thinking about how life as a parent can be so boring that a loud street party you're not at and a bit of car bashing being done by a drunken lout to your own car is about as exciting as it gets. TRAGIC! And then this song came on the radio (I haven't yet given in to the grown up impulse to switch to talkback radio) and I found myself dancing hands in the hair, dance party style in the front seat of our car (don't worry I wasn't driving, god help us if I were).

Source: Fosterthepeople.com

This reminded me that I used to be an obsessed music chick that danced whenever she got the chance but especially in front of Chris Cornell in Rotterdam, ColdPlay in a muddy field in Byron Bay and Foo Fighters at Big Day Out to name a few. Although my true claim to fame was when a girlfriend and I cleared the dance floor in Nottingham when Run D.M.C's 'It's like that' came on. Today you are more likely to find me rocking out to Toot Toot Chugga Chugga Big Red Car (one day I might show you the video, 'lovingly' recorded by my hubby) and although I love The Wiggles for the smiles they bring to my children's faces, they have nothing on the strong guitar riffs and unshaven growls of the likes of Dave Grohl, which I had forgotten...until now.

So I bring you (and me) the first instalment of MUMMY'S FUNKY FRIDAY, your way out of being a boring parent who's only view to the outside world is somewhere between Larry & Kylie on The Morning Show and Tony or Alan Jones, depending on your political sway. And although all of these people make an amazing contribution to society in their own way, you don't want to find yourself quoting them during the rare times you get out of the house and talk to people taller than 4ft. Instead you can now say "Have you heard of that band 'Foster the people'?" and there you have it - instant COOL.

Pumped Up Kicks is their first single and it has made them a global hit. If you can ignore that the lyrics are about a dysfunctional youth with an absent father who's recently got his hand on a gun then this is the perfect Summer anthem. Jill Menze of Billboard describes why saying "[it] boasts a laid-back, lo-fi '60s vibe, a slick bassline and an undeniably catchy chorus" all which make it impossible not to at least tap your foot to, even with a toddler on board. In fact I challenge you not to start bopping up and down in a daggy Mum kinda way!

And so you can appear amazingly informed Foster the people was formed out of LA and was originally named Foster & the people after frontman Mark Foster, but this was continually misheard and the band gave up trying to correct it and changed the name. They played at Splendour in the Grass (that field I was talking about above if you didn't already know), in July, which I didn't attend because I was up at the same time rocking in a not-so-fun-way with my then baby. But now that I'm cool again maybe I can get to their rumoured appearance at Big Day Out 2012 (Stop laughing!)

Luckily the video above is just snippets from this young band's tour footage rather than teenagers outrunning gunmen, and although I've never been a rock star, well not in real life anyway, I have been that girl in the front row, wearing not very much and dancing like my life depended on it, all the while making eyes at the lead singer. This song is all types of nostalgic and this Mum is completely dreamy about it, I hope it has the same affect on you. 

HOW COOL ARE YOU NOW? (or how behind am I?)

©MyIdeaLife, 2011, All rights reserved

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Friday Night Lights - Part 2: Flashing

I'm sure my single, not-so-sober self of 2004
would have nothing to learn from this situation

The teenagers were gone and the only hum I could hear was the soft yet extremely annoying sound of my hubby's snoring, but that's why I have earplugs and once they were in I was happily stepping off my cliff to lala land. I had only just hit the ground, Wile E Coyote style, when my cartoon desert melted back into our bedroom, a space suddenly filled with the angry screams of a teenage boy. He wasn't very imaginative in his song to our street, it was essentially various forms of the word "F*CK". Loud ones, long ones and staccato ones with the word 'IT' sometimes applied.

My heart leapt into my throat, "this was my fault, if I hadn't paraded around outside like a deranged fool, then this wouldn't be happening" I thought and worked hard not to show, my hubby needed no more ammo as he stood at the window trying to catch a glimpse of the psycho pacing around outside.

'Is he out the front?' I scream whispered
Boom: 'Shut up...he's in front of next door's place'
Me: 'What's he doing?'
Boom: 'Shut.up' 
Me: 'It's not like he can hear me, the voices in his head are clearly draining all sense of reality' 
Boom: 'I'm trying to hear'
Me: 'Well he's not exactly whispering is he, I'm pretty sure the guy in seat 7D of the plane that just flew over asked his wife "who's that shouting 'Faaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrkkkkk'?' so what exactly are you trying to hear?'
Boom: 'Shhhhh'

At this point with curiosity that has killed many cats and a conscience desperate to be cleared I jumped up too and joined him at the blind.

Boom: 'Go back to bed' 
Me: 'No, I want to see what's going on'
Boom: 'You're opening the blind up too much he'll see'
Me: 'Sweet, the guy is having a conversation with an invisible purple martian that is probably trying to kill him, he's not going to see a 4cm gap in a blind 30m away'
Boom: 'Fine'

For the next thirty minutes we rode the wave created by our screaming friend that oscillated between being lulled into a false sense of 'we can go to sleep now he's passed out' and jumping back up to peek out the window when a renewed round of F-bombs were dropped. As I had already had a nice conversation with a police officer earlier in the evening and was now getting a little bored with the show, I was gagging to call the police.

'Should I call the police?'
2mins later
'Do you want me to call the police?
2mins later
'I don't mind calling the police, what do you think?'

Suddenly the game changed and our lunatic discovered an uncovered skip bin that obviously was the martian's spaceship as he started attacking it physically and giving it a strong piece of his crazed mind.

'I think I should call the police.' was met with around 5 seconds of silence before a much louder crashing sound occurred at which point my usually calm and quiet hubby started yelling 'Call the police! call the police! he's smashing the cars, he's just smashed Ben's car, there goes ours now, call them!'

I dialled 000 and it was then, and only then that he decided to run off. 30 minutes of loud mayhem and the second my fingers touch the phone he disappears. I couldn't believe it. The police arrived and Boom spoke to them briefly and then for about the fiftieth time that evening we crawled back into bed.

A few minutes went by and my cartoon life was returning when Bang decided that the new found silence was disturbing and started crying. Hubby took this one and returned again to sleep, by now it was 1.30am and I was well and truly over all this. But it wasn't the agitation that kept me from sleeping next, it was a knock at the door.

'What the...?'

We opened the door and the police had returned, they needed a full description as another police unit had found our noisy friend, his mind-free state obviously hard to miss. We obliged, of course, and as developments occurred loudly over radios on our balcony it was obvious we were in for the long haul. A full official statement was required, the teen was arrested and my Hubby had to identify evidence and describe everything he saw, all this under the curious eye of his wife and 2 year old, who of course had been woken by now.

At 2.30am we tried to go to bed again, but it seemed this particular Friday night was determined to keep at least one of us awake all night. So my hubby ended up in the spare bedroom for the rest of the night being kicked by a deep-sleeping 2 year old.

There is much to learn from this cautionary tale like:

• don't confront teenagers in your PJs (you'd get a much better reaction in the nude)
• when someone shines a laser in your bedroom pretend you are 17 again, at a dance party and about to pass out intoxicated
• don't introduce your 2 year old to a Policeman at 2am in the morning, he is likely never to sleep again, and my favourite;
• don't be mean to your wife because Karma is likely to be more of a bitch than she is! 

What did you learn?
(Please don't say "You're a nutbag" I am aware of this fact already! LOL)

© MyIdeaLife, 2011, All rights reserved.

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Motherhood Unearthed

As I write nearly three billion Google searches have happened, 98 million tweets posted and 210 billion emails sent and that’s just today. We are living in an age of information, it is everywhere and for most it is easily accessible, that is, until we reach the topic of childbirth.

Traditionally mystery has shrouded this rite of passage, so to speak, but in a time when we are exposed to the sex videos of try-hard celebrities, gruesome crime photos or graphic footage of surgeries, surely the details surrounding childbirth are mild in comparison?

I have given birth twice and I went to the antenatal classes the first time, I watched the video of the screaming woman, but I still had no idea of what I was in store for. I knew there would be pain, I knew my options for drugs or not and I had been told by lots of well-meaning mothers “make sure you get lots of sleep before the baby comes.” That was about it.

Now is when I could choose to fill the gap with some gory details to help prepare any blissfully, waddling first-timers, but a couple of things have given me pause.

Firstly when I asked newly pregnant twitter friend Emily Jade O'Keefe what advice she’d like, she said ‘Only share the good please, I’ll find out the bad’. Secondly pre-baby I vaguely recall hearing some advice but it seemed to go in one ear and out the other. It made me wonder is childbirth and being a new Mum inexplicable to footloose, childfree women?

But what finally sealed the sealed section on childbirth for me was the fact that women are classic worriers, pregnant women are on the anxiety-ridden, hormone roller coaster and new mothers are often near to being committed. So if we were to share the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me drugs, would it help or just send them over the edge?

So I’m not going to explain to you what an ice-filled condom is for, or what happens to your empty belly soon after giving birth, my friend is right – you’ll find that out soon enough.

But there is one thing I wish I’d known: that my life would be turned inside out and upside down and that during the tumultuous and emotional change you have to be kind to yourself. Becoming a mother is one of life’s biggest changes. You’ve probably heard this one by Raphael-Leff (1994) from me before but I love it, they say new Mums are “plunged into a state of inner disequilibrium and external upheaval quite unlike any other encountered in adult life”.

I made the mistake of expecting that I would be an automatic natural earth mother, because understanding and knowing how to rear a child was in both my X chromosomes, wasn’t it? The previous generation didn’t really help as even more was expected in their day, difference being they were often already managing the home so adding children to the mix was tough but not as life-changing. Going from corporate meetings and making decisions on million dollar campaigns up to 60 hours a week to being housebound, while providing food from the stove and my body, and all within a clean environment was like expecting my husband to converse with me during a football match.

The remarkable thing is how remarkable humans are. You adapt and you change and you see the world in a whole new light, one that is broader, deeper and very rewarding. So if nobody has really explained the details of childbirth or been able to articulate what you’ll feel when you first arrive home with a gurgling, wholly dependent, little poo-and-spew ball, then don’t worry – just remember as you get shoved into the deep end of this particularly choppy sea, be kind, be understanding and give yourself a lot of leeway to be as mental as is fitting to one of the biggest challenges you’ll ever face.

P.S. And before the birth cook as many meals as your freezer can store while having your favourite takeaways on fast dial, the last place you want to be is near an open flame on 3 hours sleep.

Inspired by the heavily pregnant Emily Jade O'Keefe, Motherhood Unearthed first appeared on KleenexMums and later on Emily's blog Emily Everywhere

©MyIdeaLife, 2011, All rights reserved

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Hello my name is Nicole and it's been 6 hours since my last...Garbage Truck sighting...

Who's the nutter with the stop sign?

Today I found myself doing something I would never have imagined 2 years ago. After having a grown-up meeting with a colleague to talk about my return to work next year, I stopped to stare at a digger. Not content with just witnessing its mechanical genius myself I pulled out my iPhone and started videoing it in action.

This surreptitious manoeuvre not surprisingly caught the eye of the workman who started yelling at me – at first I thought they were flirting, (the wishful thought of a deluded mind), so I yelled back “It’s for my son” and when he answered “he’ll get more of a kick out of it if he sees you in it” I realised the guy was asking whether I wanted to be in the shot. Relieved at my mistake, no really, I handed over my iPhone like an excited teenage girl and started giggling in front of a moving digger.

You see garbage trucks, diggers, dump trucks, tankers, fire engines, excavators, road graders, street sweepers, cranes, cement mixers, grocery trucks, ambulances, big rigs, b-doubles and police cars are now the coolest things in the world. I have been brainwashed by my two year old and I can’t let one pass now without saying “Whoa look!” which can be embarrassing if you are not in the company of two boys under 2.5.

This obsession saw me; run with a double pram about a kilometre to see a fire engine parked in the distance (we got there!), get stroppy when we couldn’t stop to photograph an excavator because we were going to block traffic and get illogically excited about travelling (very slowly) on arguably the busiest, most truck-ridden road in Sydney. And now we can add stopping road works to my repertoire just so as to rush home and share the big digger I saw with my fascinated little boy who undoubtedly will say, “Woooow, look at that!”. My day is complete, not to mention my life. 

Do you hear a little voice from your backseat say
"Look! Garbage truck! Quick Mummy chase it!"?

©MyIdeaLife, 2011, All rights reserved.

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The distance between us [not quite wordless wednesday]

One day sooner than I hope these little feet will be larger than mine. 

So until then I cradle him in my arms, I balance him on my legs, I catch him if he falls and encourage him to fly. 

 © My IdeaLife, 2011, All rights reserved

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How long is a piece of balloon string? and more importantly what colour?

My first baby boy turned two yesterday. TWO! I can't believe it's been two whole years since I met first met him, coughing and spluttering after being dragged into being. What a blur of love, tears, awe, wonderment and it seems balloon ribbon choices. It's with shame I admit I spent at least 3 minutes discussing the balloon ribbon colour with a long suffering, yet very patient, party warehouse employee. You see we threw my boy a bit of a do today and being who I am I wanted everything to be just so. 

The balloon ribbon conundrum basically went something like: 

LS Employee: Do you want to match the ribbon colour to the balloon?

Me: Errrr(pause length not commensurate with level of decision)rrrrrrrrr - matching... no wait, make that contrasting....actually no...can I do both?

LS Employee: Sure, we'll just choose the ribbon randomnly

Me: Sorry, I know this is a little tragic, but do most people choose matching ribbon?

LS Employee: No no it's probably more common but contrasting is often chosen (pause) but most people do choose one or the other. 

Me: Ok

LS Employee: One last question do you want metallic or matte ribbon?

Me(certain this time): Matte

LS Employee: Ok so will send you an email conf..

Me: Sorry, sorry I know this is probably very annoying and I can't believe I'm worried about the bloody balloon ribbon, I mean it's a two year old's party...

LS Employee: Don't worry I have a two year old too, I understand

Me: So I'm not being completely mental? 

LS Employee: No, no I know how you feel

Me: Thanks, well I think I'll go back to the contrasting ribbon only

LS Employee:  Ok done. 

Me: So yellow with blue, blue with red...

LS Employee: Yes that's right. 

The poor girl was obviously the consummate customer service person because in the face of my obvious neurosis she was completely lovely. Maybe she felt pity for me because despite her sharing motherhood of a two year old with me, she's never caught herself mulling over ribbon colour, let alone needing to specify what colour should go with what. I don't know - she was just nice in the face of my insanity. 

Anyway the balloons looked great, (needless to say they would have looked great with matching ribbon also). My son had a great time, and was still singing happy birthday to you before bed tonight. The kids played nicely for the majority of the time, there was only one poo incident and the cake was the most popular attraction of the day (in fact possibly worthy of it's own post). Even my hubby looked happy despite whinging about the cost of the event for weeks*.

As soon as the last guests left I of course took to my bed, well not straight away as had to put two other little worn out humans to bed first, I think it all was too much for me. 'It' of course, being the balloon ribbon choice. LOL.

Has anyone else taken the finer details of a party,
their child won't even remember, a little far?

*It only cost too much because of the gift (a Thomas play table and set) that my hubby actually chose - go figure!

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Time for Mother's Day

If someone asks me what’s the one thing in the whole world that I want for Mother's Day I wouldn’t hesitate: 

I want 24 hours to myself.

I can’t imagine the luxury of it, what a dream come true – all I would need is a hotel room with a kingsize bed, a bath, an internet connection and my own company.

Rewind three years and I wanted a whole raft of things, I wanted to earn big money and climb the corporate ladder, I wanted to have the latest designer clothes, I wanted a big house in the right suburb, I wanted to have a great body, I wanted to be popular and invited to exclusive events. I wanted to win awards and be famous within my industry. I wanted so much.

Now I’d be happy if I could shower every day. 

This basic desire got me thinking about time, ‘If only I had a few more hours a day, I could definitely fit in that evasive shower and god forbid a long hot bath’. Of course wishing for time is like wishing I could fly – it’s only going to happen in my dreams or so I thought? It turns out time can be slowed in a few ways:  

1. Hang out on a neutron star where the gravitational force is significantly stronger than on Earth,
2. Accelerate towards the speed of light OR 
3. Lay down richer memories

I'm no physicist so option 3. caught my attention. Scientists investigating whether people in danger actually experience time in slow motion, discovered that volunteers did perceive time as slower by about 30% during the experiment. ('Imagine what you could do with 30% more time?!' I marveled) 

Such time warping seemed to be an illusion caused by human memory. Researcher, David Eagleman, a neuroscientist at Baylor College of Medicine said the illusion "is related to the phenomenon that time seems to speed up as you grow older. When you're a child, you lay down rich memories for all your experiences; when you're older, you've seen it all before and lay down fewer memories. Therefore, when a child looks back at the end of a summer, it seems to have lasted forever; adults think it zoomed by."[i]

The irony of parenthood is that it is an incredibly rich source of memories and yet everyone talks of it flying by. Does that mean we are not recording the moments? Or do we need to throw ourselves out of a plane to scare ourselves slowly? I’m not about to risk my life to test this theory but I am definitely guilty of wishing time away, all the while desperate for it to slow down so I can get off for a minute.

Shot on location at Brown Brothers Winery, Victoria, 2005
I thought I was busy then...I wasn't.

So for Mother’s Day give me time:

Time to sleep

Time to play

Time to notice

Time to enjoy

Time to write

Time to read

Time to record the beautiful memories unfolding in front of me everyday

Time to slow down.

What do you want for Mother's Day?

[i] Why Time Seems to Slow Down in Emergencies
Charles Q. Choi, 11 December 2007, www.livescience.com
Copyright © 2011 My IdeaLife. All rights reserved.

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Oh to be Ita!

Like many in Australia I tuned in to the ABC’s Paper Giants on Sunday and Monday nights. I was born in the 70s and the footage of red rattlers~, paperboys selling at intersections, 20c tolls on the harbour bridge all brought back so many of my own childhood memories. Add to this the fact my Dad was a newspaper man, and for me the nostalgia of the series was like a beautiful warm blanket wrapped around what in essence was an amazing true story of a woman and mother: Ita Buttrose. No wonder I sat there mesmerised despite my sleep deprivation.

Putting the sentimentality of the series aside, one scene stuck in my mind. It was where Ita arrives home to her ultimately ungrateful, student husband after an obviously long and stressful day at work (picture all 6’2” of Kerry Packer in full flight yelling down at you) only to start dinner for him ‘Do you want onions with your steak?’ and then sit down to the sewing machine!

Now I have issues, namely two boys and a man, but none of my males expect this sort of service, thank goodness. So am I out there celebrating this fact? - no instead I’ve been having hormone-fueled meltdowns over things like having to settle both kids most nights or because my husband reads the paper on the weekend while shoveling cereal into our 2 year old, which is not my idea of great parenting. 

In fact the list of my grievances is quite long and I know the generation of women before me would probably not understand how or why given how relatively good I've got it. So I did some soul-searching as not so fond of the shouting fishwife lurking far too close to the surface. What I discovered was that expectations are the root of all evil.

I grew up naively thinking that men and women were equal and I expected my husband to be my equal partner in parenthood. So I went to university, I focused on my career, I learnt how to change tyres and the oil on a car, I went overseas by myself, I climbed the corporate ladder. On paper there was no clue that my resume was that of a female’s.

Then I fell pregnant and went on maternity leave. Surprisingly the birth, the obvious gender difference in all this, had nothing on becoming a mum. Fatherhood and motherhood I discovered are entirely different experiences.

Consider these facts about my husband:

• He can sleep through a house-trembling, vomit-producing, full volume baby's cry
• He feels no guilt about leaving the room for 40 minutes without explanation of where he is going while I’m left baby and a toddler either side of me – and it’s the weekend!
• He has never been a father before but he is entirely confident that every scream from an under 18mth old is teeth and therefore can be easily dismissed with panadol
• As soon as his head hits the pillow and sometimes before, usually during a conversation, he falls asleep

Conversely:

• I’m unable to fall asleep without first running through a checklist of room temperatures, locked doors, open windows, charged monitors
• A crying baby literally makes my stomach churn, let alone wakes me up
• I can’t make a decision without first thinking of someone else's well being, god forbid I just go out and have time to myself. 

No wonder I’m mad (in all senses of the word).

Don’t get me wrong; my husband is by all accounts amazing. He’s one of the ‘nice’ guys: honest and hardworking and always willing to help. He even makes an effort to come home early from work, and the best part is he’s more obsessed with household chores than I am.

So does this generation of women expect the wrong things from their husbands?

Should we be content that our husband's role is fundamentally different but equally as valuable to the family?

At the very least I feel there needs to be an adjunct to the women's liberation message. I would hate to see another generation of girls growing up thinking that men are their equals in every way including parenthood when there are differences that mean you probably will take more time out from your career, you probably will earn less as a result, you probably will get less sleep when your children are babies and you’ll probably also get less leisure/alone time. In fact your world will probably be turned upside down and inside out and your husband’s will just shift a little to the right.

I’m not ungrateful to the Germaine Greers of this world; in fact I am completely indebted to them. I would have stabbed myself in the eye if cooking and cleaning while attached to  a sewing machine were expected of me. I also know that women’s liberation allows us to make decisions that do make us very close to equal if we choose. What they didn’t say though is that most of us would do this carrying around truckloads of guilt, resulting in a woman that is equal on the outside while beating herself up on the inside.

It seems there's no getting away from the differences between fathers and mothers, as research* shows the relational strength of the female brain is in stark contrast to the systematic male brain, in part caused by a combination of differences in neural brain structure and hormones. In layman’s terms: men can’t hear a human voice when a team is running around a field kicking a piece of air-filled leather, and women can’t not hear every voice, emotion, vibe, raised eyebrow within a 50m radius, not counting social media.

This doesn’t mean I am comfortable watching someone as brilliant as Ita Buttrose perform the role of full-time housewife and breadwinner, on the contrary. I just know I would be less agitated day-to-day if I hadn’t walked into parenthood with the expectation that my husband and I would equally share the mundane and exhausting tasks required to maintain a family. We don't and that doesn’t make me unliberated it just means I have a brain of the empathising kind* and he has a systematic one and you can guess who drew the short straw, well for now anyway. 

Please don’t slap me Ita! 

Would you like Motherhood more if you'd been prepared for
the gender inequality involved?

~ Red rattlers were the old trains that were around in the 70s - they were way past their use by date as had been in service for at least 20 yrs!
* They just can’t help it, Simon Baron-Cohen, The Guardian, April 17, 2003

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The love of your life

Mark Latham is not a man I ever, ever thought I would agree with on anything. For those reading who aren’t Australian he was our opposition leader for a short time until his various public meltdowns and alleged king hit saw him unceremoniously dumped from his role. 

Like another ousted leader, he keeps popping up in the media and is likewise usually ranting some sort of subjective, under-researched nonsense. But this week he said something on radio^ that I have to admit I related to; ‘...having children is the great loving experience of any lifetime’. This was shocking to me as not only did I agree with him, it now seemed we may have somehow been cosmically linked *horror!* because the day before I had started a post called ‘The love of your life’, of course about my boys.

Luckily Mark Latham wasn’t my inspiration, it was my eldest son, a mere 22 months on this earth, looking up at me and saying for the first time ‘whove you’ as I kissed him nigh-night on Sunday. Shocked and emotional I responded ‘Love you too’ while trying to hold back tears.

I felt my heart in my throat as I closed his door - I wanted to run back in and explain to him in vivid and intense detail how much I loved him, how even when I was tired and grumpy I loved him, even when I had to say no to him I loved him, even when I was away from him he’s always on my mind. But I exercised some self-control and instead started typing, sparing him but not you - sorry!

It got me thinking...despite my normal sleep-deprived tendency to have a good old complain, my boys are the loves of my life. In the many years prior to motherhood I spent an inordinate amount of time analysing, speculating and bumbling about looking for the ‘love of my life’. I also bored quite a few people senseless with endless ramblings that could have as easily been solved by pulling the petals off a daisy. And I mistakenly thought that my wedding was the final chapter in that quest.

I had no idea that there was a love in existence that so dwarfed the love between two adults. (I would have achieved a lot more if I had - damn you ignorance!) A love so huge it throws the whole equilibrium of your existence into turmoil. You start having wierd visions during everyday events. Crossing the road becomes a mini horror movie in your mind as you play out what an out of control car could do to the pram. When you see amazement, joy or fear in your childrens eyes you find yourself wiping tears from your face. You start putting yourself so badly last you sometimes forget to eat and your husband is lucky to get a sideways glance let alone some affection (don't even start me on intimacy!). It is literally mental, well initially anyway, and it’s as beautiful as it is torturous.

This unique and huge love has made me realise that there is so much in the world we don’t understand when we think we do. Mr Latham has copped a lot of flack for his comments about people who have chosen not to have kids. Someone saying publicly that they think child-free people struggle with empathy probably does deserve most of it. But as I read one emotionally-charged critique from a non-parent* it took me back to when I hadn’t had children and I remember thinking that all this hype surrounding the love you feel for your children was definitely over-rated and I honestly thought I would prefer a puppy. I was ignorant, not in a general sense I was just ignorant of what it felt like to be a parent and worse still, I didn’t know it. This didn’t make me any less valid, triumphant, empathetic or human, it just made me ignorant of what it was like to be a parent.

The simple fact is parenthood is inexplicable to non-parents. Parents don’t rave on about their kids to be hurtful or exclusive or to make people who haven’t had kids feel bad, we just say this stuff because we are so overwhelmed and amazed we can’t help gushing and carrying on about it from sunrise to sunset. It is an all-consuming, life changing experience. You want to tell the world. Unfortunately parents forget that there are a lot of people out there who just think we are mad, smug, stupid (see Baby Brain) and intentionally trying to make child-free people envy us. We get so wrapped up in our whirlwind we almost expect that everyone will understand and not only that, we want everyone we love to experience it too. *Squirm*

So If you’re not pregnant and sick of people raving on about the greatness of parenthood, be happy that you will do and experience things that parents will have to forgo because of kids. Like me now dreaming about one day resuming regular ablution habits, let alone the round the world trips I wish I could take#.

But if you are pregnant with your first now, just know you're about to be swept off your feet in every which way that is possible. And despite maybe missing out on a promotion at work or a trip to an amazing travel destination, you won’t regret a second of it once you’ve met ‘the one’.

Can you believe this is a viral promo for maternity bras?
I don't care I love it and invite you to write what you would tell your pre-baby self.

*One response to Mark Latham's comments by Janine Toms on Mamamia.com

^The full transcript of Mark Latham’s interview at ABC Radio National
#I’m turning down free travel as we speak because caring for two under two in a hotel room would likely see me stabbing myself with a pen and certainly see me so exhausted it simply wouldn’t be worth it.

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