Blogopolipsed: my ten most memorable moments

I just got back from an amazing day dedicated to all things blogging: Nuffnang's Blogopolis in Melbourne. As you can see by my archives I’ve been blogging for only five months, so I’m a rookie at all this palava, but new or seasoned, you couldn’t help but be inspired by the amazing line up of speakers. And by amazing I don’t just mean being able to present to 300 people looking down at their smart phones.

To get the full picture Bree from TheBlogStylist published notes live from the event. For a snapshot of a woman’s escape from the asylum and what freedom taught her click here. And for my Blogopolis most inspiring moments, well they’re right here.

1. Childhood 101 “blog your own race”

2. LadyMelbourne “Full time bloggers don’t live off air.”

3. Andrew Hughes “Where’s Glowless? You have the best media kit, better than some media publications” Glowless nearly passes out from modesty or lack of oxygen (was suffering a slight allergic reaction at the time) hard to tell

4. StylingYou “Make us laugh, cry, think. Give us an insight into your life”

5. “Tweets happen” Problogger

6. ProBlogger encouraging us to listen to his insightful son "make sure you tell [the world] something important" 

7. Edenland so inspiring. All I hear is “just f**king do it man” between every line. That was before she broke the microphone presumedly to have the last word

Isn't he beautiful? his son's pretty cute too

*At drinks*

8. FrillyHills “write as if you’re talking to a girlfriend you really like in your living room”

9. MagnetoBoldtoo “I'm not a biatch, I’m THE biatch”

10. One drunken exchange between two bloggers to remain anonymous.

A. You don't follow me, you know that don't you?
B. No, I'm sure I do, No...
A. You don't and you know it's fine, you follow like 1200 people and I'm not one of them, you know it sorta shits me, 1200 people and I'm not one of them
B. Sorry love, let me correc...
A. No. No. I'm not saying it so you'll follow me, I don't want you to follow me just because I said
B. No I want to follow you
A. No, don't, that's not why I said it
B. Love let me follow you *frantically searching iphone*
A. No, please don't, I don't want you to
Me. Ok there's only one way to solve this: block her
B. Yes perfect, wait just let me follow you first, then you can block my ar5e
A. Good, done, hurry up then

Love love loved my first blogger lovefest, thanks for making this rookie feel welcome! 

©My IdeaLife, 2011, All rights reserved

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Good Mum Bad Mum Good Mum...

Sometimes when you cry I find it threatening 

Sometimes when I can’t comfort you I feel a failure

Other times I understand and am calm 

Other times I know you’re anguish is not my fault

Sometimes when I can’t stop your pain it hurts me so much I panic 

Sometimes when you need me most I want to run away 

Other times I gather you up in a cuddle and cocoon you 

Other times I know what you want even before you do

Sometimes when your tiredness turns to groans it’s easier to get angry than put you to bed

Sometimes when you’re hysterical I leave you alone because my tension makes you worse 

Other times I listen until I understand your new words 

Other times I read and play and run and jump for hours and hours

Sometimes you’ll be doing nothing wrong, and I’ll assume the worst

Sometimes you'll be talking and I'll be distracted by doing, going, achieving

Other times I'll be patient and hear every word
Other times I'll explain why, as you deserve to understand the course of your own life 


Sometimes you're innocent and I'm damaged

Sometimes I’m a two year old too and barely manage 

What I didn't know then was that birth is the least shocking part of Motherhood

All the time I love you so much it hurts and I know I fail you sometimes, but I’m working so hard at being the grown up more times so I can always be your trusted guide, your calm in the storm and the one person that will never question the validity of you. 

Dedicated to my darlings: Bang and Crash

*Bang, my 2 year old son & Crash, my 10mth old son

©My IdeaLife, 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 to cope with separation anxiety...or not really

There’s something deeply disturbing about your two year old son waking in the middle of the night crying hysterically “I want my Mamma…Mamma…my Mamma… Mamma, I want Mamma.” Especially when you are his mamma and you’re hugging him at the time. And it’s not just in a whiney annoying voice, he makes this dramatic sound that seems to plumb the depths of despair. The type of cry you’d expect from whichever child Sophie didn’t choose*.

I know this is probably ‘night terrors’ but it should be called ‘how-to-kick-an already-neurotic-mum-when-she’s-down’ terrors. Knowing this doesn’t stop me worrying. In fact a Toy Story incident has sent me into a minor panic.

We have been watching more than a bit of Toy Story 3, or as it’s more commonly known as here ‘the garbage truck one’. At bedtime we were reading the book, (because of course we have to have a book, a sticker book, the movie and every other accessory we can find) when we got to the page where Andy drives off to college and the toys look longingly after him, Bang said “Bye Mama”.

"So long Partner Mama" What the?

My heart sank. 

My head screamed “why does he think I’m going to leave him, have left him, am going away, any of the above?” 

So I went to discuss it with my hubby, mainly because my 10mth old can’t really talk yet, and he said what he always says. And I’m not exaggerating, no matter what I’m asking he has one standard answer. I could be saying “Someone emailed me today and said they’re thinking of coming over and stabbing me to death with a fork”, and he would say “Don’t worry about it, you’re probably reading too much into it”. So I explained the situation and he said “Don’t worry about it, you’re probably reading too much into it”. Funnily enough this didn't help.

So unfortunately this is not one of those posts that miraculously comes up with an amazing epiphany that gets researched by scientists and published in a famous journal and picked up by Reuters. That was last week’s post. Today I’m afraid to admit I am at a loss. I adore my eldest boy in an almost Oediphus kind a way (although if you read about Oedipus, it seems his marrying his Mum was all just a bit of a misunderstanding). Anyway Bang and I are tight, and we do spend a lot of quality time together, well at least from my perspective.

But somehow, whether it be an ever-present 10mth old stealing his books, trains and Mum; going to kindy three days a week or the one I’m trying not to think about; a sub-conscious vibe I give him because I’m selfishly starving for time to myself; he feels masses of separation anxiety at the moment. It’s probably a combination of all these factors but I hate it so much. What I want more than anything is for him to feel confident in my love as I know all too well the destructive affects of the alternative.

So Mums with more experience, less insanity or who listen to their husbands, if you have seen this and come out the other side and know it’s just a harmless phase that I shouldn’t worry about and read too much into, then please let me know. And if, like me, you are going through this I’m sorry I have no answers, just know there is another soppy mess bumbling through this emotional phase.

UPDATE: We watched Toy Story 3 again tonight for the 1374th time and during the dreaded scene he said as clear as day, "Not Mama, it's Andy" I breathed out and heartily agreed "Mama stays, she doesn't go anywhere".


*Sophie’s Choice is a movie I watched when I wasn’t a Mum and bawled incessantly throughout, for the sake of my sanity and my family’s happiness I refuse to watch it now I have children and would not recommend it to any Mums...unless maybe your children are teenagers.

©MyIdeaLife, 2011, All rights reserved, Image of woody taken from the Movie Toy Story 3 and it is not intended to infer any copyright

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Phone hacking? Paaahhhh! The real reason behind the demise of News of the World

Although appearing like the machinations of a deeply disturbed and obviously deluded mind, sources revealed the real reasons The News of the World actually closed.

Revelations during recent hearings have shown that buckling pressure from a newcomer to the news arena was the truth behind the demise. The Mummy Bloggasylum Daily burst into existence only days prior to News of the World closing, such was its power and influence. With headline stories such as Offended by an Office Breast Pump and Kind, Bearded Christian Has Guitar, Story To Tell it’s no surprise this fledging publication has caused such a furore.

Rupert Murdoch is still talking about the forced demise stating only yesterday "This is the most humble day of my life…" While Nicole McInnes was gracious in her newly acquired Mogul status “I’m ecstatic at the launch of The Mummy Bloggasylum Daily, athough I had no intention of bringing down a paper of such standing, but I'm confident that at least some of those that lost jobs will find new employment within the burgeoning mobile phone industry.”

Fish globally replace News of the World with the
The Mummy Bloggasylum Daily as their wrapping of choice

Sources close to the editor have revealed that despite her public respect for the innocent caught up in the News of the World scandal, she has been heard laughing maniacally in her office. “As The Mummy Bloggasylum Daily takes the place of News of the World, as the preferred paper for fish and chip wrapping, fire starting or covering the homeless, Nicole has seemingly forgotten her humble roots”, a ‘friend’ who preferred to remain anonymous stated. Although they remain hopeful that all this fame hadn’t gone to her head, “there’s a talented writer in there…somewhere.”

HAVE YOUR SAY!

Do we live in a world where The News of the World and
The Mummy Bloggasylum Daily could have happily co-existed?

Related Links:
Read The Mummy Bloggasylum Daily now
'Murdoch Mum on Hacking Scandal' so to speak 

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Lost in space?

Last night I had a conversation with my husband prompted by a day that can only be described as a long series of neurotic panic attacks. I had this ache in my stomach all day, and I felt as if every feeling I was having was scratched into my forehead. Of course there was no blood-dripping words appearing stigmata-like to the outside world, just the powerful mind sending a few signals awry and rendering me more than a little emotional.  

So from one grown up, apparently, to another I said: “I think I should just get.some.drugs.”
Hubby: Really? you think that would make a difference?
Me: Only if I take them with...I don't know, cooking sherry
H: That’d work. Except...you don’t cook
M: Well how can I cook when I'm oozing emotions like this, surely they'll infect the food with sadness like that girl in 'Like water for chocolate'

H: Like water for what?

M: Anyway I plan to be hovering somewhere above another planet that only works in slow motion and where everyone’s voice is two octaves lower than normal
H: what has a deep slow voice got to do with dinner?
M: Who cares about dinner when I’m going to transform into that space girl that seduces Dr. Smith in Lost in Space, you know the green one that seems permanently turned on?
H: well me for one, wait did you say 'turned on'...'permanently'? 

M: No, you must have misunderstood... 

So it was decided mainlining meds with whatever spirit I had in the cupboard was going to solve all my issues. I was going to be happy at last, all green and orgasmic. Yippee!

There was no medication involved here...none at all...

But until the correct drugs were obtained from a ‘medical practitioner’ I had to walk around oozing mush and goo and tears – it was ugly and then I had a shower; no, that was not the solution; but afterwards I looked in the mirror (for the first time in 24 hours obviously) and the answer was right in front of me, actually it was right on me blinking a warning signal from below my lip "Danger! Danger! Nicole is going to be mental today".

Humongous pus volcano fully explains near nervous breakdown

Call off the dogs (or at least the men in white suits with really large syringes)! this little discovery explained everything. I had PMS. Pre-Menstrual Stress. What a freaking euphemism it should be called Pre-menstrual ‘I’m-Going-to-Turn-Into-Someone-Best-In-an-Asylum-For-A-Day-Or-Two’, PMIGTISBIAFADOT for short. Pre-pregnancy or breastfeeding, that would be like three years ago, I always used to get a gigantic pimple a few days before my period. It was as certain as my hubby flicking to sports channels during the ad breaks of Glee, and it's regular occurrence made me feel, well, regular. Now with my trainer bra boobs these monthly blemishes are going to make me feel like the quintessential teenage 'dream'.

With sanity looming and the prospect of re-living my youth, I started mopping up my weeping wounds and got happy until I'm not again, probably in about a month...or maybe tomorrow...
 

What causes your mental health days?

© MyIdeaLife, 2011, All rights reserved. Athena remains the property of 'Lost in Space', unfortunately.

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One blind housewife

As I sit here on our dining table, lotus-style and all zen (not!), a small brown furry creature is likely working up the courage to scoot across the family room floor in search of cup cake crumbs. And I’m not talking about Bang, Crash or Boom* although you could be forgiven for thinking so.

It is with great shame that I admit this: we have a mouse. This little rodent that Bang will probably want to keep as a pet, embodies my complete failure as a homemaker or Tom our builder’s complete failure as a builder, neither of which comes as a great surprise.

What is surprising though is my reaction and the little guy’s speed. He really motors along, seemingly turbocharged by my screams. Before today I always laughed at people who were scared of mice. I had one as a pet and it was sweet, his ever-moving whiskers tickling me as he crawled around my neck and through my hair, and the only reason they were banned as pets now I’m a very tall child grown-up is they smell really, really bad. That single reason has now exploded into a thousand little reasons perfectly encapsulated in my ability to jump from comfortably seated to teetering on the sofa balancing the laptop. 

So with this sort of new found fear sparking mega-production of adrenaline you’d think I’d be brick in hand ready to squash my little Beatrix Potter friend into a meat patty, but no. Surprise number 2. – I don’t want to kill it, I don’t know whether to blame 'The Green Mile' or whether I’m just a life-loving creature at heart but all I can think is “I bet he has a little family waiting for him to bring home the bacon or in this case half a cup cake". So what to do? "What about opening the backdoors and mustering it cattle-style into the corral, that is our backyard?" I propose to my newly materialized hubby. Pretending once again that I hadn’t said anything, let alone screamed my head off, he says "Do you want me to go and buy traps?" I stared at him not knowing what to do, so he took my silence as a yes.

He returned with surprise number 3. Evidence of complete love, consideration and devotion in the form of humane traps!!!! This from a guy brought up on a farm! Actions therefore very worthy of an out-of-character show of affection and I was planning all sorts of tomfoolery when he pulled out the murderous kind as well, still hopeful I said "we can try these humane ones first and then those right?" Wrong. "I’m not risking a mouse running around while we're away, I’m putting out both."

I slumped back to my normal state of ho-hum and realized there was no point in fighting a country boy – I would just have to live in hope the little guy liked cheese more than peanut butter, the brown furry thing that is, the Beatrix potter character, the scurrying rodent, no I’m not talking about my hubby I would never refer to him as a Beatrix Potter character, I meant the mouse.

UPDATE: At last count all traps are empty, maybe the broom tunnel to the back door combined with Bang’s remote control helicopter and Thomas the tank engine worked? I hope so as the alternative is a toy story style takeover of our house in our absence yet this time the toys do poo – great! 

*Bang = our gorgeous 2 yr old, Crash = our cheeky 9 mth old, Boom = my long-suffering hubby

© MyIdeaLife, 2011. All rights reserved.

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Invasion of the Boob-snatchers!

Before you think otherwise, I am a major proponent of breastfeeding – I loved it so much I got all sooky and nostalgic when my youngest decided to wean himself at 7 months. And besides there were some not-so-hidden benefits like we didn’t need to buy our baby a soccer ball, he had two AND he could eat from them – well only just (see below).

Baby gets a new flesh balloon to be swallowed by play with.

I was happy* with my new toys, as was my baby, and my husband, well he was, how would you put it? beside himself. Can you blame him? they were bigger than they’d ever been and useful too. Even my toddler found them amusing - so everyone was euphoric…that was until one day I woke up and they were gone. I am not exaggerating, D one day, trainer bra the next.

Now if I don’t wear a small crane with a hydraulic lift around every day I look like I’ve got two deflated balloons hanging down around my waist. Literally, the same wrinkles left from stretching around full blown mammary glands and the same sad droopy look, lamenting their former lofty glory defying gravity.

My hubby who is lucky if I turn up, let alone with fully inflated boobs and cleanly waxed and polished, sensitively broached the topic one night as I changed for bed, ‘What happened to your playstations? Look at them, they look like two fried eggs only not as firm.’ At this point he was laughing, that sort of schoolboy chortle you're more likely to hear directed at some poor kid in change rooms, when the other boys discover he’s still got no pubes or something. I, of course, abused him for being a dirty perv and quickly covered up, but the next day as I took in my new pre-pubescent silhouette in private I did wonder, 'Where did they go?' and more to the point 'would they ever come back?' (without the help of Dr Plastic Fantastic that is). 

If your DD sized breasts are getting you down and you too
want to look like a pre-pubescent teenager this t-shirt will help

A few google searches later and a couple of corners I wish I hadn’t turned down, eek! I’d found my missing breasts. It seems the process of pregnancy and breastfeeding transforms the breast tissue from mainly fat to mainly mammary glands. It’s not all droop and flop – they do come back in part as gradually some fatty tissue returns and they look a little fuller than their post-weaning un-happy sack state.

Until that day my hubby is making the best of things having recovered from the initial shock. Only yesterday he said my little ones make him feel like he’s dating ‘a teenager’. I embraced this rare compliment, choosing to ignore the implication that I’m now married to a would-be cradle snatcher! Me? I am content that for my boob’s sake I have to eat chocolate and avoid the gym.

*euphemism for bloody ecstatic

© My IdeaLife, 2011, All rights reserved, Two fried eggs t-shirt image remains the property of zazzle.com and cannot be reproduced.

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Why did the 5ft Metal Chicken cross the equator?

(To meet his dwarf cousin the cow, of course)

If you can’t afford an airline ticket to America’s deep south so as to buy a five foot metal chicken then I've found something that may have you high-tailing it to my local farmers’ market.

Now before you get too excited I don’t think this item will excite enough people to crash a server, or cause someone to hack into Wikipedia but like The Bloggess’ hubby, it may make yours very happy and make him realise meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to him.

When I saw this I must have got a wild look in my eyes, as my husband’s filled with terror. Probably because he was scared I wouldn’t buy it for him. I reassured him “Don’t worry darling, I CAN buy this for your anniversary present as I only need to add a doily to it for the 8th”. His reaction was quite at odds with what I expected, so I just told him to shut up and hand me his smartphone. 

Anyway not wanting to cause a furore for the artist, let’s call her Butterfly, I’ve decided not to name the market where this exquisite expression of Butterfly’s current mental state at present resides. Those that really want to know – you know who you are, B. – re-tweet me everyday for a year and I’ll think about it. And don’t worry if you can’t afford $200, there’s always an equally art-gallery-worthy mouse (or rat? you can see it's lovely big ears in my perfectly composed shot above) for $100, although your hubby might get the wrong message with that one (‘cause he wouldn’t with the cow, the cow sends a perfectly clear message of devotion, love and bullish fantasy).

© 2011 My IdeaLife, All rights reserved

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Over the Moon or just on another planet?

When contemplating why a certain unnamed website would choose me over other potential candidates to write a guest post, I did what most women do and then instantly regret, I asked my husband. The exchange went something like:

Me: “It’s hard to describe isn’t it?”
Hubby (smirking): “Well not really…your point of difference is you walk around with a rocket up you’re butt”
Me: “You wish! I should have asked our 8mth old, his babble would’ve been more insightful.”

Welcome to my sophisticated life.
The irony of my husband’s tragic attempt at being funny and/or an r-rated porn star is that it got me thinking…no not about rear-ends but rockets. You see when I was a ‘child’ (really only six years ago) I wanted to be an astronaut. It wasn’t just the idea of flying through space, it was more the amazing feat of it; astronauts were simply superhuman. But what made my heart really long for NASA of Apollo 13 was the greatness humans can achieve when they work together towards a common goal. 

One superhuman feat surveys the moon.

 As an art director at the time, although I did achieve the advertising equivalent of spaceflight, there was no teamwork. So much so when the creative director got bored with doing nothing everyday while high, my beloved Cannes Lion^ also disappeared. Like most people’s reality, my working life was defined by people working against each other, while the one with the longest and hardest working tongue got what he wanted. So I was busy doing tongue stretches when…

I became a mother.
Look at it, such an innocuous little statement, short and simple. The truth is every time the phrase ‘became a mother’ is uttered there should be a universal sound effect like “dun dun doooouuunnnnn”, because it turns worlds upside-down, brains inside-out and bodies, well let’s just say zero-gravity would be useful. Basically being a mum requires years of superhuman feats and transforms your existence such that you may as well be blasted through space to another planet. Ok so I know that astronauts face G-forces that make it feel like a cow is sitting on their chest for 15mins, but try settling a screaming toddler for 4 hours straight on 3 hours sleep per night? I think even the wimpiest of men would prefer the cow.

The truth was I no longer needed to see the earth through a spaceship’s side window; I could see it in my son’s blue eyes. (SFX: a collective “oooaaawww”, no seriously if you saw those eyes you’d understand)

I used to NEED my career, I used to long for great heights of achievement within it and worst of all I used to think climbing the corporate ladder would make me whole. I was wrong, why, because now I’m an ambitionless, tracksuit wearing, naval gazer and happier than an ex-battery hen let loose on a free-range farm time has given me perspective.

Corporate tunnel-vision is gone and a big wide bottom life has replaced it, albeit with a long, strong tongue now only useful at parties. I’m not going to pretend I’ve had a brain transplant, and am now happy rolling in tulips with my boys and oh yes, playing with my kids too. I am still ambitious, I've just realised there’s more than one way to skin a cat*. I've also worked out that whatever I end up doing, that doing isn't the sum total of me-ness, there are other things that define me like skinning cats the weird stuff I say on twitter at 3am, (or given this post, on this blog during daylight hours *scary*).

Anyway at the moment life with my three boys; 8mths, 2 and 35yrs; and my blog beats hurtling through the atmosphere, driving a gold corvette and having a twitter handle like Astro_girl. For one thing being a Mum is unlikely to endanger my life which is a plus, (although my two year old recently practiced his new found skill for head butting on my cheekbone), and secondly I’d probably feel a little out of place in Houston with no PhD. (PhD’s in ‘how to avoid sitting in a poo bath with a toddler**’ don’t count)

At last I am over the moon.

P.S. The title of this post is a rhetorical question, although it's ok if you do answer it as I love all comments
^The advertising equivalent of an Oscar.
* Before you call the RSPCA I don’t really know many ways to skin a cat, in fact I don’t even know one way to skin a cat – this is probably my biggest issue. If I could skin a cat I may have found perspective when I was only a quarter of the way through my life but instead I am half way and all the cats I know still have their skin. The one that hacks up indescribable gunge on our side path has been asking for a skinning for months now so better get to it and I’ll at last be on my way to a happier life).
** This actually happened and I have yet to write a paper on avoidance strategies but I know it would contribute to the body of knowledge, just not the body anybody knows. 

© My IdeaLife, 2011. All rights reserved.

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Mummy #FAIL

The baby chokes
So Crash*, my 8 month old just choked on some bread crust that I shouldn’t have let him have and so as to save his own life he spewed all over himself, me and the floor. Now any normal person would put this incident down to experience and move on, doubtless not trying it again until the little chap could chew. Me well today I wasn’t normal.

Boom~ warned me not to give Crash the bread and I shrugged off his caution. He gave me that annoying look, you know the one your mother always gave you when you were a teenager. His face quite clearly stated, “you’ll see” as if he was this wise old man.

I secretly was a little worried when half the crust disappeared into Crash’s mouth and I tried to extract the offending piece with no luck and so the almighty spew. Boom came rushing in and kindly didn’t say ‘I told you so’ and took Crash away to clean him up as I mopped up the floors and myself.

Cloaked in chores
Dejected I raced to the laundry in search of chores to hide my shame in and found a load of washing that should have gone out an hour ago, yay! (You won’t see that very often, that is, me getting excited about washing). So off to the yard I go to dwell on my failure. I was in a deep tailspin and bracing myself for the lecture I was going to get from my “perfect” husband.

Empathy and husband in the same sentence – it’s a miracle!
But there was no lecture and then a rare moment of empathy that I was so grateful for I ended up crying while pegging up his undies. He even took some of the blame – this was mercy indeed and I knew I didn’t deserve it. Then I realized something that rarely occurs to me – maybe, just maybe, my husband really loves me????

You see my abnormality this particular day was being too hard on myself. If my hubby could forgive me, surely so could I? So I stopped and thought through why I was judging myself and I realized it was wrapped up in the pressure placed on women still to be these perfect earth mother, domestic goddess-types.

If cleanliness is next to godliness, I’m clearly destined for an eternity of flames
That’s not me, especially the domestic goddess part. To be fair being pregnant and/or breastfeeding for the last two-and-a-half years has probably exacerbated my sub-standard approach to home management, but as my Mum will tell you I’ve never been a fan.

It’s ok!
But tonight I’m done with feeling guilty for just being imperfect me. From now on my new favourite phrase is going to be: “It’s ok!” It’s ok if Bang^ wants to wear his Thomas winter PJs under his Bob the Builder summer ones and not his designer outfit to Mother’s Group. It’s ok if I don’t feel like seeing the dirt on the floor and let Crash crawl through it. It’s ok if I’d rather spend an hour on Twitter than doing something “productive”, why do we always have to be so productive? We’re not friggin’ factories! Who was it that decided incessant activity was the stuff of halos anyway?

WORLD FIRST: Mother decides not to feel guilty - is promptly ousted from village.
I’m going to relax in my failings, I’m going to rejoice in my hatred of cleaning, maybe I’ll even have a drink too many and do some swearing to add to my transgressions, but I’m going to give myself a break, I’m going to forgive myself for almost choking my baby, I’m going to let myself off lightly for not having any inclination to re-arrange the pantry, I’m going to sit here and write because that’s what makes me feel whole. I’m a bit of a #FAIL as a housewife, home economist, whatever label you want to place on it and you know what – It’s ok because I like being an un-domestic goddess (even if it means a little shaming in the village square).

P.S. This is not an overly elaborate way of saying it’s cool to be lazy either…no seriously, it’s not!
^Bang=my 2yr old. *Crash=my 9mth old. ~Boom=my 3.5 35yr old hubby
© 2011 My IdeaLife, All rights reserved

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Catching fireflies

What a day. The sun’s shining, the birds are singing, the A380s are flying overhead (I live in the inner west) so I grabbed Crash* and threw a rug on the lawn and we surveyed our sparkling surrounds. In between eating grass my 8 month old soaked in the scenes. He’s been trapped indoors by rain for about a week and he couldn’t really contain his joy at finding there was a world outside his colourful rubber mat and the table he’s been systematically pulling himself up on and then falling off.

Watching him with the sun warming my face I got nostalgic, as you do (ok, only if you’re an emotionally-unhinged, hormone-filled nutbag). All these moments from my past and my childhood were flashing through my mind as senses. The smell of the grass, the feel of the winter sun cutting through chilly air, the sound of lorikeets had me galloping through a winter paddock bareback, walking on a sandy beach picking mussels with my Dad, hiding behind a neighbours fence in the dark playing spotlight and jogging through icy night air as my eyelashes froze.

Millions of moments, one half-life (hopefully!) and gone in a flash. There are 6.9 billion humans on earth all having thoughts, moments, times worth remembering and recounting. It’s overwhelming what we’re missing, what we don’t see or understand. It’s humbling and at the same time it’s beautiful to think of the vast preciousness of so many human lives.

I wish we could do justice to every moment of a life, even to just our own, but we can't and we don’t and then before we can think the word ‘regret’ the time has passed. As I look into Crash’s hopeful eyes filled with wonderment I see myself there too, and billions of others. We were all once 8 months old, full of innocence, and despite mine “growing up” and taking in 39 more years of ups and downs, they are still in essence a child’s eyes looking for joy in simple things, craving unconditional love, and innocently curious about everyone and everything.

Right now I focus back on us. Crash is talking in his own little language and he’s yet to learn that sometimes you have to hide your feelings. So his joy, his curiosity, his frustration all come out in gorgeous open facial expressions, sighs, giggles, snaps and bubbles.

And me well I'm breathing in the moments, loving being alive. Today's one is gone now as he’s having his afternoon nap, growing centimeters as he sleeps, and I am writing, desperately writing, trying to capture the light of a firefly in my hands.

*Crash is my 8 month old boy, read more at my About page
 © 2011, My IdeaLife, All rights reserved

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that light at the end of the tunnel...it may be just a train

My GP said this to me this morning and it's not yet certain whether she is extremely insightful or some type of witch doctor that cursed me because the rest of the day so far has confirmed that the light everyone refers to at the end of the proverbial tunnel is in fact a train about to run us down. 

So things have been tough lately, my country-bred husband got sick and that never happens, he even went to the doctor which is also pretty rare and asked for antibiotics. As his course finished my eldest screamed his way through a suspected ear drum perforation Friday night and was promptly prescribed antibiotics the next day. The GP appointment I booked on Tuesday for my normal doctor to check what the local toupee-wearing medical centre practitioner had prescribed turned into a mercy dash for my youngest who was also put on antibiotics.

Add to this me being sick while all this is going on and my brain deciding that keeping me awake from 1-4am every night would be a good way to fight whatever viral or bacterial infection I was harboring and you'd think you'd have that train heading my way. Well we're not quite at the trainwreck stage yet. 

After another terrible night consisting of 4 hours of broken sleep, a constant headache and stiff neck I woke begging my husband to work from home to help. He looked as bad as I felt, so obliged. Am trying to get minutes more sleep when I hear the familiar sound of a chair scraping on tiles. Knowing that my husband is changing my eldest I know it's our 8 month old trying to climb on the kids table and chairs. So I jump up and run down the hall only to watch in slow motion him keeling over backwards, chair on top of him. Tears and screaming ensue. Still no train though, just a gentle Thomas-like 'hoot-hoot' in the distance maybe. 

Still feeling like death warmed up I start on feeding the bub and master 2 turns up, chirpy and chipper thank god, and keen to eat his oats. 'Wow, things are looking up' I think, little did I know. So both are now fed but my stay-at-home-to-help husband has disappeared. Now if you've read my previous posts you know this is usual so I suspect nothing and just get mad, and get even madder when I find him in bed. 'What are you doing?' I bark. I'm so cheesed off, 'I'm in flu-hell and he decides he needs a lie down' I fume. 

Next thing he's on the loo, then he's in bed again, then he's on the loo, then he's in bed. So I ease up figuring he must be a little sick so leave him to rest until I have to go to the GP. At this point he's making me look like a picture of good health, still a little mad and not very sympathetic I ask if he is well enough to look after Master 2, he groans which is not much use and I'm running late as usual. So I sternly say 'It looks as though you won't be able to look after him, can you please answer yes or no.' He feebly responds ' I think it would be best if you took him with you.' So off we go to the GPs, again. (I swear the receptionist will be asking us over for dinner soon I know her so well).

Get to GPs five minutes late but spy a parking spot within metres of the surgery - score! I brake, put my blinker on and put car into reverse and wait as is customary in case the car behind wants to go around me to get the lights, which happen to be green. This is all not good enough for Mr. tradie in white, beat-up ute. He pulls up almost to my bumper and expects that his intimidating carry on will make me give up the park and allow him to get the lights. He doesn't know the morning that I've had, so I begin to reverse into the park, he still doesn't move. I wind down my window and ask him to move back. He pretends he's forgotten where reverse is and throws his hands in the air. I motion a distance of 10 cms and not sure whether it was the wild look in my eye or what, but he found reverse and I parked the car. And all I can say is he's lucky the lights changed again or he would have got an earful from a mad woman with a toddler in her arms as I walked past him. 

Doctors' appointment was usual - you rush to get there and then wait for 20mins trying to keep a toddler from licking chairs and disease-infested toys. When I got home is really when the train hit. By now it is lunchtime and having convinced my toddler not to do some 'driving*' and come straight upstairs for lunch, I was feeling hopeful again until I saw my husband, who was sort of green-coloured (this is not normal) and was shuffling down the hallway. I got the kids seated and food in front of them, hubby was trying to help but he then sort of jogged off towards the bathroom and the sounds that emerged. O.M.G it was awful - he was so sick, this time heaving up incessantly. I ran to his aid and felt terrible for being nothing but a biatch all morning. On returning to the table to sounds of 'Ohhhhh nooooo, Ohhhhh noooo' I saw my toddler pointing to my bub who had managed to grab his food bowl and with great satisfaction was decorating himself, the table, the floor and the highchair with a pumpkin concoction.

I got my husband some water and helped him to bed, I cleaned up the baby and his surrounds, I bundled up my toddler and put him to bed. I got the baby's bottle and put him to bed. I breathed a sigh of relief and went to the kitchen to clean up. Everything was starting to feel normal and calm, the dishwasher was on and I started filling the sink to wash the bottles and teats. Suddenly the spout flew off and a fountain of water blasted a metre into the air. In the seconds it took me to turn the tap off the window, the floor, the bench, the appliances and I were soaked. 

Tap looking innocent...don't be fooled

Normally at this point you laugh because if you didn't, you'd cry. I didn't laugh I just stood in shock and then got some paper towel and mopped some of it up, but then I knew what I had to do. I had to make myself a cup of tea, find some chocolate and sit down and write a blog post. Now that's done I can laugh and I do although somewhat hysterically, which I suppose is normal given my day.

*Driving consists of toddler insisting on climbing into front seat as soon as we park in the garage and staying there for at least 10mins. Mama has to sit in the passenger seat and turn the vanity light on and off, before luring him upstairs with offers of food or 'toot-toots'.
© MyIdeaLife 2011

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Who's the party for, when they're still under four?

Nothing new to see here as am feeling guilty again *boring*. This time it's in addition to the usual suspects:
- telling off husband in front of the boys (swear words may or may not have been involved)
- ignoring not one but two whinging children for 20mins who had both awoken early from their afternoon naps
- rushing bedtime so I can sit down and relax

The list goes on but I'd rather you didn't lose the will to live, so the reason I'm feeling guilty today because I saw a photo of my boy looking at the party happening in front of him with a frown.

This was meant to be my birthday boy, at his party - enjoying himself. Doesn't look like it does it? Between rushing around getting people drinks and catching up I noticed that he was surveying the relatively 'out-of-control' scene a lot of the time rather than joining in. I wondered what he was thinking. A few things came to my guilty mind like, ‘Who are half these kids fighting over my toys?’ or ‘Why aren’t Marlowe or Helena from kindy here?’

It’s hard to admit but when I look back on this party there were only a few things that were really for him, namely the cake, that he adored (see below), the balloons, which you may have already heard about and the presents, which he is still enjoying. The rest was for adults, two in particular: his parents. It was a chance for us to catch up with friends, utilise our newly renovated backyard, and let our hair down, well as much as you can with two very little humans to sustain.

It made me rethink the whole party thing prior to the fourth birthday, and I was all ready to try this scrooge-like approach out on our second bub who’s not yet one. Then my hubby said "what about the photos? he’ll look back and say ‘Why didn’t you have any parties for me like you did for my brother?’” So in the spirit of equality I may have to have another fun adult event for a little person who may or may not enjoy it and will definitely not remember it. If I had my time again I think I’d probably alternate years and skip the two-year birthday. Or would I? He did love that cake and his smile was unmistakable when everyone sang him Happy Birthday...mmmnnnnnn.

What do you think? Are there better ways to celebrate when they’re under four?

Have your say on my Facebook Poll

© 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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