I’m almost scared to write this post. I feel like I am talking out against the cult. I worry that I’ll be ostracized like a leper from a community that prays before the Thermomix, but I’m taking the chance.
I just don’t love the Thermomix.
Of course I’ve used it. I had to after I spent $2000 on it *bows head in shame*. I was even momentarily taken in on the night I ground and dry roasted my own spices. But I can’t serve roasted spices or even curries every night of the week.
Sometimes I pick the nail polish off my nails. It irritates my husband beyond compare and I never understood why – until I witnessed my dear friend Kerri doing it over lunch.
It lead us to talking about it – talking about all sorts of bad habits like nail peeling, nail biting, mindless eating, thumb sucking and eating your dead husband.
Have a look
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Do you have any bad habits? Any habits of your friends or family that irritate you? Would you eat your deceased husband’s ashes so that you didn’t waste him?
Little Pencil has been sick with the flu for the last week. It’s been a bit awful. He’s been “proper” sick – lying in his bed only moving to come and lie in my bed so that he can watch TV. He hasn’t even gone downstairs to play x-Box which is more of an indicator of his illness than his 39.6 fevers.
But yesterday he started to nag me for Grand Theft Auto again so I knew he was feeling much better. Next step was to get him to eat something because seriously he’s thinner than paper after not eating much for a week (even though I made him proper Chicken Soup!). When he woke up this morning and asked for Nutella French Toast Rolls I knew recovery was complete. I made them faster than he could change his mind and quickly put up a picture on Instagram (because they look scrumptious). SO many people asked for the recipe I decided it was worthy of a blog post.
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I spend a lot of my time online, I read a lot about body acceptance and self love, I read about diet and nutrition mainly because I am always trying to improve mine. Sadly I have yet to find a diet that advocates eating toast and nutella and drinking sweet, milky tea everyday.
The one thing that I have noticed, perhaps as a broad generalisation, is that most of the people who are spouting the “love your self, you are worthy, drop the diet and learn to love your inner beauty” message are of a certain body type themselves. And, to be honest, I am quite sick and tired of size 8 women telling me how I should feel about my size 12 body.
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Regular readers (my sisters and husband) will know that I have been a bit chatty instead of writing last week I just jabbered away in front of the camera. Well, I’ve done it again and chances are I am going to keep doing it – it’s quite addictive this talking stuff and Kerri and I do a LOT of it.
This time we are talking about a million things – we touch on aging, my hypochnodria, make up routines and dirty linen. Literally.
Have a look
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Do you take your make up off before you get into bed? Honestly?
Last week I wasn’t able to stop reading reports and listening to testimonies from people involved with the Knox School abuse. For those who have not been following, probably those not living in Sydney, students at the “prestigious” boys school on Sydney’s north shore were abused , over a 33-year period from the 1970s until 2003.
ABC News reports
A former student of a Sydney private school says students were sexually abused so often, he was not sure it was wrong when he was assaulted by a teacher in the playground.
Former Knox Grammar student Scott Ashton told the royal commission into child sexual abuse of the shock, shame and confusion he suffered after being abused at the school in the 1980s.
He said it was clear the school harboured “a large paedophile cohort” and the abuse led to him becoming a sex worker as teenager.
The details of the case, the extent and breadth of the abuse and the sheer horror of the case were frightening, crippling to listen to at times. Maybe it is because I am the mother of a son but at one stage when I listened to the testimony of one of the mothers speaking, actually speaking doesn’t cover it – sobbing with words coming out of her mouth was a more accurate description , I couldn’t breathe. The thought of something like that happening to my son makes my blood run cold, fear grips my heart. It’s a visceral reaction.
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I’m not even sure how to preface this one because
You would think someone with that list of hates would never ever dream of chatting with a friend in front of a camera and then broadcasting it on YouTube. [Read more…]
For a person who hates numbers as much as I do I am a bit obsessed with them. You could say I have a bit of an obsession with counting while at the same time harbouring a deep and genuine hatred for any form of mathematics or sentences containing numbers. It’s a constant battle in my head between calming myself with sequences and loathing the thought of numbers swilling about in my head.
And, even though some would try to teach me not to rely on the repetition of words between one and one hundred, the listing of numbers in chronological order brings me a great sense of comfort. It’s my “coping mechanism”, my crutch – it’s also my fixation and possibly one of the only things that really motivates me to exercise.
The pursuit of sequences and the attention to changing numbers and reaching predetermined goals used to ensure that my main form of exercise was the treadmill. I can stay on the treadmill for hours 40 minutes reaching all sorts of makeshift goals – one more km (counted down in metres) or 10 more minutes (counted down in one minute increments of course). I can run for another two minutes and then walk for three – every single step measured against an achievable number. It’s kept me treadmill fit for years.
But now, thanks to my newest obsession with fitness trackers, I am finally being released from my one-meter space at the gym and I am unleashing my counting and goal setting all over the place.
I bought myself a FitBit after much research and agonising and borrowing of my son’s Nike Fuel Band. At first I was only interested in counting my steps. It was all about getting to 10 000 steps in a day. But that turned out to be a bit too simple – the early morning walk with Fluffy Pencil takes care of at least 5 000 steps so by 7am I am half way there. It’s been upped to 15 000. 20 000 on a day that I go back to the treadmill.
But I quickly learned there is so much that a middle-aged hypochondriac with a FitBit can obsess over. When my husband asks me how I slept the night before I can bring up a graph to show him in detail. I understand that this can seem boring but I have very restless nights so my graphs are quite lovely to look at – I just have to convince anyone other than myself of that fact.
I can track my heart rate at any time – and I do. I have discovered that the doctor was right, my heart does beat a little fast – cue a million other things to worry about which in turn will cause my heart to beat faster, but niftily I can watch that rise.
I can map the route that I walk to bore people with at a later stage, see how many steps that walk was, what my heart was doing during all that step taking and how many calories I burned. In fact I can see how many calories I have burned over a day and I can compare that to how many I have eaten – the difference is not currently pointing to any weight loss. Damn.
I can see how many kilometres I’ve walked in a day, how many flights of stairs I’ve climbed and I can even track how much water I drink. Unfortunately I haven’t worked out how to set the alarm and I find it a bit irritating as a watch, but who needs time when you can track your heart beats per minute over a period of seven days?
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Since I got this nifty device I have parked further from my destination, I have walked to places I would normally drive to and I have studied my sleep in the way that only a person who actually understands sleep cycles would normally do.
It would be all good except for one thing – I have become a total bore.
Today over breakfast I found myself telling someone what my heart rate was, how many hours I slept last night and how many steps I had taken this morning. Worse than that was when I actually showed her in graph form. I would have seen her eyes glaze over but I was to busy looking at how many calories I had burned.
Do you wear a fitness tracker? How many steps do you do in a day?
PS Just reread this post and it reads like it was sponsored by FitBit – it’s not but if they want to pay me I will happily put the data into a nifty graph on my dashboard.
There is no easy way to say this, I have joined a cult.
It started late last year when a friend asked me if I would come and see a demonstration at her house, food was involved. Because I really like food I thought it would be remiss not to go, I really like my friend as well and food and her company while watching a demonstration seemed like a perfect thing to do.
And so I was lured into the cult of the Thermomix.
It’s pretty bad. And I’ve only just joined.
I didn’t have very long with it yesterday due to the fact that I had a life before I joined the cult, but in the two spare hours that I had, I made polenta, using vegetable stock made in the Thermomix, then I made a cake and a batch of icing. We were out for dinner so I had to be dragged away from creating several other culinary masterpieces but the whole night I sat itching to leave to go home and make butter. I knew it would only take about 7 minutes in the genius machine.
Today I found myself buying wheat that I can turn into flour and yeast so that I can make home-made bread to eat with the butter that I eventually managed to whip up.
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I used to love cooking but this is different – this isn’t cooking, it’s playing and it’s creating and it’s living in the future where you don’t actually have to think but you can if you want to. It’s all kinds of perfect and wondrous and, even if I wanted to, I can’t actually think of anything negative to say because they’ve inserted that Thermomix chip into my head and I am part of the cult.
I’m afraid I am going to turn into one of those people who tell you how their lives have been transformed, one of those people who tell you how much time and money they’ve saved. But I’m not really afraid because I am one of them already. Please continue to read my blog, I’ll try to temper my cultish adoration.
I’ll miss my previous life, but if you have a Thermomix tell me what I should be making.
And watch this – it’s laugh out loud hysterical. Seriously. If the first few lines offend you stay with it because once they start talking about us cult members Thermomix owners, it’s worth it.
Yesterday a friend dropped past the house to drop some swimmers off for her son who was coming around later that day for a swim (and because it was Little Pencil’s birthday).
“Let me quickly come inside and see the cake” she said as we were chatting outside the front door. “I know it will be amazing”
“There is no cake” I said.
I could tell she couldn’t quite believe me, I am the mother that has made cakes for every birthday – not just iced square pieces of sponge but CAKE cakes, think beach balls, skate board parks, wrestling rings (okay that one was quite easy), Harry Potter – you name it, I baked and iced it.
And then there were the birthday party invitations. 3D affairs that took days (if not weeks) to compile, carefully and individually worked on for ages in advance with themes that were mirrored in the party food, décor and cake. Think one of those over-the-top Pinterest type mums? That’s who I was every February for the past 13 years.
But this year my child is 14 and he is a “legit” teenager. And while he will always be my little boy he is not so much a little boy in his own mind. Now he’s a “man”, he’s too cool for parties and cakes and invitations that belong on mantelpieces.
When I asked him this year, with wild Pinterest type excitement building in my core, what he wanted to do for his birthday he kind of shrugged his shoulders and said “nothing”. I felt the tear on my apron strings, but I was strong and put on a brave front. “Why don’t you have some kids around to swim, we can order pizza and mum and dad will stay upstairs spying on you out of your way”. “Maybe” he answered.
You need to consume it as guided by the highest ethical standards, we provide our patients with individualized and compassionate fertility care. uk viagra prices The good news is that the sexual disorder or impotence is a best prices on levitra condition that usually beset guys. One of the accepted yardsticks for good health among adults sildenafil españa is good sex, so much so that an increasing number of young adult men are also facing the problems of anti snoring. It causes problems such as depression, erectile dysfunction, and order generic levitra seanamic.com a loss of muscle mass. I knew then I wasn’t going to do invitations. That part of his childhood was well and truly behind us. Instead he sent a Whatsapp message to a group of kids who came to us after school one day reeking of teenage hood and testosterone. Also sweat.
It’s a bit symbolic the lack of cake (he insisted on that fact) and the lack of organised party. It’s like the sweet, neat part of his childhood is behind us and we are facing a whole new world.
Teenagers are not that sweet, life is not as tidy and neat as it once was. He is bigger, messier, more complex than ever before. And while I once balked at the idea of parenting a teen for this very reason I have seen that there is little to be afraid of and much to savour and enjoy.
His personality is more complex, there are nuances and traces that make him that much more interesting – he is still amazingly sensitive and compassionate at the same time as being laugh out loud funny and confident but he is all that with a maturity that makes him easy to be around. He’s not my baby anymore but I’d choose him to be my friend – he’s a really good person to be around.
He’s opinionated but with intelligence, he’s louder but with smarts, he’s older but with wisdom.
Of course there are the very many trying times – he’s got a teenage brain and can back talk for Australia. We still have many lessons to learn together, many mistakes to make, prizes to win and roads to travel. But I have every confidence that now that I’m not so busy writing invitations and baking cakes and he’s not so busy discovering what kind of person he is going to be, we are going to do all of that so very well.
I am infinitely proud to be his mother, I never dreamed I could love a teenager as much as I love my young man.