I want to be my husband

engaged-couple-holding-handsSometimes I wish I were my husband.

Not the man that goes to work and deals with numbers and figures and things I don’t even understand from early in the morning to late in the evening. Not the man that cares for and worries about his brother, has also been known to be a “little concerned” about the amount his son eats or his dog walks. I’ve already got stressing about everything covered. Many times over.

Rather, I wish I were my husband in conversation.

I wish I had his deeper understanding of relationships, of dealing with the ins and outs of  dialogue. It’s not just because he’s incredibly smart and articulate but it’s the way he responds to exchanges with people that I want to make my own.

Where I hear anger and aggression, he hears passion and ardour. Where I hear whining and whingeing he hears someone that needs to be listened to. Where I worry that people are excluding me or somehow hating me (paranoid people like me do that a lot) he looks beyond the conversation to where it is coming from.

I don’t mean to make him out to be a saint because there’s been many a time I’ve wanted to pull him up when we are in the middle of a group conversation. There’s also been many times I’ve wanted to kick him to encourage him to shut up in company and I wont even mention the eye rolls and exaggerated exasperated sighs because quite frankly, sometimes I do not like listening to him at all.
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But he has something I don’t. He has the ability to cut out the emotion from conversation without being emotionless himself. I am the opposite.

I inject emotion into dialogue that doesn’t have any to start. I tend to take conversations and analyse them until I have worked myself into a state. I look back at each snippet of what I’ve heard so that it no longer matters what the person actually said. In my mind I’ve got have the whole thing worked out, the back story, the reason that tone was used and even what is going to happen next, the problem is that it has nothing to do with the conversation that actually happened – just the part that I took away and moulded in the privacy of my head. I am like a sculptor of other people’s words – I form them into objects that never existed before.

I colour my conversations with my  hang-ups. I  listen with my neurosis and not my ears. I’m so damn sensitive.

So maybe I don’t want to be my husband at all – I just want to learn from him how to let stuff go because he’s really good at that.

Do you analyse your conversations after they’ve happened? Are you an over-sensitive communicator? Or should I be spending more time with you as well? 

We were French (for a couple of hours)

My sister and I are taking turns to cook meals that are themed with a different country each Friday night from A to Z.  This week was my sister’s turn and we were up to F. Given that her daughter is a Francophile and everybody in the world loves crepes she chose France as her country.

Not making any excuses but my sister does have the added advantage of a son that not only loves to cook but is a little bit genius at it.  He even made butter! Yes, he made butter from scratch. Well from cream but still you get my drift…

butter

HOME MADE BUTTER!!!!

champagne

There was French Champagne of course

soup

French Onion Soup

french salad

French Salad (naturally)

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beef

Beef Bourguignon

salt

There was even French salt

citron

Citron Tart

The crepes were really hard to photograph because we switched the lights off to get the full effect of the flames once the alcohol was lit … also I forgot to photograph them when they were on my plate because I was too busy eating

crepes

Crepe Suzette with a tiny bit of flame

It was another awesome meal!

Looking forward to Friday at my house when we explore the letter G (for Greece of course)

The oldest excuse in the book: My parent’s did it and I turned out okay

smackI am always a bit astounded by the comments that appear online as soon as the smacking debate makes the news again. Granted there are other times that the comments astound (and horrify) me but the smacking issue seems to bring out a lot of defiance and plenty of room for discussion.

Today’s news is reporting that a leading group of New Zealand and Australian doctors from the Royal Australasian College of Physicians are pushing to make smacking children a criminal offence.

Daily Life reports

“The Royal Australasian College of Physicians will call for a legal amendment to give children the same protection from assault as others in the community.

The president of the college’s paediatrics and child health division, Susan Moloney, said physical punishment could escalate to abuse. ”We know that a significant number of child homicides are a result of physical punishment which went wrong,” she said.

Research shows it can lead to depression, anxiety, aggression, antisocial behaviour and substance abuse. In Australia it is legal for parents to use corporal punishment on children as long as it is ”reasonable”.”

Personally I found it interesting (and eye opening) that research shows teenagers who have been smacked as young kids experience more social problems in high school. It is also telling that research shows that a child who experiences physical punishment is more likely to develop increased aggressive behaviour and mental health problems as an adult.
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And I know that there is a difference between smacking and abuse. But I can’t deny that smacking is physical punishment.

But back to the commenters and my own little bit of unsubstantiated evidence based research.  From a brief scan of comment is seems that the majority of people who are in favour of smacking are very defensive about it. Bordering on angry. Unlike many of the people who prefer the idea of using other forms of discipline, who seem more balanced in the expression of their thoughts.  There are also a lot of men who are in favour of smacking. A lot. I would guess proportionally much higher than the amount of men who are full time carers and in the coalface of the “a little smack on the hand when your toddler is about to get run over after having run into the middle of the road” type scenario which you hear ALL THE TIME.

The repeated mantra of “I was smacked as a child and I am perfectly okay” seems to support the research that people who are smacked as children are more likely to  smack their own kids.  Does it also mean they are more likely to experience mental health problems like depression or anxiety,  to display aggressive or antisocial behaviour, have substance abuse problems and abuse their own children or spouse?  I’m not sure.

But I am sure that being a parent is a privilege not a right and and their are certain duties that come with that privilege,  like taking care of your child’s physical, emotional and mental needs. You can’t blame your parents, your situation, your addiction or your hideous childhood and abusive spouse. You have to be the best parent you can be – not the same parent as your parents were.

And after reading the comments I have seen in the media today,  I still wouldn’t smack my child.

Are you a smacker? Do you think I have stereotyped you unjustly? Where do you stand on the smacking divide?

10 things that take forever

alarm-clockI have just spent three hours making a salad for dinner tonight. Okay it wasn’t exactly three hours but it certainly felt like it. And it’s not because it was a super sophisticated salad – in fact it is really very basic. And it’s not like I ever had to make the dressing, that was done before (talking of which you should make this dressing – it’s brilliant). It’s just that making a salad seems to take sooo long.

Perhaps it’s the tedium of washing lettuce and chopping vegetables that seems to stretch minutes into hours. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s just part of a boring mid-week meal and I’m not that enthused… But it did get me thinking that there are quite a few things that I commonly do that seem to take forever

  1. Making school lunch – seriously this cannot take more than five minutes if I stretch it so why do I dread it with the some dread that most people hold for taking out the rubbish? School lunch takes me about three days in imagined time
  2. Putting petrol in the car – this is something I’ve been know to put off because it feels like such a waste of time. Getting stuck on the other hand, would be a bigger waste of time. Putting petrol in takes about 2 hours in imagined time.
  3. Finding a parking spot. Even on the busiest day statistics say that you wait for parking an average of 8 minutes, so why does finding a parking spot take over an day in imagined time?
  4. Waiting at the cash register when there are magazines to browse through takes about a second. Waiting to get to the front of the queue so that you can get to the magazines takes over an hour.
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  6. Ever sent a text and wanted or needed a response immediately? No matter who it is or how long it actually takes it feels like about three days.
  7. Getting your hair cut – some people love having their hair scrubbed and rubbed and coiffed and blow dried. Quite frankly I find any activity that requires me to sit in front of the mirror for longer than a nanosecond painful. Having my hair cut takes about eight hours in imagined time. Lets agree never to mention having any sort of colouring done.
  8. Waiting for a tradesman to fix something or something to be delivered to your home actually does take a whole day regardless of what they say. In my experience if they tell you between 9 and 12 they will come at 12:15 unless you rely on that equation and are only home from 11:30, then they will come at 8:45.
  9. Waiting for your child to finish a meal. Seriously how on earth does time stretch while you are watching your child eat a meal that they don’t love? It often surprises me when I finally walk away from the table and glance at my watch expecting it to be after midnight and it is a little after 7pm.
  10. Sitting in the sun. I know that in this day of sun education and melanoma awareness this is not an actual issue but I still remember back to my teenage years when you HAD to have a tan to have any credibility. Lying on my back in the sun for ten minutes would take about a year in imagined time. I always vowed that if I had only one month to live I would spend it lying in the sun thus giving me … well a lot of time (I’m too bad at math to work it out).
  11. Waiting for your nails to dry takes forever. The introduction of gel nails has improved the need to stand with outstretched hands for all your days with immediate drying time however, the time your nails will take to recover from being doused in acetone to remove the stuff will literally be forever.

What every day activities do you do that seem to take forever?

My everyday baby

As those of you who follow me on Twitter or Facebook would know I have been stalking the #royalbaby hashtag for some days now. It was some of the most boring stalking I have ever done because absolutely nothing was happening other than the fact that I was checking it every 5 minutes. And then last night, much like the prince himself – it came alive.

Hundreds and thousands of #royalbaby tweets started flooding my Twitter stream so fast that I couldn’t read them. Faster, it must be said, than Kate’s labour .

I have no idea why I was so excited. I am well aware that thousands of babies are born every day and most of them will never know anything near the wealth and general fortune that this prince is destined to. But I do know that I love baby news. I love hearing about people having babies that are much wanted, I smile when I see complete strangers with newborns and I revel in the feeling of joy that seems to surround new beginnings.

So when the #everyday baby hashtag started to make appear in my feed I was just as excited. People were using the hashtag to share the photos and memories of their “non royal” but just as precious babies.

Elated, exhausted and beautiful mothers appeared with their tiny, gorgeous and very fresh babies.

I thought for a while about which photo I would share to show off my everyday baby. Which photo would show how perfect he was to me and how proud I was to be a mother for the first time.

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There is no photo of him on my chest post delivery. He was rushed off to intensive care before there were any thoughts of photos being taken. To be honest I would rather have him cared for by a team of the most wonderful doctors and caring and dedicated nurses than a photo of him on my chest.

I have about a billion photos of him growing up and I can vouch for the fact that he got more and more beautiful as every day passed. I know there is some bias in my sentence but I’m cool with that

But his birth photo is special. It’s raw and real and miraculous. It was taken by pure fluke by my husband who clicked the camera at the doctor’s instruction. I don’t think he was watching what he was doing but the shot is perfect. As is the baby.

Here is my #everydaybaby twelve years ago. Always a prince to me

everydaybaby

Little Pencil being born on 10 February 2001

My search for a miracle

FlimFlam2

I have a problem. It’s expensive, it’s vain and ultimately it is bad for my self esteem.

It happens every time I enter a the cosmetics section of a department store . I am seduced by the bright lights and repeated promises of the make up counter. It’s like suddenly I am in a magical place where everything I read is true and  nothing is more important than flawless skin, wide eyes and ridiculously long eye lashes. I firmly believe a miracle lies in the bottles on the shelves – I just need to unearth it.

Last Friday was no exception. My very good friend and partner in crime work, Kerri and I had been at a work related meeting all morning. We were suave and professional until about the second we left the building when we went back to normal. In the car on the way home we discussed some very important issues that had not come up in the meeting because they were not at all work related.  Even though the issues weren’t work related they were slightly stressful so we decided to take them to Westfield at Bondi Junction to get rid of them.

Although I am sure Kerri will deny it, it was when we went to the bathroom and the harsh light shone on the bags under my eyes that she told me about this new product that she loved. And I started to tremble because I knew where we were headed next.

As we walked through the magical make-up corridor towards the Benefit counter where we were going to find a concealer that would change my life, er I mean face, I got that familiar feeling. I needed ALL the things. Even though I own a fair bit of make up I still have this nagging feeling that there is something that I am missing – that one piece of magic makeup that is actually going to change my face, make me look different – younger, smoother, shinier, more “finished”. Actually I am not even sure what I am looking for any more.

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Ten minutes later I found myself sitting on a chair having all manner of make up applied to my face.  Eyes closed, lips pursed, cheeks sucked in I was very patient while I had my face painted. I was convinced that when I looked in the mirror I would hardly recognise my new flawless skin.

But when the lovely woman handed me a mirror and I glanced at my reflection I looked just like me.  If anything was different it was that all the make up was now highlighting my fine lines so they looked less fine and more prominent.

Kerri insisted that I looked gorgeous. Another clue that she was working for the enemy Benefit.  And so it happened like it always does, I was persuaded by the perfume, the hype, the adverts and the lies that the make up might just be magic and maybe the woman had not been liberal enough in her application.  So I bought it all.

And I took it home and I applied it quite liberally. And you’ll never guess what happened.

I look exactly the same as I did before.

Kate, there are a few things you should know

kate-middleton-pregYesterday I read that Snooki had written a letter to Kate, the Duchess of Cambridge to give her a bit of parenting advice. Snooki is a reality television personality best known for being a cast member of Jersey Shore. She is also a new mother and she can (sort of) write so why shouldn’t she be one of the many thousands that are going to shower advice on to the expectant Duchess?

It’s a centuries old tradition that experienced mothers pass down advice to new mums.  If you have a child, you’ve heard it all before. Chances are you’ve passed on your own advice to new mothers.  It’s done with every good intention kind of like Snooki writing a letter to The Duchess of Cambridge.  And me telling Kate what I have learned, because if I had the chance to talk to here this is what I’d say:

Don’t get stuck on what the books say. Your baby doesn’t read and humans don’t actually come with manuals.  All the books that are written about babies were written long after babies came along.

Don’t compare your baby to any other baby but especially not to the baby in the book (just in case you failed to take heed of my first point).
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Feed your baby whatever makes you happiest.  If you ever waiver about this one look around the table when the extended family and a few select dignitaries get together for a cucumber sandwich and a cup of tea and try and pick out the ones that were bottle fed and the ones that were breast fed. You won’t be able to.

I’m not sure about palace sleeping arrangements (although I have no idea why I remember the fact that you are actually living in an “apartment”) but if you want to sleep with your baby – do it. I am quite sure your alcohol consumption is low enough to ensure that this is perfectly safe. I don’t think there has been any valid scientific study that says you can spoil a baby with love. Conversely if you have help and you want the baby to sleep in another wing – go for it. Your baby will eventually sleep  – how he or she learns is irrelevant (go back to the dinner table scenario if you will – you wont be able to tell the adults that were left to cry or those that were comforted to sleep). As long as YOU are comfortable with what you’re doing it’s right for your baby.

When you look back in 5 or 10  or any years time that one horrendous feed isn’t going to make a difference, nor that one story you didn’t feel like reading, nor that sleepless night, nor that pre-packaged, preservative filled meal you fed your baby. Try let go of your guilt, it’s the worst part of being a mother

That said, enjoy what you can because when you do look back you will never regret the time you spent with your child. You might regret missing the opening of a castle or regret the fact that you said you’d officiate at the launch of an old aged home, you might regret that you never ate that red velvet cupcake with the cream cheese icing while the royal bodyguards had their backs turned but you will never regret time that you spend with your child

Whether you are the future Queen of England, a reality TV star or a mum in the suburbs it doesn’t change a thing – having a baby will change your life in the most profound, meaningful and beautiful way possible. And if you love your baby then whatever else you do is right.

Just look what he made!

It’s fair to say that we are not a crafty family. I can’t cut straight, I’m slightly allergic to mess and although things always look great in my mind’s eye they do not always translate that way in reality. My husband likes to tinker with building stuff and owns every tool in the world and his happy place is Bunnings. Still,  that doesn’t qualify as craft.  Little Pencil is convinced (rightly so) that he is “bad at art” and so is quite hesitant to do anything too crafty. Plus he’s a 12-year-old boy and craft is not cool enough for him.

But recently he was given a major (and pretty awesome) assignment at school. He had to create his own country complete with a government, religion, infrastructure and active population. He had to design the flag, create the map, write extensively about the history of the country and do a shit load of work! After all the hard work was behind him he had to create a stall at which he gets to show off his country at a World Expo next week. He was to make souvenirs for all the kids to take home after visiting his country (which he has called Paraíso Nevado).

Paraíso Nevado is a very cold place where it snows much of the time and so we talked endlessly about what he could give as souvenirs. A snowflake bookmark? A flag? A stamp? But Little Pencil had high aspirations. He wanted to give everyone a snow globe! And he was going to make them.

My friend Kerri would laugh a lot at me as I told her I was busy  shopping for glitter and glycerine. And stuff. “Who’s project is it?” she would ask me as she went on national TV talking about the importance of allowing kids to fail, to make mistakes and for their parents not to do their homework.  But Little Pencil can’t drive YET and the only thing I did was the shopping. He did ALL the rest and I feel mighty proud of him because AWESOME SNOW GLOBES.

Check them out

adding water

We bought 20 small jars from the $2 shop for $20 in total. He filled them with water

glycerine

We got some glycerine to ensure the snow “floated” not sank


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adding glycerine

He added a few drops of glycerine to the water (his favourite bit)

glitter in

And then he added a teaspoon full of white glitter

snow globe

And voila – a snow globe!!!

Seriously how cool is that? A craft project that actually worked. And the whole thing cost less than $30 for 20 snow globes

Well done Little Pencil.

Now if anyone can tell me how the hell to get glitter out of EVERYTHING WE OWN that would be great!

Why are they advertising this during Prime Time TV?

wanted

Why do they put Wanted ads on during prime time TV?

Seriously?

Wanted is a fairly new program on Channel 10 that “works with the Australian public and police to help solve major crimes and bring offenders to justice.“ It’s basically Australia’s Most Wanted with a couple of words chopped off the front and added Sandra Sully.

The cases they’re discussing aren’t things like overdue library books or even grand scale espionage. Not even bank robberies or drug hauls – but murders. Chilling tales of unsolved murders of regular people like me or you.

But back to the advertising. And the fact that they talk about the cases they will be discussing later that night during prime time.  Specifically during prime time shows that I am watching with my son. I’m looking at you Masterchef.

Little Pencil is 12. He’s robust and strong. He can watch the scariest of movies and read the most nail clenching of books. He can also distinguish between fact and fiction. He is 12 after all.

And while 12 might be old enough to distinguish between fact and fiction it’s still young enough to be scared shitless by real crime. He’s fine with the news. He watches with me and he understands more global issues than I did when I was his age. He even understands that there is crime and murder and rape. But on the news it is somehow quarantined. We know what we are watching and we can deal with it in more “global” terms.
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We have had the “robbers” discussion more times than I care to admit and, even if this is not the best or most honest parenting technique, I have gone for the “it’s not going to happen to us” story mode.  I point out where we live, the proximity to our neighbours, the dog that barks at passing pedestrians and of course the flashing red sensors in the corners of the rooms which are linked to an actual back to base alarm (you can take the girl out of South Africa but you can’t take South Africa out of the girl).

Recently there was a shooting in a suburb where there aren’t normally shootings. It wasn’t really that close to home but it wasn’t that far either. For nights after that we had to go through the same conversation. About bikies and gangs and how safe our house is and how we should never join a gang (or smoke or get tattoos) for fear of getting shot. Hey I’m the mum, I can use whatever tactic works at the time.

He’s really not a nervous child and if you had to meet him it would surprise you that he needs to talk this stuff out – although if you remember he talks EVERYTHING out (click here to read about that).  He is a real “boy” who is not averse to a spot of violence in a movie, a boy who can shoot at enemies on a screen with no qualms and full understanding of the scenario. But deep under that he’s just a kid who’s scared of “real life crime”.

Every time a Wanted ad comes on I just know that we are going to be pulling it apart before bed that night. Dissecting it and discussing it and hauling out maps to show how far away we are from the crime scene. And while it’s well and good that he’s exposed to the news and to events that are taking place around him I’d like to have some control over what he’s being exposed to and at what time of night.

And if I had that control, I can guarantee you he would not be watching real life crime re-enactments.

Were you scared of “robbers” as a kid? Are your kids scared of them?

The one thing my son can’t stop doing

talking-fingersThe other day I was watching my son lying on the field with his friend. They had been playing soccer and were now sprawled out under the goal posts looking up towards the moving clouds above them.  I imagined, for a moment, that they were just reflecting, lying there imagining names for the clouds that were forming magnificent shapes above them. Then I remembered it was my son lying there – which meant quiet reflection was not only not a possibility it wasn’t even something in his lexicon.

My son talks a lot. He could talk for Australia. He never, ever runs out of things to say and if he does he just repeats what he’s said before but with a different angle. Thank God he’s very intelligent so he can think on his feet.

Sometimes I blame myself for this non-stop barrage of words. You see when he was a baby I never ever let him cry. He made a sound and I ran to his side to pick him up or to let him know  I was there. I think this is why he thinks that whatever he has to say is so important.  And, truth be told I am glad that he thinks what he says is important, I just wish he wouldn’t have such “important “ things to say all the time.

Some days it is enough to make me to want to stab my own ears.

His chatter is amusing; he’s got a brilliant sense of humour and an excellent way with words. The fact that he is nearly a teenager means that I’m actually quite interested in what he has to say.  Except when it’s about soccer or x-box games. And it’s about soccer and x-box games A LOT.

He has a lot of the most patient friends on earth who are excited to listen to him babble on incessantly. In fact I often hear them laughing as he goes on and on and on. I think they like it…. And if they aren’t there he is just as happy to talk to himself.  Or to sing. As long as his mouth is moving and it’s not eating he’s happy.

He must be a joy to teach. Not. (His reports are beautifully worded – words like “enthusiastic” and “exuberant” and “sharing of knowledge” are used quite often. We are working on the school part – promise)
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But for all the long stories that I listen to about Liverpool Football Club and Ronaldinho and Louis Suarez (soccer players) and x-box game plans and complicated and intricate ball passes and tae-kwondo kicks, I also get to hear the really important stuff.

It’s not just his mundane thought that he shares with me. Little Pencil trusts me with all his stories. He tells me what’s cool and what’s not with 12 year olds.  He talks to me about his day at school, he tells me what is happening with his friends and all about the little girl that he likes.  When there is a flare up on Instagram (and there often is) he tells me what has happened, how it happened, how he thinks it should have happened, what’s going to happen next….you get my drift?

He tells me what’s happening on Facebook and when someone sends him a message that says more than “Hi” he’s often keen to share it.  You’d be surprised how many tweens send Facebook messages that say little more than “Hi” or “Hey” or “Sup?”

It may sound quite noisy in our house and putting it out here on “paper” makes it seem a little annoying (it can be when  he’s telling you every single play in a 90 minute soccer match) but on balance I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Teenage years are nearly upon on. If we can just talk through those – I think we’re home and hosed.

Have you got a talker? Does your child share their every thought or are they more of a closed book?