Iron Maiden

I'm back! Life has been quite hectic in the H household, and finding a spare moment is getting more and more difficult.
Little Gem is now almost six months old and is the ultimate distraction. Her 'talking' is much more animated, her squeals of excitement have hit all new heights, and she has genuine fits of laughter. Pulling a funny face, tickling her tummy, or blowing a raspberry can lead to the most hilarious exchanges. She is at such a great age, and these interactions are eating up a lot of my day, but I'm certainly not complaining!
Life might be more hectic, but it's also a lot more structured. Little Gem's routine is changing as she grows, and she now has a solid two hours of sleep in the middle of the day, leaving me time to catch up with housework, Christmas present wrapping, cooking/pureeing/freezing food (yey, solids!), and the never ending washing/drying/ironing. That's right. Ironing.
Husband has started a new job (same company) that requires him to wear his 'actual' uniform, instead of the previously provided trade 'whites' that he has worn for the last 8 years. This requires an ironed shirt. Gah. I have mentioned before that while I have succumbed to most aspects of my domesticity, I Do Not Iron. Well, make that Did Not Iron. Husband's inability to iron anything safely, combined with his now increased travel times, mean that I have taken on this colossal task.
But a funny thing has happened between me and my Phillips GC 2560. We've become friends. So friendly, in fact, that I now find the time to iron all of our clothes. Every second day, I clear off my dinner table, perch the washing basket on a nearby stool, and manoeuvre the ironing board to the middle of our dining room. I have enough room on the table to neatly pile my warm, ironed clothes, and I have a clear view into the lounge room to watch TV as I go.
And that's exactly what I was doing at 1.27pm on Tuesday, December 6. And that was the moment that I realised.... I have become my mother.
The routine. The table. The piles of neatly pressed clothes. The 'serials' on TV (Days of Our Lives for Mum, reruns of Grey's Anatomy for me). The more that I thought about it, I realised that this has been a gradual progression, eating into every aspect of my life.
I play music while doing the housework. I get going every morning to make sure the majority of the tasks are done before lunch time. My Christmas shopping was started in August, and mostly completed by November. I send Christmas cards. I talk to Little Gem is a ridiculous voice. I tell off the Labrador using the same phrases that I grew up with ("That's enough!" "I mean it!" "Right, that's it. Into your room!")
Unconsciously, I have endeavoured to make Little Gem's childhood experience as close to my childhood experience as possible. And on the face of it, that is not a bad thing. If there is anybody in this world who I would want to be like, it is my Mum.
I hope you have all had a lovely Christmas/New Year period. One of my New Years resolutions is to keep this blog going, and to post more regularly. Stick with me, kids!

She-Ra, Have You Led Me Astray?

Time is a funny thing.  My Little Gem is now four months old, and that four months seemed to simultaneously last a life time, while flying by in an instant. What was once a tiny, skinny, immobile bairn is now a thunder-thighed, robust and rolling bub, with her own vibrant personality. I love that I have been able to stay at home and watch this development, all day, every day. Others aren't so lucky.
I decided to take 12 months maternity leave, supplemented by the Government's Paid Parental Leave. It was a Godsend. We trialled various brands and products for Little Gem. We got major annual expenses out of the way, e.g. car registrations, Christmas shopping, insurance. I stocked up on essential items such as nappies, wipes, baby bath soap, tissues and toilet paper (thank you , Costco). And we afforded ourselves a little coastal getaway.
But now my 18 weeks has run its course, and we are officially living off one income. My bank account will be languishing, unnourished and unloved, for at least a few months. And I am not coping with that.
I was a child of the 90s. As a little miss, I watched as
Rainbow Brite defeated the King of Shadows. I saw She-Ra join He-Man in defence of Castle Greyskull. The message was clear to me. Girls are tough! Girls can do anything that Boys can do! Then the Spice Girls came along and gave it a name. Girl Power. (Ok, the Spice Girls were horribly naff. But hindsight is a beautiful thing. It was 1996 people! Think wide-leg jeans and cargo pants. Think Blossom, or, if you're under the age of 25... google Blossom. Any judgemental hipster-types can go and jump of some cliff somewhere that I've probably never heard of...) Then, in 2001 I found a book titled Kiss My Tiara.  It was modern feminism to a tee. How to stand on your own two feet, in gorgeous shoes to boot. (Btw, that link will take you to the original website of that book. It's like time travel!)
So, after growing up in Generation Girl Power, having had a job since I was 14, how can I possibly reconcile the fact that I am now completely dependent on Husbands income? We have never opened a joint bank account, and while we both refer to 'our' money, I'm riddled with guilt for contemplating anything other than a 'necessary' expenditure. I should note, this guilt is strictly driven from within. Husband is quite happy in his role of breadwinner, and thinks that it is extremely important for me to be at home with Little Gem right now.
But there is a part of me that is dying to get back to paid work. To be actively working to contribute to our household. And not just in a financial sense. To go back to work would enable me to feel competent, confident and independent. But there is also that larger, more emotional part of me that wants to relish every day of Little Gem, especially at this dynamic and engrossing stage of her development.
To be clear, this is not a debate about whether Little Gem should go into care. She has a Super Nan who is waiting in the wings, ready to spoil her rotten when I go back to work. And realistically, it won't be for a while. Little Gem is still breast fed and I really don't think I could tear myself away just yet. So it will be at least a few months of dependence, and I will simply have to learn to live with it. Or maybe the answer lies within a question... What would She-Ra do?
On the upside for Husband... my guilt has led me to make a bit more effort in the kitchen lately. Hopefully, I'll end up faring a little better than my previous attempts...

It's Been a While

It has indeed been a while between posts, which is quite remiss of me, given that people now seem to be reading this! The H household has been quite hectic over the last fortnight. Here is a quick rundown of what's been happening.
We had our second weekend away with Little Gem, this time a trip to Sydney to catch up with family and friends. Cleverly chose to review this before packing. Discovered that car does, indeed, have a big enough boot. Spend the first half of the trip congratulating myself on my superior packing abilities. However, when it came time to get ready for a family function, we discovered that I had forgotten to pack Husband's belt, my preferred shoes, hairspray, half of my outfit and and my sanity.
Little Gem coped wonderfully with the trip away, but gave a repeat performance on the way home. So much so, that I even resorted to the dreaded dummy for the first time. Little Gem is mostly happy to suck on her fingers, but was too tired to lift her arms. The dummy gave us some peace for the trip home, and despite the roar of outrage that is currently filling the lungs of the Perfect Mummy Brigade, it wasn't the end of the world. It simply allowed us to travel without a noise level to match that of a fighter jet. And while some idiots experts may have you believe that the humble dummy is as addictive as heroin, Little Gem has given no indication that she would like it back. Her fingers are definitely her preferred taste.
The last week has been spent preparing for Little Gem's Christening. We had family around for the whole weekend, and it was great having everybody at our home. Given how I seem to have lost my mind lately, I was lucky to have my 7 year old nephew around to remind me about almost everything. "You said you needed apple juice and cream." "Did you call Nan to borrow the sheets for the single bed?" "You forgot to bring the table inside to put the cake on!" "Are you ready yet?!"
While life has been a whirlwind, there are two pieces of writing that I have read over the last two weeks that have struck a chord with me. The first piece is by a friend called Angie, who has her own blog that is well worth a read, and this week she had a piece published on Mamamia about Post Natal Depression. I was lucky enough not to experience this, but so many new mums do, and the work of PANDA is priceless. The other piece I came across is this. I was contemplating writing a post on the issue of Marriage Equality, and JG's decision to put it to a conscience vote, but this post says everything that I wanted to say, but far better than I ever could have.
So that's it for now. Sorry for the random post, I'll resume normal transmissions soon!

When You Can't Handle the Heat...

When I fell pregnant, Husband and I made some decisions. Some were easy (what religion to baptise our child into, our stance on circumcision, our stance on vaccination). Some were not so easy (baby names, choosing godparents, our stance on dummies). And some decisions were made for us.
Of the two of us, Husband was clearly destined for the role of bread winner. He earns more money. He has a clear career progression ahead of him.  He can't breastfeed. Oh, and he earns more money. It was a no-brainer.
When Little Gem was born, Husband spent a glorious five weeks at home with us. He cooked, he cleaned, he shopped, he changed nappies, he project managed bathtime to within an inch of its life. I merely strolled around the house in a post-birth daze, took regular catnaps, and occasionally looked down in wonder as a miniature version of my husband stared back at me. (To be fair, I also spent a fair bit of time wincing in pain as a baby chewed on my nipples as though they were a half softened Mintie.)
But all good things come to an end, and as I finally emerged from my post-birth fog, Husband returned to work. And he works hard. They are long and ridiculous hours, and start times that vary from 10pm to 6am. I often end up sleeping half the night on the lounge during a spate of nightshifts. When he gets home, he is rightfully exhausted.
So isn't he lucky to have me, all domestic housewife like, zipping around the house in a beautiful dress and heels, a face full of make up, and not a hair out of place, to greet him on arrival? His clothes have been washed, ironed, folded and put away. The house is perfectly perfect. Baby is cooing quietly in her bassinet. And there is the gorgeous aroma of a gourmet meal simmering away on the stove, awaiting the finest of finishing touches before being served, with garnishes of course.
Ha.
Ok, well the house is usually very clean. Little Gem doesn't move around too much yet, so I do have the time to keep the place in order. And the clothes are usually washed and put away. But I definitely do not iron. And, I think, maybe once Husband came home to his daughter quietly cooing in her basinet. But mostly she's rolling around on the floor squealing. Or, if it's Arsenic Hour, she is red faced and screaming for no reason in particular.
But as far as the food preparation goes, I failed. Not an easy thing to accept. Not something that I'm proud of. But its true. I failed.
Despite the thought of succumbing to that 'dutiful wife' stereotype, I had all intentions of cooking our dinner every night. I was going to be very well prepared, and get it started during the day, while Little Gem had her naps. And I was going to have the time to peruse cookbooks to choose the most delightful recipes. I might even have started trying pastries and cakes (from scratch, of course).
And I did try, I really did. But the thing is, having a couple of recipe books and good intentions does not guarantee a Rick Stein quality meal. And I was starting from behind, as you will come to understand. Below is a brief history of my culinary escapades.

• Beef Stroganoff - A tasty meal that I cooked probably once a week for about three years. It may be from a jar, but I add the sour cream and salt and pepper and it tastes alright. I like it. And I thought Husband did too. But, when I was about 20 weeks pregnant, Husband informed me that he does not like it, hates it in fact, and always had. He also turns up his nose at my Butter Chicken and Lemon Chicken. Basically anything from a jar is not acceptable meal time fare.
• Random Pasta- Where I throw a whole heap of stuff in a pan. Oil, bacon, onion, mushroom, maybe a bit of chilli, some tomatoes perhaps, then cook it all for a stupidly long time and chuck it on top of some pasta. Now, even Husband doesn't mind this one. But he cannot help but to give me some pointers on How To Make It Better. I'm sure that not boiling pasta for thirty minutes, and not cooking the bacon until its black, and maybe even stirring the whole thing occasionally may, in fact, be helpful. But to me, its just criticism.
• Silverside- This is a meal that I have cooked successfully a few times (Thank God for pressure cookers). Let's just forget about the time that I forgot to half the cooking time to make up for the smaller cut of meat.
• Roast Chicken- Ok, so by "roast" chicken, I mean "cooked in a bag, in the microwave" chicken. Artistic licence, whatever. So this one should be pretty easy. How could you stuff this up? Put the bagged chicken in the microwave and press Start. Except, I forgot to read the instructions, failed to put the power on Medium, and completely misjudged cook time. So this actually ends up being "burnt, cooked in a bag, in the microwave" chicken.

To make matters worse, Husband is a total foodie. And a qualified Pastry Chef. So he has food interest, and the skills to match. His patience with my *cough* average ability has waned. These days, Husband has resumed most cooking duties. I do try to assist him as much as possible. He lets me cut things up, but warns me every three minutes to be very careful with the sharp knife.

I'm sure that my cooking would satisfy some people (particularly those who have lost the ability to taste). But my Husband is such a bloody great cook, that I simply cannot compete. So I have thrown in the towel.

But not the tea towel. I still do the dishes.

Baby, You Drive Me Crazy

We have just completed our first family holiday. Well, more of a long weekend than a holiday, but it was Little Gem's first overnight stay away from home, so quite the milestone for us. But it wasn't exactly the relaxing road trip that I had imagined. Oh no, that was the height of my naivety.
I should have known it wasn't going to be all sunshine and roses when it took me two days, three bouts of tears, and one nervous breakdown before I had packed everything. And I really had packed Everything, so getting it all the car almost required medication.
Days 1 and 2 went well. Little Gem coped remarkably well with the trip, stayed her happy and social self, and charmed the life out of everyone she met. Day 3 was the start of her downhill slide. On day 4 she made a slight recovery, and with the beautiful gift of hindsight, we should have taken this as a sign and hightailed it home then. But we didn't. Instead we extended our stay for an extra night, and we certainly paid the price.
Mother Nature is very clever. Baby giraffes, horses, sheep etc are able to walk within hours of birth. A baby monkey has the strength to cling to his mummy's back. Kangaroo's have built in pouches to keep their bubbies safe and warm. My baby isn't so independent. But she can scream. Loudly. And she screamed all the way home. Loudly. She wasn't hot, cold, wet, hungry or sick. She was just unhappy to be in the car and she let us know about it. Loudly. All The Way Home. Most repetitive noises are able to be tuned out, but not a baby's cry. Thanks for that Mother Nature.
And so, as my dearly loved first born wailed and sobbed in the back seat, I could do nothing but blink my tears away and count down the kilometres. In an attempt to distract myself, I also made a list of what I had learned over those few days.

1. Little Gem does not actually require 20 outfits, 30 nappies, 10 packets of wipes, and 4 towels per day.
2. The boot of our car is indeed massive. But not massive enough.
3. Mosquito nets are extremely versatile... portacot, pram, and rocker (a win for Mum!)
4. Myer children's section reduced racks are terribly addictive.
5. A five minute walk along the beach ON MY OWN can be a slice of heaven.
6. Despite my focussing on the negatives, Little Gem is a pretty great baby. She slept through every night and made me melt with every smile.
7. Home might not be where my heart is, but it is where she is most comfortable.
8. Oh, and packing 10 tonne of clothing requires one million loads of washing upon return. NOOOO!

The Times, They Have a-Changed

I turned 27 this week. Its a peculiar age to be, 27. To me, its the bookend of my twenties. The slide into thirty and beyond has started, and it has led to quite a reflective mood. This day was certainly unlike any previous birthdays.
The 7am wake-up call was actually a sleep-in for me. My birthdays usually start around 6am, when a dear Aunt of mine always calls. She likes to get in first. She achieves this by getting in about 2 hours before anybody else. Not this year though. Said Aunt chose to wait until the early afternoon, she didn't want to mess up Little Gem's sleep patterns. It was very thoughtful of her, as my dear little one stuck to her usual routine of a 7 o'clock yelp for food.
The rest of the day was a complete break of birthday routine, however. Instead of sleeping until noon, my sheets were washed and hung to dry by 10am. I was treated to lunch by two of my Best Gals, but instead of a leisurely booze filled afternoon, it was a quick wrap and water. I had to get Little Gem home for a nap, and my Gals were expected back in the office. My afternoon consisted of high pitched laughter and rolling around on the floor. No, this wasn't the result of a birthday 'afternoon delight', it was a hilarious Mum and Bub moment. My baby has certainly found her voice!
We had a lovely little gathering that night, complete with party food and cake. I even snuck in a glass of red once Little Gem had gone down for the night.
What a picture of domesticity this paints. Previous years had seen my birthday smack bang in the middle of party season. There were car races to drink at, music festivals to drink at, random 'no reason' gatherings to drink at, as well as a good smattering of birthdays... to drink at.
There were the outfits. The tight, cleavage bulging, hip skimming, stomach sucking clothes. And the shoes. The inappropriately high, tight and painful shoes. We would totter off to cause mischief, balancing precariously, and wincing in pain. The alcohol soothed our swollen toes for a little while, but after hours of standing, swaying and performing our much-practiced dance moves to "The Horses", the calf pain would set in. Then it was shoes off. No matter the weather, the location or the glass on the footpath. Shoes off for the stagger home. I clearly remember the look of amazement on the faces of Husband's friends, as I ditched my high heels on the night of our engagement party. It was -5, and the icy frost had settled on the grass. You could see the imprints of my step as I hoofed it through the park, my only concern being the impending closing time of the kebab shop.
Yes, times have certainly changed for me. But not for the worse, and not in a way that makes me regret our previous antics. They were fun. Hilarious. And I'll probably recreate a few of them in years to come. It is known as the 'dirty thirties' after all.
But hopefully I can get away with sensible shoes.

Fear and Loving in Mum-Vegas

There are a million things you learn when you have your own child. Things that other parents tend to keep to themselves. And not just about the horrors of childbirth (Oh my God, no wonder people don't tell the truth about that, the human race would be doomed),that babies go through several stages of 'poo' (from black to orange... nice) or even that babies make the most horrible grunts, snorts and groans as they sleep (that's right, even when they finally sleep... you WON'T).
No, the one thing that I truly had not prepared myself for was The Fear.
I'm a bit of a paradox in temperament. I can be insanely anal retentive about the smallest things. The colour of the pegs have to match when I hang out my washing. The dishwasher has to be packed MY way. I drive my husband crazy by following him around the kitchen, washing every plate, spoon or knife that he has used, whether he is finished with them or not.
But otherwise, I have a pretty relaxed attitude to life. The glass is half full in my world. Everything happens for a reason, and generally works out in the end. There's no point worrying about the past. I overwhelmingly believe that what goes around, comes around. When life throws me a bad patch, I truly believe that something good is coming. So consequently, I rarely worry about what 'might' happen. If I make responsible decisions, then everything will be fine. Right?
Not anymore. That was the old me. That was before the arrival of my Little Gem, before the arrival of The Fear.
Now everything is scary.
My actions have genuine consequences, and not just for me and my husband now. Everything I do impacts on the Gem.
It can be quite agonising. Is she eating enough? Sleeping enough? Sleeping too much, and therefore not eating enough? Is she getting cranky because I'm trying to feed her too much to make up for the feeds that she has dropped because she's sleeping too much?
Is she too hot? Too cold? Is she going to get a flat head because I let her kick on the floor too much? Is it too early to put her in a jolly jumper?
Do I take her out of the house too much? Do we stay at home too much?
Is her bath water too hot? Am I holding her tight enough? Will she slip out of my arms onto the tiles? (I can almost hear the sickening noise that would make)
Do I worry too much? (YES!)
From what I understand, The Fear affects almost all parents and although it may fade with time, it doesn't go away. And it isn't limited to those small everyday decisions. Even though Little Gem sleeps through the night, I still spend some of those wee early morning hours tossing and turning as I contemplate the Big Issues.
I have brought a new life into this world, and all things being as they should, she will outlive me by decades. So issues such as climate change, population growth, energy and food supply take on new meaning. What kind of world is my baby girl going to live in? As cliched as this sounds, I want to leave this world a better place for her.
Perhaps The Fear could be my ultimate motivator. Instead of political spectating, perhaps its time to get more involved, make my voice be heard a little louder.
Little Gem is only 12 weeks old, but she is truly now the centre of my world. The Fear ensures that her needs take precedence above mine.
And with a face like this...

The Fear isn't going anywhere.