Tuesday, February 22, 2011


Because I am about to crack 30 000 words, (which means I only have 20 000 to go) I rewarded myself today with an outing to mother’s group. But I don’t think I’m going back again. And this is why:
‘My baby sleeps from 8pm to 7am now.’
‘Oh so does mine, has done for weeks.’
‘Mine is 7 to 7. I get so much done and a good night’s sleep as well.’
‘And how about those feeds? Down to twenty minutes.’
‘Oh, max. Usually it’s fifteen.’
Are they for real? Sleeping through the night? Eating in less than an hour?
Miss Q clearly did not get those memos.
Then again, I don’t sleep a huge amount and I get hungry every three hours too. So she may not look like me, but by those facts alone I’m assured she’s my girl. And since she is, I suppose I’ll keep her.
She’s just a free thinker, is all. Not conforming to the norm, finding her own way, forging her own path.
And I’m proud of that thinking, I am. No little sheep is my girl. She won’t be diving off the cliff like some sort of lemming.
She’ll be bravely holding fast against the winds of popularity. Challenging conventions, fighting the establishment.
Now about those pesky 20 000 words.
I could write them a whole lot faster if she was more like the other kids… 

Wednesday, February 16, 2011


Not that I'm complaining, but I've accidentally had a bit of work of late. A couple of commercials to shoot, a writing gig in the pipeline and interest from a publishing house about a book I've written...which would be excellent if I hadn't lied and told them I'd actually finished the book.
So, while my husband has a day or two off and that is followed by the weekend where I can trust in the benevolence of my parents, I am handing little Miss Q off in between feeds so I can knock out 25 000 words over the next four days.
If only I didn't like incy wincy spider and tummy time as much as she does...
This is why I've been a little absent in the blogging of late, but I shall return just as soon as my little typing fingers will allow.
Wish me luck...I'll speak to you soon!

Friday, February 11, 2011


 The other day I opened the mail to find a loyalty card from a maternity store I bought a dress at…six months ago. Are they confused? I am not an elephant. The gestational period of a human is in fact 9 months, not 22. On the same day I got a text message from the agency I did some maternity modelling for, asking me if I was available.
Available, but no longer pregnant, if that’s what they were looking for.
To be fair, there is some argument that babies are born too early and their first three months on earth is actually their fourth trimester.
Just quietly, I don’t reckon I would have wanted to play a part in evicting the peanut from her uterine home had she been allowed to grow for another three months. It was tight enough quarters as it was.
But there might be something to that field of thought. Think about other animals – dolphins are born and they can already swim. Foals can already walk. Birds learn to fly pretty quickly, snakes can already slither.
But what can baby humans do? Not a heck of a lot.
To be blunt, they’re completely dependent. Cute, adorable, cuddly and all that.
But useless. Utterly useless. No chance at all that they’d survive without us.
How would the peanut get to the local café if not for me pushing her in her chariot?
How would she keep clean if not for her daily shower and massage with her doting father?
It’d be pretty hard for her to organise her own play dates without consulting me first. Talking – she’s rubbish at. Walking, crawling even – months away at least.
And as for changing her own nappy, not a snowball’s hope in hell.
Monday marks the end of her fourth trimester and I expect to see a marked improvement in her abilities. We can start low and slow. Feeding every three instead of two hours would be a nice start. So would sleeping during the day for longer than 35 minutes. I’ll continue to do the more challenging tasks for the next few months at least, but I’m on the lookout for advanced behaviour, the peanut might finally be ready for the world!

Thursday, February 10, 2011


“Do you feel like a cow sometimes?” Asked my sympathetic brother as he watched me feed the peanut once more.
“Oh easy now,” says my dad, “there are plenty of other animals that suckle their young. Like whales.”
That’s the type of support I’m getting in my neck of the woods. It’s excellent for morale. 
Like the lack of sleep leaving bags no cucumber can heal aren’t bad enough. 
Or the poo-brown line down my middle that doesn’t seem to want to fade; now there’s a great addition to a bikini. 
Then there are the leaky nipples. I tell you, there can’t be many more attractive things than a lady soaking through her t-shirt in public. 
Not to mention the cellulite that seems to have formed a security blanket around the top of my thighs. Trust me body, I have enough for the peanut to feed on without you keeping a reserve supply of cottage cheese right where my jeans used to fit.
This is why you should have kids when you’re young. Fifteen perhaps, when puberty hasn’t even really finished. Before you’ve had a chance to live with your body in its unaltered state and get used to its quirks and foibles. You’re insecure enough as teenagers as it is, why not throw in a big ol’ stomach just to really round things off.
I write this nonsense as the peanut slumbers peacefully in our bed, having slept almost the night through.
This is my victory.
Not the loss of the six-pack I never had, or the end of the modelling career that never was.
But sleep. Pure unadulterated sleep. On the part of my child anyway, now if only I can get my busy brain to follow suit...

Tuesday, February 8, 2011


A couple of my blogs made it onto the parentingexpress website...enjoy!

Friday, February 4, 2011


Following up from the blog about the commercial I shot, you can watch the full ad here.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011


Last week I shot a commercial for a supermarket that I won’t tell you the name of and once you’ve read this you’ll understand why.
In short, I was required to sing and dance ‘musical theatre style’ which therefore required several rehearsals and recordings before we performed three live takes amongst unsuspecting Saturday shoppers.
The night before, we were at the supermarket after it closed to block and set the number and the peanut’s minder for the evening was none other than her father, my husband.
The gig had come up rather quickly, so all week I had been milking myself like the proverbial cow, suddenly thrust into the weird and I’m-not-so-sure-it’s-wonderful world of expressing delicious juice of the boob.
Now, this expressing jag is not for the nonchalant or easily bored – which is unfortunate because I am frequently accused of being both. (I should clarify that I am speaking only of hand pumping to express, not the electric gizmo you can buy, as we all know I am way too much of a tight arse to spend three hundred bucks on a contraption I have to strap myself into like I’m about to launch my boobs into outer space).
But I’m not sure the DIY is any better.
Firstly, they reckon you’ve got to sterilise everything every time you use it. C’mon now. I mean really, is she that sensitive? Now don’t go calling DOCS on me, I do what’s required, I just reckon a good ol' fashioned wash in soap suds ought to be sufficient.
I’m not a fan of the technique required either. You’ve got to sort of angle yourself forward at a degree that pinches the nerve in your neck and reminds you that you haven’t stretched since the peanut arrived.
Then you fit the thing over your boob and pump the handle to create suction, an action they assure you on the packaging is ‘just like the feeling of your baby feeding.’
No it’s not.
The peanut can be a rough feeder when she wants, swinging her head left and right while maintaining a vice-like grip on my nipple, (rather like an elephant’s trunk with a tree branch) but I still don’t feel like I’ve been attacked by a short circuiting vacuum cleaner.
Regardless, I persist, pumping my nipple like an awkward teenage boy, and a depressingly small amount spurts from my nipple like an Australian garden hose on water restrictions and I suddenly understand why the peanut needs to feed every two hours. So would I if that was all I was getting.
So there we are at the rehearsal, the peanut content in her father’s arms, me with hair and makeup done, stitched into my costume and ready on set for what was to become a three-hour rehearsal.
“We’re having a break after the next take Naomi, you should head over to your husband,” says the make up artist calmly as she powders my sweaty upper lip.
“Why? What’s wrong?” I demand.
“Oh nothing,” she says nonchalantly and somehow I don’t believe her. As soon as the take is done, I make a beeline for my husband, finding him in aisle nine hiding next to the dog food.
“You didn’t pack the adaptor for the bottle,” he says immediately.
“The bottle. You didn’t pack the right adaptor. I had the cup and the teat but no joining piece. I haven’t been able to feed her. She’s been screaming bloody murder. Didn’t you hear the alarm going off? That was me going through a security exit so no one could hear her cry. How long have you got? Get your boob out now!”
I perched on the convey belt of a checkout register and extricated my boob from the top I’d been stitched into, certain I had claimed the title as the world’s worst wife and mother.
“I am so sorry,” I said to them both, as the peanut sucked like the vacuum cleaner I’d thought she wasn’t. “Really, I’m so sorry.”
“What was I thinking?” my husband exclaimed. “You can barely put the pump and bottle together when all the parts are in front of you, why didn’t I check the bag.”
“I’m really sorry,” I said again, feeling even worse because it had been his first chance to feed the peanut. “Did you try pouring it into her mouth?”
“I tried everything. I tried putting it on my finger and getting her to suck it off, I tried pouring some into the teat, I tried it on the dummy. Everything.”
I felt really, really terrible.
“I even had all the supermarket night staff ripping open every package in the baby aisle trying to find something that worked. Your milk is all over aisle three.”
“Oh geez. I’m so sorry.”
“One guy yelled out ‘how big is your wife’s nipple’ right before the last take. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it.”
“Let’s just hope it didn’t get picked up by the cameras,” I replied wondering if I should just call DOCS myself and get the phone call over with.
I would, however, like to point out that it was only three and a half hours since her last feed, and while that is an eternity in the land of the peanut, it’s not really child abuse since most babies her age are apparently feeding at least every three if not four. (This fact did not make me feel any better at the time, but is slowly working the longer the incident fades into the distance).
Thankfully, Gregory had managed to contain the peanut so only the makeup artist and the supermarket staff knew of her pain, which left me looking like a cool, sophisticated working new mum, an illusion I’d fervently like to maintain.
I mean, let’s face it. It’s not the first time I’ve let my husband down and it’s definitely not the last time I’m going to let her down. None of us is perfect, and just in case either of them claim to be, I’ve decided to keep a log for reference. You never know when I might need it next…
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...