NAOMI HART

IF YOU'RE BREASTFEEDING, DON'T READ THIS.

2012-02-23T19:54:00.003-08:00

There is no blog today because yesterday nearly did me in and today I underestimated the walk from the bus stop to my parents place, and sweated for twenty-five minutes pushing Q uphill in her chariot in the blazing midday sun.
And all I can think of is brownie.
My world famous chocolate brownie.
So I whipped it up and am about to eat it all piece by piece by piece.
And you too can whip it up because I'm going to share the recipe with you below.
But I warn you, don't try this if you're breastfeeding.
Because one taste of this delicious lifesaver at 3 o'clock in the afternoon when your eyeballs are hurting with the effort to even stay in their sockets, and you'll be hooked.
It's like a defibrillator. It will bring you back to life in 4 minutes or less. Guaranteed.

NAOMI'S WORLD FAMOUS CHOCOLATE BROWNIE
1 cup sugar
120g butter
2 eggs
1dash of vanilla
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup cocoa

Melt butter, beat eggs, wack in a bowl with everything else.
Mix.
Pour into a small-ish dish that you've lined with paper.
4 mins in the microwave
And there you have it.
Your life is saved.
But remember, don't blame me when you find yourself making it every single afternoon.
I did warn you.

These are not mine.
Mine are way better but I don't have the
cord to connect to the computer.

CONTRACEPTION REQUIRED? READ THIS BLOG.

2012-02-22T19:51:00.001-08:00

It is 2.33pm and I am still sitting in the gym pants and asports bra I put on for my walk at 8am this morning, faintly aware of my ownbody odour and minus the singlet I was wearing because Q managed a sneaky weeout the side of her nappy when she was lying on me while I was desperatelytrying to get her to sleep, which was an epic fail because she had managed aquick 15 minute Q-nap on her way back from the butchers with her father anddecided that was all this 15 month old needed.

Punch me in the face.

Neither of them are myfavourite people right now.

But mostly Gregory. I blame him. That would neverhave happened on my watch.

I live forher naps. I stage my whole day around them. I dream of the cup of tea I’m goingto have hot and steaming, while I sit – for once – and nibble on some form ofdelicious carbohydrate. (Even peanut butter on Saos if that’s all I can find).

I AM TIRED.

I’m always tired.

And it’s not always (or even entirely) Q’s fault.

Who wouldn’t be tired if they were a fulltime mumwho’s also trying to open a restaurant?

I’m an idiot.

But since I didn’t put Q’s name down for childcarewhen she was in utero and we were still calling her ‘peanut’, this situation isunlikely to change.

It would help if Q didn’t have as much energy as she does, seriously, she’s made of kryptonite.

Nothing less than 2 park visits, an adventure and usually a swim all by 12 noon will guarantee a nap.

Problem is, I’m so exhausted I need one too.

But I can’t because there is laundry to do, weetbixto extricate from her highchair, a Tupperware drawer to organise (I justchucked a little tanty and pulled every single piece of plastic onto the floorand refused to let Q put them back until I had found their matching lid), and abathroom to clean.

This ‘stay at home mum’ gig is for the birds.

Today.

Tomorrow I'll be back to my Stepford wife self.

Here endeth the whinge.

I REFUSE TO SEND MY CHILD TO A DAY CARE THAT CAN'T SPELL.

2012-02-21T18:18:00.002-08:00

So, I have begun the great quest for Q-care. Whichis just as well, because every centre in a 25km radius of where we live has a12-18 month wait list.

Excellent.

By the time she’s 3 I should be able to handleleaving her in the care of strangers.

I’m finding the whole thing far more overwhelmingthan I ever thought I would. I don’t profess to have a slew of parentingphilosophies to bore you all with, but I do hold to the theory that ‘it takes avillage to raise a child.’

And yet here I am, wildly resistant to lettinganyone from any village anywhere near my daughter without first passing a testof impossible standards designed by her neurotic mother.

Last night I sent off one application form and wrotedown 3 other places to visit.

(Not quite sure why as their lack of vacancies wasprinted in BOLD RED CAPITAL LETTERS on theirwebsite, but a girls’ gotta look like she’s trying right?)

Now, one would think that this distinct lack ofoptions would make this mother less discriminatory, but no, I still managed toknock a good dozen off the list based entirely on their name alone.

Can you guess why?

Kidz Kollege – Ok, she can’t read yet, but I can andthat’s wrong.

Star Academy Kids – Seriously? Will my 15 month oldbe trained in synchronised hoola-hooping? Is there a uniform? Is it a leotard?

Kidsville – It’s unimaginative and naff.

Little Bunnies Daycare – I’ll give my girl stupidnicknames thank you very much. You shall address her as Q.

Bright Stars – Get over yourself. What, you thinkyou can turn any kid under your care into a child prodigy? Jeez, just let thempick their nose and play in the sandpit.

One Stop Child Care Service – This one is myfavourite. It sounds like a car wash. Drop your kid off in the morning, pickthem up 8 hours later and they’ll be proper little human robots, fed, read,well mannered and toilet trained. Costs extra if you want them to polish theirVelcro sneakers.

Child care, day care, family care, occasional care,babysitting, nannying, making my mother quit work to take care of Q instead…nowI’m onto something!

Excuse me please, I have a phone call to make.

HINDSIGHT, SONDHEIM & THE PIANIST AT DAVID JONES

2012-02-20T20:01:00.000-08:00

Q and I are just back from a big adventure and I have now managed to convince her that we could have another adventure this afternoon, ifshe took a short break from life and allowed her mother to have a cup of teawithout getting indigestion from chasing after her.

Success.

I am now sipping on tea and licking the coconut cherrycake I made yesterday off my fingers.

Delish.

Today’s adventure involved a bus (or ‘buh’ in Qspeak) into the city where we looked at jewellery to buy my mum, discussed withthe lovely Optus sales person about how much cheaper TPG is, (to which sheagreed but said there was nothing she could do to compete), bought some coffeerefills for my brother and sister-in-law’s fancy coffee machine (the salespeople were very nice and gave me a free cup and didn’t seem to mind that Qlittered homemade spiced zucchini and carrot muffin all over their immaculatefloor) and then we beat a path through all the people with real jobs to DavidJones.

I love me a bit of DJ’s. It’s old-school grace and Iwould quite like to pop down to their food hall everyday to purchase items forthat night’s gourmet dinner.

Instead, we headed over to the handbag section tolisten to the pianist play standards on the Steinway.

I love the piano player. I’ve always loved it, and now Q does too.She sits, entranced if it’s a slow melody watching their fingers slide over thekeys, or bops up and down if the tempo gets a little sprightly.

There are a few players under their employ, andtoday was an elegant, white haired gent who was as enamoured with Q as she waswith him. (I think when she offered him a bit of her soggy muffin the attraction was sealed).

So the man and I got to chatting and before I quiteknew how it happened (although this is often the case with me and strangers), Iwas telling him stories from B.Q. About my life in New York and the singing anddancing I did in different parts of America.

Soon enough we were talking about Sondheim and heaccompanied us with faultless renditions of ‘Not While I’m Around’ and ‘SendIn The Clowns.’

Which reminded me of what I consider to be a perfectpiece of acting. Judi Dench singing ‘Send In The Clowns.’

If you’ve got a couple of minutes, here’s the link Ifound on youtube.

Truly, it’s a remarkable piece of theatre.

I first saw that clip in my favourite class, a subject called Film Lab that Iattended once a week. We’d allfile into a dark studio and watch live recordings of the greatest theatre starsBroadway has ever seen. Chita Rivera, Dame Judi Dench, Nathan Lane, AnnReinking, Bob Fosse, Julie Andrews, Glenn Close, Tommy Tune…I would sit therewith tears running silently down my face and think; This is it. This is what Iwant to do. I want to be likeCarol Channing and still performing the title role in ‘Hello Dolly’ at the tenderage of 72.

Eventually we said goodbye to the piano man andheaded to Hyde Park so Q could terrorise the Ibis and pigeons, try to climbinto the fountain and master walking down the stairs by herself.

But while I was watching and encouraging my little girl’sefforts and determination, parts of my heart and mind were back on that life Ihad in NYC.

I loved that life. I loved my friends (all of whomare still in my life today), I loved the travel, the adventures, the nomadiclack of responsibility. I loved the rehearsal, I loved the costumes, I lovedmastering a skill well enough to get applauded by a stranger who was watchingyou perform it in a darkened theatre.

And I miss that life. Surely I do.

I lived 8 years in a heightened sense of reality.Like all expats do I expect. There’s something not quite ‘real’ about whatyou’re doing, if you have in the back of your head that you’re not going tostay there forever. There’s a part of you that is always pretending almost,because you know in the end, that you’re coming back home.

And now I am back home and I’m a wife and a mother.And where once my day was filled with a couple of dance classes, a vocalcoaching, a run in central park, an audition or two, and a glass of wine at alate night bar, my day is now filled with the monotony of a stay at home mum.

Except it’s not monotonous.

Sure, some of it is, but some of it was in New Yorktoo. The trudging through the snow at midnight in mid February, having leftyour gloves on the subway. The boring jobs I had so I could pay for danceclasses in between gigs. The homesickness, the Ketchup soup dinners and theconstant disappointments when the producers eventually picked the other girl.

It’s easy to forgetthe years I spent thinking I had food poisoning when really it was a bad caseof anxiety.

While I was there I met an American, I married him in New York, I wasin possession of a coveted green card. I could have stayed if I wantedto.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t want to.

I desperately wanted to be a mama. And I wasdetermined to have those babies with my family by my side.

Sure, the feeling you get when a packed house isapplauding you, is not a bad feeling at all, but it fades the second it stopsand you don’t know any of those people, so how significant can that applause beanyway?

But watching my girl master those stairs today, orthe grin she gives my brothers when she sees them, or the dance she does for mymum, or how still she sits when my dad reads her a book, that feeling doesn’tfade.

In fact, it just gets stronger. Because it’s realand tangible.

My acting teachers were always trying to get us tobe ‘real in a set of imaginary circumstances’ and that was the life I wasleading for my 20’s both on and off the stage.

Now I’m being real in a real set of circumstancesand I wouldn’t trade it for all the Tonys in New York City.

This is the stuff of life.

A TALE OF INTOLERANCE. AN UNFORTUNATE TRUE STORY.

2012-02-19T19:22:00.000-08:00

On Saturday night we were invited to a friend’s place for SingaporeanCrab. (They’re our fancy friends. They also own two cars – both Volvos, andholiday in the penthouse suite of fancy resorts up north in Queensland. Fancy.)

We know these fancy friends because my friend and I both grew humans atthe same time and were put in the same mother’s group, which I was scared ofand ran away from, and now we have our own mother’s group, an exclusive club of4 mothers, 4 bubbas and a lot of takeaway coffee.

The kids all kick around together, stealing each other’s food, failing atthe concept of ‘sharing’ and weeing in public the second we take their nappiesoff. They’re all about a week apart, so tend to band together for activitieslike teething, tantrums and stage 5 clinging.

They’re just regular kids. Some have more teeth than others (Q has lappedher friends in that department, recording a whopping 16 chompers by 12 monthsof age), everyone has more hair than Q, they’re just about even in height and weightand it just so happens that W was also born with achondroplasia, more commonlyknown as dwarfism.

The only difference between W and his mates is the size of their heads.Other than that, they’re pretty much the same.

I am pleased to report that justlike Q, W whinges, yells at his mother and also manages the sneaky wee out theside of his nappy.

Crab night had been planned around the return of W and his parents fromtheir first family holiday – the penthouse resort deal I referred to earlier.

Two weeks of sun, sand, surf and a salt-rimmed margarita.

Sigh.

I have envy.

Room service, fresh towels everyday, in-house movies…bliss.

But the absolute best thing about staying in a fancy hotel has got to bethe breakfast buffet.

Don’t pretend you don’t like it.

What’s not to like? They offer everything.

19 different cereals, (although in my opinion that’s a pathetic choice asWeetbix is cheap and you can generally afford that in your real life). No,smart buffet eaters head for the boutique pastries, the freshly made organic poachedeggs, the expensive, seasonal fruit artfully cut and arranged. You can getanother cup of coffee if yours goes cold before it’s finished and try everyoneof the juices.

Again I say, what’s not to love about a buffet?

So there they are in the buffet dining room, W in his mother’s lap whilehis dad finished off his stack of made-to-order pancakes and his mum sipped onher second skim latte.

Enjoying each other’s company, the weather and the ambience, until myfriend became aware of the woman sitting behind her.

‘What’s wrong with that kid? His head is huge. Look at it. It’s massive. There’s something really wrong with him. Seriously, it’s making me sickjust to look at him.’

On and on and on she went until my friend couldn’t even enjoy her coffeeany longer, which is crime enough in itself if you ask me, as we all know howdear a coffee is to a young mum.

My friend sat there, uncomfortable and fuming, waiting till her husband (whocouldn’t hear the nasty woman) had finished his pancakes so they could leave. Whenhe had, he picked up W and headed out of the restaurant. My friend followedbehind, but she paused at the table of the offending woman and said;

‘My son’s life will only be made difficult by people like you and yourintolerance,’ and then she continued on her way.

And to her I say ‘bravo, my friend, bravo. You handled that situationwith dignity, aplomb and far more respect than that woman showed your young family.

I’d like to think that if I’d heard that woman’s diatribe, I’d havehandled things with as much finesse.

There are tough times ahead for all our kids, when they get picked on forthe name their parents chose, the colour of their hair, or whether or notthey’re any good at marbles. Remember those times you were acutely aware of notquite fitting in, of not quite getting it right, of having to take your turn tobe the ‘hate sponge.’

And that’s without some ninny being deliberately cruel to you in public.

There’s a fantastic quote by Alvin Prince that my mum has always had stuckto the wall above her desk:

Parents need tofill a child's bucket of self-esteem so high that the rest of the world can't pokeenough holes to drain it dry.

I reckon with a mum like my friend, W is going to be just fine.

WHAT A WEEK. THIS GAL IS TIRED!

2012-02-16T16:46:00.000-08:00

Last year a family friend of ours had a very close run-in with a bullet.

As in, if the shock waves hadn’t moved the carotid artery out of the way,he wouldn’t be around to tell the story close run-in with a bullet.

He’d been OS in a dangerous place for several months by then, and it hadbeen in my mind to send him a box of Anzac Biscuits made with my grandma’srecipe to remind him of home.

Except I never quite got around to it.

And before we knew it, he was being flown home first class with his ownnurse, (who was hot and evidently thought he was too, and seemed to require hebe treated without his shirt on at all times) and I was delivering AnzacBiscuits to his hospital room instead.

This gent became a family friend through our brother, whom he met becausethey have a special love and affinity for dangerous activities. They’readrenalin junkies, generally a sarcastic bunch with rather a macabre wit.

Which explains why he could get away with saying ‘make sure you actuallysend some Anzac Biscuits to your brother. You don’t want to have the sameregret twice.’

And so I bid you adieu people, I’ve got biscuits to make.

Have a great weekend folks, may next week be calmer than its predecessor!

CELEBRITY NAMES - ARE YOU COOL ENOUGH TO DO IT?

2012-02-15T17:38:00.000-08:00

Mybrother and his wife recently had a beautiful baby boy and they gave him astrong, masculine name that I won’t say here because this is my blog and theymay wish to keep their small human’s name a secret from the cyber world.

Ilove the name they chose, and it suits my handsome nephew.

It’s alsoa sensible name. A name that won’t get him teased in the playground or make himhate his parents when he’s trying to get his first girlfriend.

Unlikethese ones, the names chosen for the offspring of the hollywood celebs.

Seriously, I am not making this up.

Audio Science, the son of actress Shannyn Sossamon and kickboxing instructor DallasClayton

Moxie Crimefighter, the daughter of Penn Jillette and his wife, Emily

Pilot Inspektor, the son of Jason Lee and his wife, Beth

Kal-El, the son of Nicolas Cage and his wife, Alice Kim

Speck Wildhorse, the son of John Mellencamp and Elaine Irwin

Sparrow James Midnight, the son of Nicole Richie and Joel Madden

Bluebell Madonna, the daughter of Spice Girl Geri Halliwell and Sacha Gervasi

Banjo Patrick, the son of Rachel Griffith and Andrew Taylor

Kyd Miller, the son of David Duchovny and Tea Leoni

Elijah Bob Patricius Guggi Q, the son of Bono and Ali Hewson

Nakoa-Wolf Manakauapo Namakaeha, the son of Lisa Bonet and Jason Momoa

Daisy Boo and Poppy Honey, the daughters of Jamie Oliver and wife Jools Norton

Reignbeau, the daughter of Ving Rhames and Deborah Reed

Jermajesty, the son of Jermaine Jackson and Alejandra

Diva ThinMuffin Pigeen and Moon Unit, the daughters of Frank Zappa (who also named his sons Dweezil and Ahmet)

My favourite? MoxieCrimefighter. Although Speck Wildhorse is a close second.

What’s yours?

GUMBOOTS, SINGING & MISSING WALLETS. SOMEONE PLEASE, HAND ME A DRINK.

2012-02-14T16:01:00.000-08:00

At 9.40pm last night our 14.5month old was wearing her gumboots, playing with her cars and singing herlittle songs.

At 9.40pm.

It rounded off what had been arather intense day to begin with anyway.

But in case having a sibling truck off to dangerous parts of the world to do desperately dangerous things,wasn’t enough, we decided to really test ourselves off by thinking we’d lost mywallet. Resulting in my father putting on his running shoes and go beetlingabout the neighbourhood after I falsely advised I thought I had taken itoutside, forgotten to put it in the car and it had probably been stolen.

Which led Gregory to stressabout money because I had just taken out a huge amount to pay for huge billsfrom a not-so-huge bank account.

By now it was 9pm, Q was stillawake, we were both starving, and my wallet was still missing, so I took ashower to try to focus on retracing my steps and exactly what I had done withmy wallet full of cash.

While Gregory was busy makingscrambled eggs (the standby dinner for desperados) I remembered we had put somebags in another brother’s car to allow more room for the brother heading OS.

Dangerous activities require alot of safety equipment of which I am very glad.

So, we found my wallet, satdown in front of the tv because we were too exhausted to do anything else and ateour scrambled eggs while Q sang to her cars.

Then I took a dive into the totallyinsane and tuned into NCIS, this week’s story line being about a Marine missingin Afghanistan.

Evidently I am not a smartperson.

It is hard to cry with amouthful of scrambled eggs. Give it a go next time you’re out to brunch.

But today is a new day and witheach new dawn, we are one step closer to his return.

Next Valentines day I’d like agood bottle of red, takeaway Thai, a sleeping child and a romantic movie on thecouch with my hubbie.

A reflection of my state of mind - scrambled.

365 days and counting…

A VALENTINE FOR AN UNNAMED SOLDIER.

2012-02-13T18:40:00.000-08:00

Last night we had a sleepoverat my parents place. Two grandkids, four kids, a couple of in-laws and somefish. (Although the fish are always there, so it wasn’t really a sleepover forthem).

We had a sleepover because amember of our family unit is off to do something very dangerous today and thereality is that…well, you know what, I’m not going to type what the reality is.

Ugh.

My grandfather used to say that‘if you’re worried about your own troubles, try taking on someone else’s’.

I do always try to do that, butit’s a little trickier today, because I’m just a little bit sad.

But then I think of my parents.

And how I’m now a parent and if this were Q, I quite honestly don’t know how I would cope. I’ll tell yousomething for free, I doubt I would cope.

That’s why we had thesleepover.

Because my parents’ troublesare currently greater than my own, and they needed a distraction. And I happento be the proud owner of the best distraction in the world.

Cyclone Q.

So here we are facing ourtroubles and knowing that every day down is one day closer to his return.

There’s much more I could say,but I’m saving that for the cheesy letter I’m sneaking into his bags.

Happy Valentines Day littlebrother.

See you when you get back.

CHEESY BUT GENUINE

2012-02-10T15:23:00.000-08:00

Gregory and I don’t have a hugeamount of money at the moment, owing to our pursuit of Gregory’s dream – to ownhis own restaurant.

This chasing your dreams bizcan be expensive, but not as expensive as long-term therapy as you cry to atotal stranger about how you had the chance to try but didn’t have the guts tofollow through.

With that sort of thinking, wedidn’t really have a choice but to try now did we?

Think of what wouldn’t be ifpeople didn’t follow their dreams…

The Olympics.

The Tour de France (and mysubsequent fascination with Cadel Evans).

Art. Most artists die poor andunknown, it’s only once they’re kicking it with Monet and Van Gough that werecognise their genius.

I’m sure Einstein at some pointwas encouraged to abandon his quest for knowledge and become a science teacherinstead.

Desserts. Hardly an essential interms of survival are they? But think how dull a meal would be without them.(Yes, I am eating more chocolate macaroon sandwiches as I type).

Life would still tick overwithout people who follow their dreams. We’d still have teachers and doctorsand parking officers, but they’d be the boring ones, the teachers without anypassion for their craft, doctors with dreadful bedside manner and parkingofficers without…well perhaps they aren’t a particularly good example, but youunderstand what I’m trying to say.

Dream chasers make up most ofthe extremes in any facet of our world – dancers, scientists, creators,composers, inventors…at the top of every profession are the dream chasers.Without them, those pinnacles would remain unchallenged.

Now, Gregory’s and my dream maynot be to conquer quite those heights, (the workload to even try is high enoughto be frank), but we do plan for this to be our family’s livelihood.

Which brings me back to myoriginal point about money and how we couldn’t ever have climbed this farwithout the many generous people who’ve helped us on our way.

Baby stuff is expensive youknow, yet we’ve been blessed to have been given almost everything Q could need.

She and I hoon around the innerwest in a 16 year-old running pram, meticulously cared for by a family friendand generously donated to the ‘operation exhaust Q’ cause.

There are the endless supply ofclothes we receive from lovely friends now through that stage (and a fewdesperate not to go through it again, and so literally throw baby stuff at youso as to remove any suggestion of baby from their house!).

Cots – two, left on the side ofthe road complete with screws and instructions in the box. Thank you richneighbour who couldn’t be bothered putting them on freecycle. Your laziness wasour reward.

Babysitting – two dotinggrandparents, three thoroughly besotted uncles, two equally entrancedsisters-in-law and several wonderful friends mean G and I have been able to domarket research without taking our inexhaustible 15 month-old along for theride.

Honestly, I can’t tell you howmany ways and times we’ve been helped out as new parents, and now as newparents planning to open their own restaurant, the offers are flooding in.

Sir Thomas Browne said that ‘charity begins at home.’

We are not the first to proveit to be true, but very grateful to be recipients.

And paying it forward, backwardor any other direction is our determined plan and will give us greatsatisfaction.

So thank you, charity-givers,we couldn’t even try this without you.

NO BLOG YESTERDAY BECAUSE...

2012-02-09T16:58:00.000-08:00

There was no blog yesterday because Q boycotted her nap, then boycotted her nappy and played naked dress-ups for the hours she was meant to be sleeping.
So I baked.
Q eats like her mother - constantly.
We graze like cows, although I am suggesting that is the only similarity.
And so I bake her snacks - vegie muffins, cheese and vegemite scrolls and other weird homemade treasures.
So far she doesn't seem to mind, though I'm careful not to expose her to the uber expensive store bought organic treats because if she gets a taste for them I'll have to sell my wedding ring to accommodate.
Those things are not cheap! Do you agree?
So after I had baked my baby-friendly treats, and since Q was still happy playing naked dress-ups and not needing me every second of her life like she usually does, I got ambitious and decided to make macaroons.
This is what they're meant to look like:

This is what mine look like:

Yes it's true, I know. I won't be having any input into the desserts of the restaurant.
I managed to split the yolks from the whites which I was pretty proud of, but Gregory seems to think I went astray with my measuring, as usual. 'Baking is a science,' he told me yet again.
But I did manage to temper chocolate successfully and so I turned them into Macaroon sandwiches.
That look like this:

They taste far better than they look.

Today there is no real blog because last night Q was a stage 5 clinger and we spent yet another night on the couch, where I have managed to secure the perfect angle for Q to straddle my chest, nuzzle my neck and fall asleep.
I awoke with a bruise on my bottom, and an even bigger one in my brain.
It hurt to wake this morning.
Really hurt.
And so I let Q get away with this:

She loves making mess.
She's a professional at it.

And I am a professional surviver.
It's only mess. I can clean that up.
After I make myself a coffee...

Happy Friday people.
Have a wonderful weekend.

DOMESTIC VIOLENCE IS NOT OK. EVER.

2012-02-07T16:34:00.000-08:00

Last night as we were drivinghome from my parents place, I realised I had left the brownie in the microwave.

This was a bigger deal than itshould have been as I had been craving that brownie all day and, once made, hadeven managed to be generous enough to take it to their place so I could shareit with my family.

But not generous enough to leave therest of it there.

That was not part of the plan.

I was lamenting this fact as wepulled into our street.

Then I was lamenting the factthat – as usual – there was not a parking spot to be found, as we live in thegroovy inner west, close enough to the city that we should all be commuting onfoot or bicycle and don’t really need a car anyway, and yet everyone (not us)seems to own not one, but two vehicles per house.

Couple this with the fact thatthere is a funeral parlour on one corner and a gym on the other and you cansee how the problem escalates.

Sadly, (although not for them Idon’t suppose) the funeral parlour is consistently busy. Which means that byday the street is filled with the cars of funeral-goers, walking down the path sadly and slowly in their crisp black suits, and by night the street isfilled with the doof-doof cars of ‘roided-up white guys on their way to standin front of the mirror and grunt and swear as they stare at themselves pumpingiron at the gym. You know the ones, their protein shake hanging from a clip ontheir pants, camouflage caps on their heads, their deep cut singletsdeliberately exposing the series of tattoos on their arms.

Back to our parking dilemma, wewere further hindered by a car stopped smack bang in front of the back lanewhere you can sometimes find a park, (the downside to that being that by nextmorning your car is covered with those annoying fig bombs that stick to theroof like cement).

Showing remarkable restraint, Gand I did not honk and G did an impressive reverse park into a spot that lookedlike it could only fit one of those small,good-for-the-environment-but-way-too-expensive-for-us, smart cars.

As we extracted Q from the car,(no small feat when she’s asleep) we realised the car was parked across thelane because its occupants were having a roaring argument. They climbed out ofthe car and the first thing we saw was the woman slapping the guy about thehead, her language bluer than the summer skies we see only in our memoriesowing to this totally shit summer.

Quickly, G took Q upstairs andaway from any potential harm.

Because I am brave and strong,I stayed, unpacked the car (minus the brownie) and learnt a few new swearwords.

G wanted to call the policeimmediately, but my initial thought was that her hitting him was the best case scenario, (she was slight and petite and he was the size of…well…a ‘roided upwhite guy) and perhaps this was how they rolled. Some ladies like to fight.

But as I was taking the finalload of crap upstairs, they had returned inside the car and all I could see wasthe bloke leaning over the passenger seat, his fist slamming up and down in theair.

‘Call the police now Gregory,’I yelled up the stairs, then snuck closer to see how I could help.

Somehow the woman managed toclamber out of the car and it was easy to see she’d been hurt.

Then, for whatever reason, she climbedback in and he sped off, but not before I managed to get thenumberplate of the car belonging to this complete Neanderthal, woman-beatingbully arsehole.

Maybe this was their firstfight. Maybe she’s a feisty personality. Maybe she pissed him off.

I don’t care.

You don’t ever piss someone offenough to cop a blow to the head.

Thanks to Gregory’s quick call(although we lost a few seconds while I reminded him that 911 was for the USonly) the police reckon they found the car.

Should we have tried to talk tothem instead of calling the police?

I’m not so sure. I’m a mothernow, and Gregory is a father. Our first duty is to our girl. My only defenceagainst that mountain man would have been to run down to the main road and hopea car stopped to help, Gregory may have had to take him on.

Gregory is not a ‘roided upwhite guy.

Although he does have tattoosdown one arm. Don’t all chefs? My theory is that their down time, their time toplay, is after midnight when all the people they served are home in bed asleep. What else is available at thosehours apart from dodgy bars, brothels and tattoo parlours? For the record Gonly partakes of two of those three.

We returned upstairs and myheart was racing with rational fear for that poor woman, and irrational fearthat the ‘roided up white guy was going to come back to our street with a gunand shoot us for interfering.

I have a vivid, hyperactiveimagination. It is why I don’t watch horror movies.

G made me a cup of tea and Isat there sipping, desperately wishing I hadn’t forgotten that bloody brownie.

Domestic violence is not ok.

Ever.

And that means you play yourpart in society by not tolerating it if you see it.

If that was their first fight,imagine what he’ll do to her next time.

I really hope she’s all rightand hope even more that she had the courage to walk away.

I did a bit of research and itseems we’re making a pretty fair effort, there are a lot of wonderful websites devoted todomestic, couple and relationship violence.

NSW Women's Refuge Resource Centre

Domestic Violence Support, Western Sydney Service

Caring 4 Couples

Enough is Enough

These are just a few, all based in Sydney, but there were plenty more for other areas of Australia.

Isn’t it a terrible shame thatwe need them?

Ps. On a slightly facetious note, this post has beensponsored by the brownie my mum dropped off to me this morning. I have nowillpower.

THE CHILD CARE BATTLE IN MY HEAD

2012-02-06T14:52:00.000-08:00

Where is that child’s off button? says a ladywho’d been watching Q hoon around without stopping the entire time we were outto dinner.

We don’t go out to dinner withQ as a general rule. Because generally, it means we spend the entire timechasing after her, as at 14.5 months the concept of sitting at the table forthe duration of the meal is thus far beyond her comprehension.

On the upside, it also meansyou drink less as your champagne goes flat while it sits waiting for you, and chasingher up the street is almost a guarantee you’ll miss dessert.

Dinner out the cheap, low-cal way.

Q is quite a social being. Theresult, I suspect, of us having spent the first 4 months of her life at myparents’ home while we waited for our apartment to be ready. A home that wasalso housing one brother and his girlfriend who had recently moved back fromoverseas.

Two parents, two grandparents,an aunt, an uncle and an endless supply of visitors means Q is conditioned tothink everyone on the universe wants to play with her, and is, in fact, one ofher greatest fans.

Come the beginning of nextmonth, we hope to be the owners of a space that is soon to become ourrestaurant. Following a refit that will no doubt take longer than we hope, wewill then launch ourselves into the culinary world, five nights a week and bothdays of the weekend.

Initially I will be working allthose shifts.

And doing the books.

And writing this blog andanother one for the restaurant.

And hanging out with myfavourite girl during the day.

And signing up for an anxietyattack by August I suspect.

Am I insane?

Do I always try to do too much?

Will this cause the remaininghair that didn’t fall out from breastfeeding to leave my head forever?

The answer to all of the aboveis likely a resounding yes.

So what to do?

Whenever Q and I are out inpublic, (which is most of the time because our apartment is really tiny and shegets cabin fever by 7.30am) she is constantly stalking other kids, makingfriends with strangers and flirting with old men. She loves ‘em. Particularlyif they’re wearing calf-length socks.

Like I said, she’s a socialbeing.

And now that she’s got a fewwords in her repertoire, punctuated by several yells and a couple of grunts,she can generally make herself understood.

She loves an adventure, sheloves new things and she adores putzing around discovering.

In short, she would probably quite like day-care.

For a couple of hours, once aweek anyway.

But can her mother let her go?

It’s quite a juggling act toplan a restaurant opening when you only do work when your baby sleeps. Giventhat somewhere in that time you have to sleep too, (not to mention do thelaundry and make countless vegemite sandwiches) it is obvious to see where theholes in the plan are.

I’m definitely not ready toleave her all day. Call me what you will, but that fact isn’t changing.

As it is, I would be thatneurotic mother who handed the carers (all trained professionals I am wellaware) a list of Q-isms to help them better understand my girl.

That list would include but notbe limited to:

· when she wakes fromher nap, she usually wants to snug for 15 minutes at least

· she’s currently offbanana but a huge fan of plums

· she’s taken topulling off one side of her nappy and walking around like John Wayne

· she likes towhisper in your ear and tell you secrets

· she doesn’t like tohold your hand when she walks, even when she’s crossing the road, which (by theway) I don’t want you to do.

· She’s never hadjuice. Can that remain the case please?

· She likes to playdress-ups. Don’t be alarmed if she puts something on her head, entirely blocksher vision and walks around. You can’t really tell the difference between hervision impaired walk and her regular one anyway, but don’t worry, she’s onlyrun into a wall once.

· She is an Atkinshater. Give her carbs and she’s happy.

· Her mother willhave you on speed dial and is likely to ring every four and a half minutes toinform you of other completely incidental information that she will think isabsolutely crucial to her child’s welfare and well-being.

Mostly, I'm aware no one can love her like I do, which automatically makes this mother think no one could care for her as much as I do. Likely that's true, but it doesn't mean she wouldn't be cared for.

Jeez.

If child-care centres could,I’m sure they’d screen the parents before accepting the child. I bet an anxiousmother is way more work than a 14 month old.

I’ve been thinking about thisfor quite some time, particularly as I watch friends with similar aged childrensuffer the guilt and withdrawals as they return to paid work.

Gregory and I are determined togive Q a happy and relaxed childhood.

While that may not mean thebest of (or even most of) the latest everything, it does mean her parents needto be happy and relaxed too.

I went to primary school with him.
I like to think that makes us friends.

Opening a restaurant doesn’tsound like a particularly relaxing activity to anyone, (except perhaps CadelEvans who rides up European alps for a living) but it will make Q’s fatherhappy.

Happy husband, happy wife,happy mama, happy life.

But can I do it?

Can I give my darling girl tostrangers, even for a few hours a week, so I can help get my husband happy?

Ugh.

The battle in my heart and mindrages fiercely.

Think I’ll delay it again andmake myself another cup of coffee.

A CRUTCH STUCK IN A KETTLE. EVERYBODY'S MONDAY MORNING PROBLEM.

2012-02-05T18:16:00.000-08:00

This morning I heard of friendwho managed to get her crutch stuck in a kettle.

Not her crotch.

Her crutch.

An incident that effects afairly small percentage of the population I would wager.

The point being, you can’t planfor everything.

I doubt the lady in questionwoke this morning and upon considering the day ahead of her, factored ingetting her crutch stuck in the kettle.

Missing the bus, losing yourkeys yes.

Crutch stuck in kettle? Not somuch.

Her morning was rather likewhat it is perpetually like trying to open a restaurant.

No matter how much you plan, nomatter how many scenarios you play out in your head, you’re never going tocover them all.

I mean would you ever havethought to consider:

· The landlordrequesting you pretend to be insurance agents because he’s scared of the realestate agent. (For the record, I don’t think we fooled her).

· Securing all 25warrior helmets used as decoration in the sale of the existing restaurant.(They shall be worn by staff as punishment for running late).

· The $42administration fee the council wacks at you when you request they pull thespace’s plans.

· The location beinga heritage street which means your colour palette is restricted to federationyellow and green.

· OH&S, workerscomp, payroll tax, compliance certificates and other sneaky hidden costs.

· Another restaurantopening with an idea you’d been thinking about for years. (That one is a realdowner. We’re reconciled to the fact that many of our long-ago-thought-of ideaswill now seem like nothing more than a copy-cat).

· Follow-up emails,to the follow-up email you sent clarifying the original email in the firstplace. Typee, typee, type, type, type.

It’s truly amazing what comes at you from one day to the next.

Amazing and somewhat challenging.

Still not as bad a crutch stuck in a kettle though.

Happy Monday people, may you expect the unexpected.

DON'T SPIT ON THE WALLS.

2012-01-31T14:35:00.000-08:00

This is the sign we wereconfronted with on a recent walk around the river in Melbourne.

No shit Sherlock. Thanks forthe tip.

But it got me thinking.Sometimes life really is as straightforward as that, and if only we paid moreattention to these little signs maybe life would be just that little biteasier.

Things like:

NO PARKING and TOWAWAY signs.Parking attendants don’t have senses of humour people. And this is trueanywhere in the world. Trust me, I’ve done the research.

DON’T SPIT ON THE WALLS. Thisis the sign that was hanging in the social security office in NYC which Istared at for 3 hours while I waited to be served. Sound advice don’t youthink?

PLEASE BE RESPECTFUL OF OTHERPEOPLE’S CEREMONIES

This was posted in City Hallwhere Gregory and I went to get our marriage licence in NYC. We did consider gettinghitched in their chapel, complete with salmon coloured walls and fake flowersadorning a plastic archway, but we decided the forty people who’d travelledfrom Australia might not appreciate that.

Again though, it’s handyinformation. And could be just as valuable in an edited version:

PLEASE BE RESPECTFUL OF OTHERPEOPLE.

My favourite though was thisone, which I passed while out running in the Golden Gate park in San Francisco.

Unfortunately for the Japanesea few years ago, it was actually something they could have done with, and I certainly don't mean to make light of their terrible circumstance, but whenI came across this sign, that disastrous event hadn’t occurred yet.

I saw it at a stage whenGregory and I were about to move back to Australia, a country I hadn’t lived infor 8 years, a country he had never lived in, a country I had no professionalperforming career in, a country he had no career in whatsoever. Hoping to bothget jobs in our chosen fields, to make a baby (never having tried to make ababy before), to grow a healthy one, once we conceived it, to be able to affordrent in Sydney, to make new friends and reconnect with old.

Suddenly I realised miniTsunamis hit your whole life long.

Sometimes yes, you’ll need anevacuation route, other times you just need an excellent survival plan.

The true test is knowing whento run, when to hide and when to stay the course.

It seems that opening arestaurant is indeed like facing a mini-Tsunami. But with proper planning andpreparation and a big set of balls, I reckon we’ll be able to stay the course.

Happy Wednesday people, nice day for ducks huh?

RANTY PANTS OR NO PANTS. TAKE YOUR PICK.

2012-01-30T14:22:00.000-08:00

It is 9am and I am already backfrom the playground because a 1 bedroom apartment gets boring for a 14 monthold after an hour or so, so diversionary tactics must be implemented.

So, off we went to the park,Dad and mum with homemade coffees in hand (saving ourselves $7 a day people)and unsurprisingly we were the only people there.

Or were we?

Q headed straight for somethingfar above her skill level and as I followed her to avoid a trip to the hospitalI noticed a little girl a couple of years older than Q sitting quietly on thepark bench while her mother sat next to her.

With her headphones in.

Talking on the phone.

And texting.

While her daughter sat stilland silent beside her.

(I am reasonably assured it washer mother and not her nanny by their interaction and the big arse diamond ringI could see glinting in the early sunlight).

So, seeing us, this little girl hopped offthe bench and wandered over to Q and I because - I suspect - she was bored.

This forced the mother off thebench to retrieve said daughter, take her promptly to the swings, strap herin and proceed to push her with one hand while continuing to text and talk withthe other.

Now, dear reader, you may arguethat clearly it was I not payingattention to my daughter because I was so consumed by somebody else’s, andyou’d be right, so I left my daughter with her father and came home, full ofrighteous indignation, itching to write this blog.

I had planned to write aboutsomething else entirely.

I had planned to tell you thestory of a dear friend of mine, who was explaining the finer points of the taleThe Emperor’s Pyjamas.

Remember the one? He getstricked into thinking he’s wearing clothes but is actually walking around naked instead.

‘It would be like if I walkeddown the street in my underpants,’ says my friend to her young daughter. ‘Whatdo you think people would do if they saw that?’

‘They would cry,’ her daughterreplies earnestly, and all I can think is, that other little girl’s motherwould never hear such a witty response because she’d be on the phone.

Hear endeth the rant.

HOW HUMBLE IS YOUR PIE?

2012-01-23T22:05:00.000-08:00

When people discover you’re planning to open arestaurant, most of them aren’t quick enough to hide the look that says theythink you bought a first class ticket on the crazy train.

Then, when they discover that you’re not funding theproject entirely yourselves, they realise you can’t afford a ticket on the crazy train, and that look turns tosympathy at best, thinly veiled pity at worst.

But then there are the believers.

And of them, we are fortunate to have many.

Which is fortunate, because those looks of pity arekillers. I think there is a proverb about pity. It goes something like this:

Looks ofpity poke holes in a person’s dream, so think twice before their dream getspoked away.

But there’s also probably another proverb aboutbelievers.

Believersare the sticky tape to non-believer’s hole poking.

The believers are all sorts of people. They're people who’ve offered their support through interest,just by listening to your plans. Others their advice, a good book to read, awebsite to search. Others still, their skilled labour for a fraction or none ofthe price their worth.

All of them believing and showing that belief howeverit is they can.

And some of them are showing that belief by funding this little dream of ours.

‘We think you’re so brave Naomi, we’d love to help makeit happen.’

(This coming from a friend who’s in the Army).

Brave?

Compared to what?

I’m not going to face a bullet every time I turn up towork.

It’s humbling, quite honestly, to have people believein you enough to loan you their hard earned dollars.

Humbling now, but the pridewill come later when we pay them back with the full return promised.

Today a bird pooed on my head, which I know issupposed to be good luck.

But we don’t need good luck, we’ve got believers.

ANXIETY, PIRATES & FORTUNE COOKIES

2012-01-22T13:11:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we went to a four year-old’s pirate birthdayparty.

It was a bit hectic getting there, what with thebridge being closed, me getting muddled on directions, and G urging me to go tothe gym for 20 minutes before we should have left in order to get there on time, because I was rather anxious about this restaurant we’re planning toopen…without having all the money we need yet to open it.

Details.

Who needs them?

So, after I’d thrown a few weights about the gym, donea couple of squats and managed to suppress my anxiety to a socially acceptable level at least,we were on our way, Q dressed in her party best. (A very groovy second-hand dress givento us by the owners of said 4 year-old).

My friend opened the door and when she did I wondered why she waswearing a gypsy skirt and a bandana, and then it occurred to me that she was apirate of sorts and I felt bad because I hadn’t interpreted the invite asa dress-up too.

Lame.

So, in we went, late and un-costumed. The losers onthe invite list.

I find kid’s parties exhausting.

Come on, admit it, don’t you?

Typically you haven’t had an adequate enough breakfastto see you through the experience, and unless you’re willing to overdose onfairy bread and cupcakes, (thereby giving yourself a massive sugar high andequally massive headache) that is unlikely to change.

And so you spend the hours having fracturedconversations with the adults while you run after your small human as they headstraight for the edge of the deck, the climbing frame or the fairy bread.

If there’s one thing Q doesn’t need, it’s more energy.

No sugar for her.

Two hours later, after you've refereed countless fightsbetween two 14 month olds who don’t understand or care for the word ‘share’,you’re on your way, stuffing the banana in your mouth that you stole from thehosts’ fruit bowl, telling them it was for Q.

1 year-old birthday parties typically don’t include alolly bag, because their most favoured treat is their mother’s milk and thatwould just be weird, but 4 year-old parties do.

By then our hunger was starting to win out, so before we were even out of the drive, G and I were at our pirate best, greedily devouring Q’s collection of freckles, milk bottlesand fortune cookies.

Every pirate party has fortune cookies.

Everyone knows that.

What’s funny is that mine said ‘resist the urge to change your plans.’

Sometimes you find providence in the oddest of places.

Happy Monday everyone, have a fabulous week.

PUTTING YOUR C*#K ON THE BLOCK. METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING OF COURSE.

2012-01-19T16:46:00.000-08:00

My ghetto bandage, because at $140,
he didn't even offer me a bandaid.

I am typing with a slightly gammy thumb, because Ijust had an injection in it because I have trigger thumb.

From all the pistols I shoot.

That is honestly what the doctor called it.

Apparently a lot of new mums get it from picking uptheir children 9000 times a day.

Why wouldn’t you call it new-mum thumb then?

In unrelated news, it’s a day of angsty nerves,worrying and decision tossing here at team Llewellyn/Hart.

We walk through the restaurant space again today with the builder and planningconsultant, which is exciting and making it seem real, but we’re alsocontinually trying to shave costs from our friendly little opening budget andthat is not exciting but still making it seem real.

Let’s face it.

Starting a small business is always going to be a risk.

At some point the trigger thumb doctor opened his ownpractice. (Still, at $140 every 15 minutes I’d say he’s doing ok).

The architect we’re planning to use, she’s in smallbusiness too.

So is the wine dude, the builder, the coffee supplier,the plumber, the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker.

They all made the decision to go out on their own.

And thus far, they’ve all survived to tell the tale.

So what’s got us all nervy?

All this talk of a second GFC that’s what.

Will it hit?

Will it miss?

Will Australia cruise through like last time or willpeople stop their discretionary spending and eat bread and dripping instead?

I dunno, but at some point, as one brother says, you’ve just got to put your cock on theblock.

(He’s known around town for his rhetoric andgrandiloquence).

So, metaphorically speaking, am I ready for possiblecastration?

Or will the public embrace my metaphoric manhood withjoy, fervour and an extra round of after dinner drinks?

Only time - and a few other key factors - will tell.

Happy Friday folks, have a fabulous weekend.

RED BACK SPIDERS CAN KILL YOU, YOU KNOW.

2012-01-18T15:32:00.000-08:00

Last week my friend got bitten by a red-back spider.

Yeah you know the one, the one that can kill you.

When I asked her why she hadn’t mentioned her neardeath experience, she reminded me that it wasn’t about us anymore, it was aboutthe humans we had made, and that while a near death experience would ordinarilyhave been considered a newsworthy topic, it now faded into insignificance whencompared with more weighty issues such as teething, nap boycotts and vegetablerefusals.

My friend could have died of her spider bite and Iwould never have known because I was too busy making stuffed cannelloni,reading the same book for the ninety-six thousandth time and working my bicepsat the slippery dip in the park.

Such is the life I lead.

Other newsworthy items that have gone un-newsed are asfollows;

· We have made anoffer on a restaurant and it has been accepted.

Is there really any need for me to write anythingelse?

Oh sorry, gotta go. Q needs her nappy changed.

Kids.

They have the darndest way of putting things inperspective.

WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE TOUGH GET A MASSAGE

2012-01-16T17:02:00.000-08:00

Do you ever put things off, things that by doing themyou know would make life easier, but you can’t be bothered to exert the energyrequired, and so instead, you expend unnecessary energy each time you performthe task/use the object that is not functioning correctly, the sum total ofwasted energy far exceeding the energy it would take to rectify the problem inthe first place, and yet still you can’t be arsed?

I do.

Things like not mounting the dryer to the wall, and sohaving it sit on the bathroom floor, taking up valuable floor space, making itimpossible to clean and even more impossible to use because the vibrating onthe tiled floor causes the person living below to start to hate you. (Not that I use the dryer because I am a tree-hugging energy saver and the dryer is for that criminal Martha Stewart decoration purposes only).

Or mending the hems on four pairs of pants and so youjust don’t wear them, which means you have to wash continually becauseyour child destroys at least 2 of your outfits a day and you just don’t ownthat many pairs of comfy jeans.

Or staring at the running pram you were given that issecurely locked to the front pillar, unable to be stolen and unable to be usedat all because your husband lost the only key to the padlock and is refusing tobuy a set of bolt cutters. Which means I use the other buggy, which doesn’thandle as well and costs me 35 bucks each time I blow a tire.

I could go on…

Dentist appointments

Wedding book

The tear in the leather couch we were given

The Tupperware drawer

Cleaning the oven

My hair..

As my husband always tells me ‘when the pain getsgreat enough you’ll do something about it.’

And the pain is great people, the pain is very great.

So this morning I booked in for a spa treatment with avoucher I won in my gym’s Christmas hamper. (I suspect it was rigged, as ourfamily has given them a dozen members, but I don’t care. That voucher is mine,damn it, all mine).

The burning of the proverbial candle has only justbegun, of that I am well aware, but if I can soothe my singed soul every nowand again with a bit of sheer decadence I reckon I just might make it through.

Happy Tuesday people, may it be full of unexpected indulgence.

$9 A PHOTOCOPY. HIGHWAY ROBBERY ME THINKS.

2012-01-11T18:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I had to pay a $42 administration fee to thecouncil for them to open a drawer and pull out a plan.

Then they charged me $9 to photocopy it.

This is not me. I wish.

When we left, (quickly, lest they charge us a wear andtear fee for standing in the queue) we took Q to a free council provided water park,which entertained her for quite some time. Perhaps our $42 administration fee helped pay for one of the sprinklers.

The biggest thing I am discovering about opening asmall business is that there are fees and costs, lodging payments and bureaucraticcharges wherever you turn.

If it weren’t for a very dear friend of mine being one, I’d bedeveloping a fairly extreme aversion to Town Planners.

But I’ve reframed my thought processes. Actually I shouldkiss their feet, because it’s not a job I could do.

I start to read the forms and immediately my eyesglaze, my mind softens and before I know it, I’m making a cup of decaf tea andlooking up the page entitled ‘fines for not filing correct documentation.’

Or writing a blog…

Better get back to it.

LEARNING FROM A BABY - IF THEY CAN DO IT, WHY CAN'T I?

2012-01-10T15:10:00.000-08:00

There are lots of things Q can do that I can’t.

· Go from a sittingposition, to an open-hipped squat, to standing, in one fluid motion withoutgrunting, dislocating her hips or having to rock back and forth to get enoughmomentum to execute the move in the first place.

· Cover herself inplum so that she looks like she’s been punched in the face and carry on as ifnothing is awry.

· Whinge incessantly ifthings aren’t going her way. G may argue that she inherited this trait from hermother, but I don't think so. I prefer to yell.

· Find my nipples ina nuclear blackout. This trait she most definitely inherited from her father.

· Freakishly manageto double the mass of food she inhaled by the time it comes out the other end. Particularlycorn.

· Say countless wordsincluding bath, baby, bye-bye, apple, banana, several animal noises and Dada,but still not Mamma to any degree of understanding.

· Limitless determinationto try, try and try again until she can do it.

It is this surety of her own invincibility that I amtrying to emulate as we go forward with this opening your own restaurant gig.

When do humans learn – or concede - that they mightnot be able to do everything?

When do we stop trying new things?

What makes us doubt our own abilities?

Q doesn’t. If there’s something she wants, someone sheneeds, she works, works, works until that thing or person is hers.

To be fair, some of her success is due to thecapitulation of her parents, but for the most part she works towards her goaluntil she’s got it in her firm baby grasp.

It’s admirable.

And daunting.

And time for her mother to stop pussyfooting aroundand set her a good example.

Excuse me please, I have a business to run.

SMALL BUSINESS OWNERS HAVE BIG BALLS

2012-01-09T16:57:00.000-08:00

Small business owners have big balls.

Metaphorically speaking.

Anatomically speaking too I suppose, but that’s not aresearch project I’m interested in pursuing at the moment.

This startling revelation is one of many I’ve madethis year, and it’s only January 10^th.

I don’t know what animal it is in Chinese tradition,but for me it is year of the owl. By year’s end I shall be wise beyond my quicklyadvancing years.

Small business owners have big balls metaphoricallyspeaking because…well, because, quite frankly, they have a lot of shit to do.

G and I are eyeball deep in opening budgets and 12month projection plans and all I keep wanting to project is a long holiday onthe beach.

And we haven’t even opened yet.

There is a lot to consider.

And a lot you don’t want to consider but you have tobecause it’s the law.

And still more that you do want to consider but you can’t because your budget has beeneaten up considering things because they are the law.

It is a very tricky business this small business gig.

And people thought being a performer was hard.

Let's be honest, I got paid to pretend to be someone else. I wanderedabout a stage, every now and then I sang a song about my imaginarycircumstances and just to round the whole thing off, I might have done a bit ofa tap dance usually dressed in sequins and somebody else’s hair.

Comparatively speaking, that was as easy as akick-ball-change.

Further revelations as they have come to me this yearinclude but are not limited to:

· People in businessdealings pretend to be nice but really they just want what they want and buggerthe rest of you.

· It is very obviousto these people that I am naïve and destructively honest.

· Restaurants arevery expensive things to set up.

· It is much easierto spend money than it is to make it.

· Outsource what youdon’t know and pay the professionals to deal with it. This is particularlyvaluable regarding legal matters where you did a dud photocopy and are missingkey pages.

· Chefs are creators.Living with one is like living with Picasso, but hopefully you’re his onlywife.

· Butcher’s paper andto-do lists will save you. They will always save you.

· Ask your friends ifthey know people in the fields you need. You’d be surprised how many KevinBacons you actually know.

For these tips on small business and many more, staytuned.

I may not have one yet, but that is a meretechnicality.

As Jonathon Swift said, ‘vision is the art of seeingwhat is invisible to others’.

Welcome to 2012 people. As Sydney City Council told us on New Year's Eve,

DARE TO DREAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I HAVE A PROBLEM.

2011-12-22T14:49:00.000-08:00

I have a problem.

Lots of them probably, but I’ll only deal with oneright now.

My husband has taken Q to the garden at my parent’splace so she can eat snails and chicken manure, giving me much needed time topack for tomorrow’s beach holiday.

(Hear that Mother Nature – BEACH HOLIDAY. Because itis SUMMER. And that’s what people do in the summer. They go to the beach for aswim because it is HOT. Summer is one of the reasons I live in Sydney. I amreally mad at you, Mother Nature, also because you duped us with a fewscorchers in October and I bought a pair of shorts that I haven’t worn since.You owe me 24 bucks).

Anyway Q isn’t here and the apartment is quiet andonly in a state of semi-destruction because she wasn’t here long enough thismorning to make it complete.

She and I hang out a lot. Pretty much 24 hours a dayfor over a year. She’s kind of like another appendage except that she doesn’tobey my commands.

And now, without her here, (even though it means I canwrap the one gift we got her - a book cos I’m so bored of the ones we’ve got -and G’s gifts - won’t write it here on the off chance he reads this post - andcan actually pack without the great unpacker around to ruin all my hard work) Imiss her.

I miss her.

I miss her little mischievous, toothy smile, herannoying back-of-the-throat groan she does when she wants to be picked up, theway she pulls out all the books and throws them all over the room, the way shegets up on all fours and crawls about, always carrying some treasure in hermouth. I miss her unpacking my wallet and the food she throws about while she’seating.

Actually, I really don’t miss those last two things.My glasses are not that rose tinted.

And now I’ve wasted precious packing and wrapping timeand must stop this separation nonsense.

I doubt she’ll learn Russian while we’re apart. Orstart to hop. Or read. And I’m pretty sure she’ll still know who I am when wesee each other again.

The cloth nappies do nothing
for her derriere.

I am a loser.

Start packing Hart.

You deserve one big eye roll.

CHRISTMAS SHOPPING IN TOWN. DEATH TO A MARRIAGE.

2011-12-21T20:30:00.000-08:00

Here in the land of Q we’re a bit late getting intothe spirit of Christmas. Not because we’re Grinches, but because we’ve beenrather consumed of late and because the weather BLOWS.

If it’s going to be acold Christmas I expect it is because I am in the northern hemisphere drinkingeggnog and wearing enough layers to hide the eggnog that has stuck to my waistand thighs. I do not expect Christmas in a semi-hot, mostly cool, perpetuallydamp environment where no one can decide if they want to drink a margarita or arum toddy.

So as the agenda was rather free today, we decided tojump a bus into town and join the festivities. Really get amongst it. Throwourselves in the elfish deep end as it were.

This is how things went:

· Q woke up reallyearly, meaning that she wants to take her 1 nap at about 9am, which is notideal because it is then a long, slow, agonising ride until bedtime that night.If you choose to try to delay sleep – as we did – you pay for it with thewhinge. It just depends if you want that whinge from 9-12 or from 11-8. Iprefer the former for obvious reasons.

· We left half anhour later than planned and G heads for the bus stop that is only local stops,so we watch 3 express buses sail past before heading to the other bus stopwhere I realise…

· G hadn’t broughtthe gift he needed to return because he’d bought the wrong thing, with him.

· G returns to house.

· Without keys.

· G returns to thebus stop and we realise he doesn’t have enough rides left on his travel ten.

· I go to thenewsagency to get another pass while G returns to the house with my keys to getthe gift.

· We leave Q at thebus stop.

· Just kidding.

· We get on a buswhose breaks screech and whose tires skid every time the driver slows down. Webegin to doubt our survival until Christmas in the first place.

· Every man and hisdog, aunt, cousin, spouse and CHILD is in town and as you walk past people allyou can hear is;

· ‘why didn’t youtell me that in the first place?’

· ‘what took you solong?’

· ‘christmas is notjust about you, you know.’

· G goes to get uscoffees while Q and I block traffic outside the diamond store in the StrandArcade.

· I should add thatit is raining.

· We do not haveumbrellas.

· We gather a fewgifts interspersed with countless phone calls to our family to make sure we getthe right thing. People can be very vague with their gift list.

· Myself included. Iasked for new bras because none of my non-breastfeeding ones fit, a terrible,horrible disaster that I don’t care to dwell on in this blog. I do not know mynew size.

· G tries not toswear as person after person does something stupid in front of him as he pushesQ through the throng.

· Q has reached herlimit, we head for the bus stop.

· G realises he haslost his Amex card.

· Is not successfulin stopping his swearing in front of his child.

· This annoys me and Ihead for the bus stop while G heads back to the shops to buy my gift.

· With what card I donot know.

· Q and I get home, (shehas meanwhile yelled her disgust at still being in the pram the whole bus ridehome) to discover that G still has my keys and so we can’t get in the frontdoor.

· Send G an urgenttext since he’s not answering his phone. Odd since that thing is stuck to hisear most of the day. Q crawls on the wet, muddy ground and gets filthy.

· G returns home.

· I make a cup oftea.

· And now I’m goingto get my toes painted because I want to be decadent and spend money unnecessarily.

· This has been the Christmasstory Llewellyn/Hart style.

· The end.

EASTER...CHRISTMAS...WHERE ARE WE UP TO JESUS?

2011-12-19T15:24:00.000-08:00

At the end of November when we decided to investigateopening a restaurant we didn’t presume anything much would happen for 6 monthsat least.

In barely a month of research, we have found a venue,taken a builder through, met with accountants, lawyers, brokers, designers andpurveyors, written and rewritten a business plan and tried to locate the fundsnecessary to open the thing in the first place.

In between this I’ve had a couple of gigs, Q turned 1,we celebrated US thanksgiving, had a quick work trip to Melbourne andapparently it is Christmas this weekend.

Who knew?

Yesterday I wished someone a happy Easter.

Gregory turned to me the other day and said; ‘do youthink things are moving a bit fast?’

And I replied ‘what? Like how we met and decided toget married within months, then flipped a coin and decided to leave NYC andmove to LA, then road tripped across the US and ended up in Australia, thendiscussed the possibility of falling pregnant and discovered we’d be parents 9months later. And now that human is one and we've decided to open a restaurant? Fast like the last few years have been? I don’t know what you’re talkingabout.’

My saving grace is that Australians are inherentlylazy and even thought it has been a total shite summer as far as weather isconcerned, every person we’re dealing with from the landlord to the lawyer has loudlydeclared they won’t be doing much between now and say, oh, the middle of January.

Fine by me.

Happy Easter everyone.

See you on the flip side.

CONSPIRACY THEORIES, CRAWLING & OPENING RESTAURANTS

2011-12-14T14:17:00.000-08:00

Today we are taking our builder through the restaurantspace we are considering taking over which is all sorts of exciting and grownup and serious and small-business-like, but we are also taking Q with us which is allsorts of stupid.

I’ve mentioned before my child’s unwillingness to sitplacidly in her chariot and be pushed around while all her favourite peoplewalk free around her.

Why can’t Iexplore and follow my whimsy? Must I be subjected to following yours instead?

You can’t walk yet Q, which means that some surfaces –like restaurant kitchen floors – are not ideal for you to go crawling about on.

But mother,I don’t put my knees down, there is no danger I’ll wear out my clothes.

True daughter dear, but I’m not sure it’s all thatclean.

If you don’tlet me out, I’ll kick and flail and scream and yell my frustration untilyou do. And it should be well established by now that my stamina and thresholdare far greater than yours.

Also true my darling child, I shall of course grantyour request.

I know this is what will happen today, and this should alsoexplain to well-meaning friends why cafes and restaurants are no-go zones for Quntil she’s approximately ten.

The upside to this excursion is that we’re taking aposse with us.

One brother who finds himself at loose ends today istagging along, and another brother and his girl and her brother are going tohave a snoop too. (She’s heading OS today, so my brother has used it as anexcuse to make a few well timed phone calls, answer a couple of key emails butactually take the entire day off work).

Work smarternot harder sis, he’s always telling me when heknocks off at 1pm.

The builder is a mate of our dad’s and we’ve grown upwith him renovating our laundry and roping you into holding the hammer so you’rea captive audience to his many conspiracy theories.

Seriously, he should be on talk-back radio. Although,giving his ideas a public forum could be very dangerous indeed.

So off go Gregory and I, about to undertake thebiggest professional decision of our lives (I consider packing my bags andmoving to NYC to perform, a mere dip of the toe into the pool of big decisionsin comparison to opening our own restaurant) with two brothers, one pseudosister-in-law, one pseudo sister-in-law’s brother, one non-compliant child, onemad builder and an unfailing sense of optimism.

What could possibly go wrong?

NO SHOWER NO SEX NO DEBATE.

2011-12-12T15:38:00.000-08:00

I am a night-time shower-er. My whole family is. Wefeel quite strongly about it.

Shower in the morning as well if you wish, but don’teven think about putting your sweaty, smelly day-old arse between my sheetswithout cleaning it first.

It is gross and nasty and as for the chance of a dirtydoodle and a nasty ny-ny ever meeting in the dark…you will find yourself morecelibate than a nun.

It’s a tough stance, but some things are just not upfor compromise.

It’s been known to nearly end a few relationships,until the offender sees the error of their ways and comes around to the Hartway of thinking.

Recently however, this evening showering business iswreaking havoc on my beauty regime.

My beauty regime goes like this;

· Wash body in soapof the non-allergic variety. Use it on face too, even though that is widelyrecognised as a cardinal sin in the beauty world.

· Shampoo andcondition hair with whatever product was on sale when last I shopped.

· Towel off and coverbody in sorbolene. (The tight-arse/allergic kid’s attempt at preventing wrinklyskin).

· Scrunch somede-frizzing product into hair

· Put on pj’s and goto bed, drying your hair on your pillowcase. The benefit of curls being thatsleeping on them doesn’t make them any better or worse. In the morning, youjust add a bit of spritz (or just wet your hands and scrunch with water) andyou’re done.

Voila.

Not much to it, the real beauty (ha ha) lying in itsability to be appropriated to any environment anywhere in the world.

Wherever you go, your beauty regime follows. Even if you're camping.

It’s always been enough to get me by. There was neverany danger of me being a supermodel, I’ve had wrinkles since I was 12 and Ihave reactions to most of the expensive smelly stuff anyway.

It’s been enough up until now.

Up until when I became a mother and breastfeeding almost literally suckedthe life out of me, causing my nails to stop growing, my arse to diminish, myhair to lose its curl and fall out entirely and my skin to become as desiccated the Murray-Darlingriverbed.

My face looked like a Cruskit.

I rang the BreastfeedingAssociation for advice, but in their typical, propaganda fashion, they justtold me there must be something wrong with my diet and to eat more nuts.

Really people? Exclusive breastfeeding for over a year and that’s what you tell me?

Add to the monumental weight of mother’s guilt whydon’t you? Thanks very much.

So just when I was about to ween Q cold turkey, shedecided the independence of drinking milk from a cup quite suited her independentnature and I was saved. My boobs are now only used morning and night.

During the days, they are mine, all mine.

I cut my nails for the first time in over a year, mylips stopped cracking allowing them to return to their former shape and size,and my hair began to grow, sprouting new shoots like a nervous young plant.

New shoots that now frame my face in little wispytufts, too fine to curl, too short to blend into the rest of my hair.

Made all the worse by my nighttime shower.

Come morning, my hair having dried overnight, I looklike a pubescent lion.

There are not enough bobby pins to save me.

Suddenly I’m finding more than a scrunch and go isrequired and frankly, I just can’t be bothered.

Of course if I skipped this nighttime shower, theproblem may be solved.

But I couldn’t do it. I can’t do it. I’ll never do it.

Bad hair be dammed.

I look like this, only better.

At least I know my sheets are clean.

DO YOU KNOW WHICH WAY YOUR PARTNER LIKES THEIR TOILET PAPER?

2011-12-08T17:56:00.001-08:00

I married an American. Which meant that after 6 yearsof living in the US and not being able to audition for Broadway because Ididn’t have a Green card I was finally able to do so.

The night before our Green card interview Gregory hadrun around the house checking things out. “Spare razor, second drawer in the hall. Undies top left. Favourite colour purple. Toothbrush is purple. Mother’s maiden name is Thompson. Wife puts toilet roll in so it rolls out on top.”

“I do?” I ask.

“You do now,” says Gregory. “And you also have a purple toothbrush. That is going to be my defaultanswer. Purple. Whatever it is, it’s purple. If we get separated remember that.”

“We’re not going to be separated,” I say rolling myeyes.

We had heard horror stories – people being told topull out their keys to prove they matched and therefore lived together. When they didn't they deported the woman on the spot.

On the big day, we allow plenty of time for trafficissues, park easily, join the line for security, exit on the top floor and come face to face with two women barely intheir twenties, shuffling along in shackles, their hands cuffed behind theirbacks.

Then we check in with the guardon duty, and calmly sip on our drinks while listening to a woman beg for herhusband. “Please,” she cried,“they’ve taken him. Here’s hispassport. Please.”

I finished my coffee and headed to the bathroom, fixing my hair in themirror trying to see if any particular style made me look more married. Deciding ‘out’ made me look relaxed andin love, I left the bathroom and wandered back down the hall.

“Quick!” Gregory’s voice echoed off thewalls, “they called us already. The lady is waiting!”

I sprint towards Gregory and our carry-bag of legitimate love. It was a huge binder stuffed withinformation, but part of me wondered if it was overkill and made it look likewe were trying to manufacture a relationship that wasn’t really there.

I had dressed with caution in anelegant black dress and my grandmother’s pearls hanging aroundmy neck. Pearls gave you a look oflegitimacy. I hoped. They’re always handed down fromsomeone, which I thought could indicate I was a good ‘family person’ and woulddisguise the fact that my dress came from the second hand store around thecorner.

He and I have more in common
than just a big nose.

Six minutes later, not a single question about where I keep my socks,who last cleaned the shower and what type of face cream I use, our interviewer gives us theofficial paperwork - a dodgy photocopied letter congratulating me on my changeof status, my name written in with her bright red pen.

And that, my friends, was that. No one was mean, the questions were not invasive, I wasn’t threatenedwith deportation, or subjected to a strip search. It was really all rather anti-climactic.

And then we moved to Australia.

Which meant I never got to audition for Broadway, we’dwasted three thousand US dollars at a time when the US dollar actually meant something,and then had to go through the whole process again with the Australian embassy.

And now I’m going through it for the second time, because Australiaonly gives you provisional residency until you can prove 2 years later that you’re still married to the same Aussie you got in with.

So last night while Gregory went to the pub with amate, I sat down in front of the tv to fold Mount Washmore and fill out forms.

Yes, upon typing I realise there is something wrongwith this scenario.

But all shall be remedied tonight when I embark on ababy and husband free girls’ night.

I don’t know who comes up with the questions for this residency, but Isure wouldn’t mind being the person paid to read through the answers.

Seriously, they make you answer:

· how you share andseparate your financial commitments (easy. I don't earn anything so Gregory pays for them all).

· how you split thehousework (G is a gun in the bathroom, I cover other areas and we both hate the oven).

· who does what forthe kids (I'm her primary carer and G is our financial backer. It's a perfect relationship).

· explain the socialaspects of your relationship (does takeaway thai with your brothers count?)

And my favourite one…

· describe the natureof your commitment to one another (like you're going to tell them you're just kidding and only got hitched 'cause you want to live at Bondi)

I diligently filled them all out, wondering as I went what they’ll think of the fact that theentire form, whether they be Gregory’s questions or mine, is written in my handwriting.

Would that be grounds for deportation or confirmationthat we operate like most other hetero couples I know, where the woman is incharge of the papers and the man takes out the recycling?

MY FACIAL READ MY MIND

2011-12-04T17:21:00.001-08:00

On Saturday a friend and I had a facial.

Because that’s people who don’t have any money comingin do.

It’s not as bad as a woman I met yesterday who saidthat when her restaurant went belly-up, (her partner was determined to do itwithout the benefit of a chef in the kitchen) she got herself an AmericanExpress card and took two of her children to Fiji for 8 days, staying in fancyplaces and buying them whatever they wished. She’s been diligently paying itoff since then, not realising all she’d been paying off was the interest, so thather $17 000 bill had now become $25 000.

I am not as bad as that.

The facial was at a fancy place where they offer you achoice of rosehip or lavender tea as you sit on a couch and answer a form withquestions like:

What areyour sleeping habits? (I would like tohave a habit. At the moment it is a hobby).

Rate yournutrition level from 1 to 10 (Depends on theday. I am still holding to the fact that breastfeeding takes 500 calories aday. Probably not if you’re only doing it twice a day now like I am, but letsnot wax semantics).

And

What is yourbeauty regime? (Sorbolene and soap and I don’twant to talk about it).

Then my friend and I were escorted to separate roomsby our individual therapists and I don’t know what happened to her after that.

I was told to sit in a chair, close my eyes and inhaleas my therapist rubbed his thumb up the bridge of my nose while passinga smell underneath it.

‘Your body will pick which one is right for you,’ hesaid calmly.

I chose the second and he said ‘ah’ andnodded his head, like he had expected that all along.

‘Your body chose clarity,’ he said with a meaningfulgaze and I tried to work out just why that would be.

Turns out the other two were purity and perspective.My friend’s body chose purity, and given that she’d been eyeing off my brotherand his army mates at our recent Thanksgiving when they took of their shirtsfor a swim, I’d say there could be something in that.

I return from the facial and shortly thereafter Gregoryreturns from work and announces that due to (probably what should have beenforeseen) circumstances, he would be finishing up work 3 weeks early.

I doubt I looked this good

Happy Christmas Q. Lucky you think the recycling boxis exciting.

Clarity. A little late body.

If only I’d had the massage a week earlier. I wouldhave seen it coming.

WHY I AM OVERWHELMED

2011-12-01T14:34:00.001-08:00

I am overwhelmed.

Not because I gave up coffee on Tuesday – well all butone, and that happens when I’m still in a coma at 5.30am because I’ve alreadybeen awake for half an hour.

Not because I have a 1 year old.

Or because I don’t have a job.

Or because we are rapidly outgrowing our very smallone bedroom apartment.

Nor am I overwhelmed because Christmas is coming andwe are not organised. At all.

Or because my ‘to-do’ list still has things on it fromlast year. Boring things, like deal with my green card and last year's tax so they’llprobably still be on there next year too.

I am not overwhelmed because we lost a cheque for $200.

Or because my baby is in the whinging faze and Ireally hope it ends fast.

No, none of those things overwhelm me as much as thefact that come Christmas Eve my husband will not have a job.

Which makes two of us, because I don’t have a jobeither.

My husband will not have a job because he gave notice.

He gave notice because we are going to open our ownrestaurant.

That’s right, you read correctly. We are going to open our own restaurant.

And that is why I am overwhelmed.

This is definitely me while baking.

It helps to make me less overwhelmed because he is, infact, a fully trained professional chef, which is handy if you want good food.(Not that I don’t think my veggie muffins deserve a place on the menu, butGregory seems to think they’re a bit common, if you will).

So I am overwhelmed by brokers and investors andaccountants and designers and business plans and grease traps and council requirementsand handicapped toilets and leases and late night licenses and square metresand goodwill and landlords and lawyers and architects.

All on one coffee a day.

Let the adventure begin…

HOT BEVERAGE WHORE.

2011-11-28T13:56:00.001-08:00

I do not sleep very well.

It takes me ages to winddown and then shortly after I finally manage to slip into the land of nod, mywee babe wakes ready to start her day.

But it’s not really her fault.

I can go to bed at 11pm and still be awake at 1 oreven 2am.

The problem is my mind.

I think I might be crazy.

I do my usual routine – brush teeth, put on face creamthat doesn’t work, climb into bed, read a bit of the Good Weekend, lightsout…and then goes my mind.

And it goes and goes and goes and goes.

Goes in directions such as this…

We are goingto the park tomorrow. What if I think Gregory has Q and he thinks I have Q andneither of us have Q and someone steals her?

Or reading something about that poor kid in Bali, theone being held on drug charges, right before we flew to the US and this…

What if Iget mistakenly accused of being a drug smuggler and they separate me from G andQ and they won’t even let me breastfeed her so she starves because she bottlerefuses and has never tried formula anyway.

It is really hard to fall asleep with this sort ofstuff running through your mind.

Last night a brother identified another possible cause…caffeine.He seems to think that 3 cups of coffee a day is too much.

And his flatmate (who is a nurse so I assume she knowswhat she’s talking about) tends to agree.

I am a hot beverage whore. I like having something hot to drink. I alternate between coffee and water all day long until the sun is over the yardarm and then I alternate between wine and water, before heading back to hot beverages for a final tea before bed.

And so as my chronic fatigue is reaching well, chronic proportions, I have decided to address my addiction and have limited myself to one coffee a day. I’ve had today’s –at 5.30 this morning. A delicious large skim latte. I savoured every sip.

The rest of the day will be filled with decaf tea.

Woo hoo. Party at my house.

I took some Panadolas a preemptive strike and don’t feel much different so far.

I’m no less tired, Q has no less energy and thelaundry has not managed to perform a self-clean.

Does this mean I can eat more cake?