ANZAC DAY, LEST WE FORGET...JUST HOW COMPLEX THIS ISSUE OF WAR IS

This time a year ago, my family was busy celebrating the marriage of one of my brothers, a fantastic party including a game of two-up played with 'bride money' (pretend money made using a portrait of my new sister-in-law).
It was a wonderful event somewhat overshadowed by the memory of having to breastfeed 17 000 times throughout the day, getting my cans out of the only fancy dress I managed to find that didn't require a complete strip in order to feed my human.

But that's a blog for another day...taking your baby to a wedding is lame. Next time, I will be sure my baby takes the bottle. Even sitting on the couch milking myself like a cow to prepare for the event, would be preferable to negotiating a 5 month old at a wedding.

This year things are a little different. This year we're celebrating the fact that another brother is half way through a tour in Afghanistan and grateful he and his mates are safe and well.

I never really imagined myself to have much to do with the military. It's not really my style. Before my brother became involved, the closest I'd ever come to it all, was the festival scene when I did a production of The Sound of Music. You know the scene, the one where the Von Trapp family is singing Edelweiss surrounded by Hitler's Goons. I was a nun in that production, so we weren't in that scene, but I seem to recall we took it as a fantastic occasion to commit whatever antics were required on the side of stage to make all the male chorus men dressed in Hitler pants and holding wooden guns break on stage.
So mature.

I'm not much of a rally person either. Crowds drive me a bit mental. Although I did do the 'sorry march' across the bridge. I prefer to sign a petition. Or write a letter. Does anybody write letters these days?

Am I against war? Sure. Who isn't?
But I also very much like the quality of life afforded Australian citizens and it's something I think worth preserving.
Do we have to fight for it? I don't know to be honest.
New Zealand seems to be maintaing their high standards of living without engaging in battle.

But I tell you what is worth preserving. My brother. And all the brothers like him, wherever they are in the world.
Yes, they agreed to go. No, they weren't conscripted, the choice was entirely theirs. But what we don't necessarily know is their reasons for making those choices.
While we sit on our couches enjoying a public holiday, our impotent inertia is perhaps a tad insulting. Particularly to the innocents caught in this brutal crossfire.

I wish things were simple. Hitler was bad. So was Stalin. And Mussolini. Not many people would dispute that.
But this conflict is not simple. In either warfare or ideology.

It's so sad to me that we haven't really learned from the fallen men and women of yesteryear, at least not enough to stop repeating the same behaviour. Just like they didn't learn from the people who fought before them.

We're not that smart, are we? Well, we're all programmed to fight to survive, so at its basest, we're just following our natural instincts, I suppose.

But right up there with survival though, my other natural instinct is to love. I suspect that's why we want to survive in the first place. To be with the people we love.

I love my little brother very much, and I love my daughter with a fierceness known only by other parents.

I would fight for her. For her rights, her freedom, her very life.
And I know I would do it with a ferocity seen only in a lioness.
Every animal instinct would emerge to protect that human that I made with my very own flesh.

See, that's why it's so complex, we just don't know what's driving other people. What their love is.

Q and I will make ANZAC biscuits this afternoon, and box them up to send to my brother overseas.
It's a small and completely ineffectual gesture.
But those biscuits will be made with thought and love. Conscious of the lives being lost in conflicts all over the world and with a gratitude that at our basest, I pray our natural instinct is still, and always will be, to love.

Stay safe little brother, you're in my heart.

CYCLISTS - GIVING CADEL EVANS A BAD NAME

I live fairly close to the Bay Run, so once or twice a week, Q and I walk it with a dear friend, our mouths moving as fast as our legs.
The other day my sister-in-law joined us, so I walked ahead pushing Q and yelled my comments back so we didn't walk 3 abreast and hog the entire footpath.
Which brings me to the point of this post - cycling etiquette on a shared path.

I have absolutely no objection to those using the Bay Run as a commuter route to work, their sensible office shoes in a backpack on their backs, their suit pants tucked into their woollen blend socks.

But the serious cyclists, identified by their Cadel Evans Silence Lotto uniforms (he's not with them anymore you ninnies. He won last year's tour racing for BMC), hooning around the Bay like it's the Champs elysees. Seriously?
Go find a hill.
The Bay Run is 7km of dead flat track. You can walk it in under 50 minutes. (To be fair, us three ladies are all at least 5'10" so we do have a long stride, but the fact remains that it is not one of Sydney's most challenging courses).

Perhaps I wouldn't feel so affronted by these MAMILS (middle aged men in lycra) if they didn't whizz past me so fast I got whiplash from their slipstream, and just the other day have one of them shake their head at my 16 month old girl toddling along on the correct side of the path and well out of their harm's way.

And as for the series of slow down gates by the Leichhardt Rowing Club, there is a sign that says DISMOUNT FROM BIKE. 
Not skid to a halt and chuck a filthie at the distinguished older gentleman who walks the route every day with his dog Missy.
His name is Peter, you bike-riding bullies, and he is a very nice man.

It would be my assumption that if you're wearing all the gear, sucking on a gel pack and sporting those ridiculous bike shoes, you consider yourself a fairly proficient rider.

Might I suggest then, one of two things.
Either you find a route that matches your outfit (all I'm saying is my daughter can walk 1500m of this 7000m track), or you stop picking on those of us with a slower form of recreational movement and learn to share the road.

As I'm always telling my girl, sharing is caring.

We went to Primary School together. I like to think he remembers me.

I SUSPECT THIS EXPLAINS WHY I'LL RUN FRONT OF HOUSE & STAY WELL AWAY FROM THE KITCHEN

We are working to a bit of a budget these days, which means I've returned to the glory days of Tuna Surprise, Veggie Surprise and anything else I can think of that can be assembled for less than 5 bucks and constitute a meal by the very basest of definitions.

In addition to being the modern day depression survivor, I also fancy myself a bit of a baker, and since we've roped family and friends into painting the restaurant this weekend, I figured the least I could do is make them delicious treats so that they don't resent us too much for spending the last vestiges of Summer getting a crick in their necks painting the ceiling of our livelihood.

In theory these are the same biscuit. But the first batch (those on the left) clearly didn't work, so I added more flour. Now they resemble soft hockey pucks. They're like a resistant sponge.

I genuinely don't know what happened. This time I was actually trying to follow the recipe. 
But Gregory (who, lets remember is a trained professional) gave me a baking book for christmas that has the measurements in ounces.
Who uses ounces anymore?

But, not to be deterred, I found a receptacle that records such ancient measurements (the old jug we use to rinse Q's hair in the bath) and I was off on my merry way.

It's so disheartening to mix and bake and crack eggs and spill flour everywhere and get the sifter wet by accident and have the oven on the wrong temperature and burn yourself on the hot tray and drop the muffin patty cases all over the floor and run out of milk and do countless loads of washing up, only to have your creations totally, utterly fail.

I've got one last card. My ace. My hidden hand...choc chip cookies.
The recipe I have seems to be Naomi-proof, and the result is always delicious.
I just can't be arsed doing anymore washing up.

DAYLIGHT SAVINGS - THAT EXTRA 60 MINUTES IS KEY.

Im gonna try my darndest, but if I'm not here, you'll find me over at Hartsyard, keeping a diary about opening of a restaurant.
Stop by and follow our ride, but more importantly, stop by once we're open.
We'd really love to have you.

I CAN DO EVERYTHING YOU CAN DO...JUST IN A COMPLETE STATE OF MANIA

In my mind it was entirely possible to;

• be mum to cyclone Q, my 16 month old dazzler.
• open a restaurant - which continues to be more work than I ever wanted to anticipate (and I was anticipating it was a fair bit)
• keep the home fires burning. (Not gonna lie. That has involved the dryer almost every day this week. May as well use the bloody thing since we just paid $125 to get it fixed!)
• and maintain two blogs - this one and the one for the restaurant.

Some days this is all just a bit too hard.

Where are the night elves to help me out with a bit of this stuff overnight? If you've got some sitting around idly cleaning magic dust out of their navels, can you send them on over?

Thanks. I promise I'll stick to union guidelines.

DESPERATE TIMES...

I've been a little absent of late and here's why.
I miss this little blog, and hope to see you all again soon.
xx

WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS...

In short:

• Last night the tickle in my throat became a full blown head cold preventing any sleep.
• The accompanying busy brain did not help, I suspect.
• Nor the 16 month old that felt the need for close-up cuddles between the hours of 3 and 5.
• I awoke, regrouped and drove said 16 month old to my fabulous friend, who was going to take her for a few hours while I did work for the restaurant we still don't own.
• We still don't own said restaurant because of a dispute between other parties that we are helpless to resolve.
• If the sale doesn't go through tomorrow, we shall have to walk away from the whole deal, regroup and run off on a holiday with the money we've borrowed from friends and family. (I am kidding about the last part, but if I wasn't, I'd go to Vietnam I think. Stop off in Laos and Cambodia, and maybe a couple of nights in a fancy resort somewhere on our way back home).
• Upon arrival at my friend's place, Q began to sneeze all over her daughter's toys, and I suspected our close-up cuddles had been a very bad idea.
• I left my friend to disinfect her toy room and returned home with Q to my husband and the designer (our friend who landed from New York on Tuesday morning expecting to get right to work) to discover that nothing further had transpired regarding the sale.
• Q was Captain Cling, didn't want to eat, felt the need to whinge and snug simultaneously, and finally went down for a nap at 12.40pm.
• It started to rain (surprise, surprise) so I loaded the clothes into the dryer and pushed start.
• The dryer no longer works.
• It is only just out of warranty.
• It is going to cost $125 to fix.
• Neither of us have jobs and rent is due this Saturday.
• It is now 12.20am and it is really rather stupid that I am still awake given how wretched I feel, but contemplating the dual facts that the last 4 months of work (and trust me people, setting up a restaurant requires a lot of work) will likely have all been for naught, and that the money we have already spent is decidedly unrecoverable makes it hard to sleep.

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.


Isn't that how the saying goes?
Yeah right.

When life gives you lemons, sometimes it just sucks.

IF I WERE RICH I WOULD NEVER COVER MY QUILT AGAIN

If you were rich, you would never have to put the cover on your own quilt, you would have a maid to do it for you.

I pondered this today as I was doing just that, because I find a quilt necessary now that the world’s crappiest summer is over and we are officially in autumn.

Can you imagine if you could offload all the shit jobs to some other poor sucker?

Apart from the obvious stuff like cleaning, cooking and going to the Post Office, if I were rich I tell you what else I’d try to get out of doing:

·               Q’s nappies. Enough said.

·               Mending. Even a button. Especially a button.

·               Standing inline for bus tickets.

·               Filing receipts. Even the fact that they mean a deduction on my tax isn’t enough to make me enjoy that task.

·               Taking out the recycling. Jeez that’s annoying.

·               Tupperware sorting. (We now have a rule, no bottom can go in the cupboard without its top. Even Q knows how the system works).

·               Dusting the picture frames. How pathetic are dust mites?

·               And, of course, I would never, ever again make any phone calls to customer service operators. Yes, for the record, I am still at war with these Panda Bears of Humanity and it is really, really doing me in.

WHAT DO PANDAS & CUSTOMER SERVICE OPERATORS HAVE IN COMMON?

Panda Bears wandered down an evolutionary cul-de-sac and now they're stuck. 

They are – evolutionarily speaking – a waste of good bamboo.

Chris Packum of The Dailymail suggests we just let them die out.

It occurs to me, that customer service operators are the Panda Bears of humanity.

Totally useless human beings who are nothing more than oxygen thieves.

But before you have a go at me, I’m not being discriminatory, I feel this way about all customer service operators. Those in healthcare funds, superannuation funds, telecommunications…especially telecommunications. 

They’re all spectacularly unhelpful, infuriatingly vague and trained to PISS YOU OFF.

‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

Anything else?

You didn’t help me in the first place.

Who trains these people?

Today I rang my healthcare fund and got a trainee, who was so maddeningly clueless she passed me over to her trainer.

The poor girl is doomed. It won’t be possible to learn a thing. Her trainer didn’t have any information to pass on.

I don’t start out annoyed. I never ring them when Q is awake, I make my cup of tea during the wait music, plug in my headphones so I can file my nails (a job I only ever get around to if I’m on the phone to customer service operators or on a long haul flight back to the US) and always have a sweet treat to take the edge off.

And yet, my good intentions are sabotaged. Every single time.

It’s extraordinary.

But I think I might have cracked their code - the only thing they’re ever taught.

Are you ready for it?

I think they’re taught to evade, avoid, deter and dodge…and then hope. 

Hope your tea has gone cold, you’ve run out of both your scotch finger biscuits and your patience, they’ve transferred you around the world enough times to get you motion sick, and then the clincher…that your baby awakes and you have to abort the issue 1 hour, 23 minutes and 16 seconds into it, with no resolution in sight.

Useless.

Far worse than Pandas.

At least they’re lovely to look at.  

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

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.

WHAT A WEEK. THIS GAL IS TIRED!

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 had been in my mind to send him a box of Anzac Biscuits made with my grandma’s recipe 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 own nurse, (who was hot and evidently thought he was too, and seemed to require he be treated without his shirt on at all times) and I was delivering Anzac Biscuits to his hospital room instead.

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

Which explains why he could get away with saying ‘make sure you actually send some Anzac Biscuits to your brother. You don’t want to have the same regret 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!

A VALENTINE FOR AN UNNAMED SOLDIER.

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

We had a sleepover because a member of our family unit is off to do something very dangerous today and the reality 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, but it’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 you something for free, I doubt I would cope.

That’s why we had the sleepover.

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

Cyclone Q.

So here we are facing our troubles 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 little brother.  

See you when you get back.

DOMESTIC VIOLENCE IS NOT OK. EVER.

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

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

But not generous enough to leave the rest of it there.

That was not part of the plan.

I was lamenting this fact as we pulled into our street.

Then I was lamenting the fact that – as usual – there was not a parking spot to be found, as we live in the groovy inner west, close enough to the city that we should all be commuting on foot 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 that there is a funeral parlour on one corner and a gym on the other and you can see how the problem escalates.

Sadly, (although not for them I don’t suppose) the funeral parlour is consistently busy. Which means that by day 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 is filled with the doof-doof cars of ‘roided-up white guys on their way to stand in front of the mirror and grunt and swear as they stare at themselves pumping iron at the gym. You know the ones, their protein shake hanging from a clip on their pants, camouflage caps on their heads, their deep cut singlets deliberately exposing the series of tattoos on their arms.

Back to our parking dilemma, we were further hindered by a car stopped smack bang in front of the back lane where you can sometimes find a park, (the downside to that being that by next morning your car is covered with those annoying fig bombs that stick to the roof like cement).

Showing remarkable restraint, G and I did not honk and G did an impressive reverse park into a spot that looked like 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 the lane because its occupants were having a roaring argument. They climbed out of the car and the first thing we saw was the woman slapping the guy about the head, her language bluer than the summer skies we see only in our memories owing to this totally shit summer.

Quickly, G took Q upstairs and away from any potential harm.

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

G wanted to call the police immediately, 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 up white guy) and perhaps this was how they rolled. Some ladies like to fight.

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

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

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

Then, for whatever reason, she climbed back in and he sped off, but not before I managed to get the numberplate of the car belonging to this complete Neanderthal, woman-beating bully arsehole.

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

I don’t care.

You don’t ever piss someone off enough 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 US only) the police reckon they found the car.

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

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

Gregory is not a ‘roided up white guy.                                                                                    


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

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

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

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

Domestic violence is not ok.

Ever.

And that means you play your part 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 right and hope even more that she had the courage to walk away.

I did a bit of research and it seems we’re making a pretty fair effort, there are a lot of wonderful websites devoted to domestic, 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 that we need them?

Ps. On a slightly facetious note, this post has been sponsored by the brownie my mum dropped off to me this morning. I have no willpower.

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

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

Not her crotch.

Her crutch.

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

The point being, you can’t plan for everything.

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

Missing the bus, losing your keys yes.

Crutch stuck in kettle? Not so much.

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

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

I mean would you ever have thought to consider:

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

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

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

·               The location being a heritage street which means your colour palette is restricted to federation yellow and green.

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

·               Another restaurant opening with an idea you’d been thinking about for years. (That one is a real downer. We’re reconciled to the fact that many of our long-ago-thought-of ideas will 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 first place. 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.

HOW HUMBLE IS YOUR PIE?

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

Then, when they discover that you’re not funding the project entirely yourselves, they realise you can’t afford a ticket on the crazy train, and that look turns to sympathy 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 are killers. I think there is a proverb about pity. It goes something like this:

Looks of pity poke holes in a person’s dream, so think twice before their dream gets poked away.

But there’s also probably another proverb about believers.

Believers are 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, a website to search. Others still, their skilled labour for a fraction or none of the price their worth.

All of them believing and showing that belief however it 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 make it 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 to work.

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

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

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

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

ANXIETY, PIRATES & FORTUNE COOKIES

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

It was a bit hectic getting there, what with the bridge being closed, me getting muddled on directions, and G urging me to go to the 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 to open…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, done a 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 given to us by the owners of said 4 year-old).

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

Lame.

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

I find kid’s parties exhausting.

Come on, admit it, don’t you?

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

And so you spend the hours having fractured conversations with the adults while you run after your small human as they head straight 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 fights between 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 the hosts’ fruit bowl, telling them it was for Q.

1 year-old birthday parties typically don’t include a lolly bag, because their most favoured treat is their mother’s milk and that would 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 bottles and 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.