CLEARING THE CLUTTER IN MY MIND

If I had a job that required accuracy and precision, I would never have been able to return to it post baby.

Q stole by brain cells while I was growing her and she's never given them back. (She also stole the curl in my hair, which is really annoying because curly hair is a lot easier to manage. ie you don't have to do anything to it).

Most annoying is the fact that Q's hair isn't even curly, it appears my curl disappeared with the exhaustion of breastfeeding.
Yes, despite what the breastfeeding nazis might tell you, breastfeeding does drain the mother. Trust me, I did it exclusively for 14 months and my nails have only just started to grow again.

The original point being that ever since Q stole my brain cells (and particularly my memory) life has been a tad tricky.
Add opening a restaurant to that, and it becomes abundantly clear one needs to find a new way to survive.

And so I set about de-cluttering my life.

• I spent a good hour consolidating all my passwords into one because I had taken to recording them in a notebook and carrying it around with me so I could access things when out and about. (And no, it is not an easy password. It is unique and very Naomi-centric so you wouldn't have a hope in guessing it).
• I am cooking only things that immediately come to my mind. Any additional thought of new herbs, spices or (dare I say it) a recipe wastes precious brain power.
• Write everything down. Including where your daughter is going to be. Yes, typically she's right by your side, but sometimes you might forget that and that can be very awkward to explain.
• Systems. Have a 'to-do' box, a 'to-be-filed' box and a 'can't-deal-with-it-now, she'll be right, leave it till later' box.
• Stop making promises you know you can't keep. It will only cut into precious sleep time as you lay there stressing about how you've let someone down.
• Breakfast for dinner is perfectly acceptable. 
• Several times a week.
• Say 'no' if you have to. Less yes means less clutter. 
• Keep doing the one thing that gives you peace...for me that's running, but eating chocolate brownie is a close second.
• Reassess your priorities. Do the quilts really need dry cleaning? It's just another thing you have to remember to pick up.
• Don't take on other people's clutter. This is most easily avoided by steering clear of social media. Twitter and facebook updates are the ultimate clutter-ers. All of a sudden you're worried about somebody else's grandmother!

If you find any, all (or none) of these helpful, feel free to take them on board.
Just don't tell me, because then i'll feel obliged to check up on how you're going and that would be the ultimate de-cluttering disaster.

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.

Q GOT INTO CHILD CARE!!!!!

Q got into day care.

If you’re not a Sydney parent, you’ll be wondering why this statement is significant.

Seriously people, it’s far more than just significant.

This is like saying you beat Ian Thorpe. Or got upgraded to first class on a long haul flight with Qantas. Or had a helpful customer service operator.

It represents one of the major parenting victories. A success story to be shared around the dinner table, passed along over the back fence when you’re watering the garden, to be retold for generations to come.

How the Mighty Q found herself in day care with one email and a deleted application form.

Let me start at the beginning…

It became evident some months ago (like the day she turned up) that Q was the kind of kid who would benefit from a variety of inputs owing to her inexhaustible nature and quest for adventure.

More recently I finally acknowledged that despite my best efforts of parks, walks, swims, books, adventures, people and excursions, I was still not giving her quite what she needed or desired. (Hence the full throttle, full body, full volume tantrums).

Most recently, I was forced to concede that opening a restaurant, moving house, Q’s developing language and social interaction and opening a restaurant may in fact mean I need to find some assistance in the raising of the divine, unstoppable Miss Q.

I cannot be everything to my girl. I have always believed it takes a village to raise a child.

It’s time to call on the villagers.

And so, on the recommendation of a friend, I shot off an email to a day care, got an acceptance response, met with the owner for well over an hour, where not once did she make us feel possessive, neurotic, ridiculous or obsessive, and Q is due to start just after easter.

I know, I know, I’ve just found the holy grail for inner city parents – child care the days I wanted at a place I like, who doesn’t care if I only put Q in for a few hours until I’m brave enough to leave her for longer.

Complete, utter, inner-city victory.

The funny thing is, I’m not that kind of girl. I never win raffles, I’m never in the right place at the right time, I’m the tortoise. Slow and steady, and even then I usually don’t win the race.

This is something weird. Some odd cosmic collision of need and opportunity.

Thank you world, and thank you villagers.

My little girl is on her way… 

THE ULTIMATE GIRLS NIGHT.

Last night G was required to do restaurant research.

With my brother and sister-in-law.

At the pub.

I mean really, how dumb does he think I am?

So, while he was out having a good time, spending money we don’t have, I was at home like a good little 1950’s housewife, caring for the children and keeping the home fires burning.

Enough of the martyrdom, in all honesty I really wasn’t fussed.

I had a girls night with my favourite girl instead. It started with a late afternoon walk in the puddles, followed by a spot of house-destroying while I cooked dinner. Cupboards are looking a tad desperate in our house at the mo’ owing to the general lack of income and the general focus on bigger issues like opening a restaurant, so I resorted to my New York standard…tuna surprise. Tinned tuna mixed with whatever else I could find in the cupboard.

Which turned out to be cheese, garlic, bacon, a sad looking onion, some big cannelloni that I ripped into smaller pieces, pumpkin from the garden (about the only thing to survive the floods), and a dash of red wine, added as an afterthought, direct from the cup I was sipping.

As surprise meals go, it wasn’t one of my finest, it sort of had that fermented smell of cheese fondue and the consistency of cat food.

Nevertheless, low standards have dropped even lower these days, so I plopped down on the floor while Q sat next to me in her special chair and we shared our dinner from the same bowl while we watched the last ten minutes of the Tomliboos.

Wine isn’t enough to make that show make any sense, but Q seemed entertained enough.

After cat food surprise, we headed for the bath (ba in Q speak) and soaked our puddle jumping bones in a delicious bubble bath. Countless kids books later, a round of dress-ups and after we’d given all the bear-bears kisses and put them to bed, Q said ‘mum, mum, mum, mum’, raised her arms up, I put her in her cot, she promptly went to sleep, I made myself a cup of tea, ate one piece of all 3 of the desserts we currently have in our house and got back to the business of sourcing chairs, bar stools and water bottles for the restaurant.

God bless the internet. Remember the days of yesteryear when you would have had to schlep to all of these places for real? In torrential rain? With a 15 month old? You can see how the concept of the kit home became popular.

So I sat down in front of The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, which – by the way – is really sad, and it’s hard to find the exact antique hinge you’re looking for when you’ve got tears in your eyes, so I poured myself another glass of wine and ate another piece of rocky road.

The point of this whole story being that I will miss these girls nights when I’m working at the restaurant every night. I really, truly will.

But when I’m down there dealing with an irate customer who is late for his reservation because he couldn’t find a park in the rain and now he wants me to rush his meal so he can get to the Enmore Theatre on time, I have to remind myself that last night was almost the exception and not quite the rule. Not every night is filled with such mother-daughter love and mutual appreciation. More often it’s whinging, tantrums, bed-refusal and a sneaky wee on the carpet before the nappy gets put on.

And I doubt I’ll miss all that very much at all.

See, I can always find the positive. Even if (as in this instance) the positive is actually a negative. Positively speaking.

Happy Friday people, now that’s a positive, unless of course you work on the weekend.

YESTERDAY'S TRAGEDY MADE ME THINK

Last night the latest family celebrity (my new nephew) was in town, so the family headed to the in-laws family home for an early dinner.

The plan was mum and dad (who had the divine Miss Q) would come from their place, G and I from ours, another brother and his lady from theirs, and the brother who manufactured said nephew would jump the train from the city. All other players were already in house.

What actually happened was dad came from an emergency meeting, 400m away from the house yet it took him 45 mins to get there. The brother on the train was fine – arguably the first time City Rail has been considered efficient, the other brother and his girl abandoned all efforts as she was working late on the other side of town, G and I managed the trip in 45 mins, and mum (who had Q, not known for her patience in the car) aborted her attempt after sitting in traffic for 55 minutes without moving an inch. Mum, widely recognised amongst the Hart community for having an appalling ear for music, resorted to singing to Q in an attempt to drown out her protests.

It was a real shame we couldn’t all get together, because it’s not often we’re all in the same town and my nephew – now 4 weeks old – is changing so much and I’m not getting a chance to document his every development.

But the real tragedy lies in why we couldn’t all get together.

The reason the traffic sabotaged our dinner plans, was due to an accident on the freeway that resulted in the death of a 60 year-old woman.

It so happened that Gregory and I drove past the site, the woman’s body hidden from view by heavy green tarps held up by respectful police.

How very, very sad.

Perhaps she was heading home from work. Maybe she was a nurse on her way to an evening shift. 

Or she could have been driving to her own family dinner.

And now she’ll never get there.

Ever, ever again.

In my mind she has a lovely family, loving and loveworthy and their pain right now would be great indeed.

It’s so easy to get frustrated when you’re stuck in traffic. To curse the moron whose poor driving resulted in your lost time.

But what if they weren’t driving like a moron.

What if it was just a horrible, dreadful accident?

And what if they were driving like a ninny?

It’s still a horrible, dreadful accident and they’ve paid for their errors with the very highest price.

It made me quite philosophical about this restaurant gig we’re delving into.

G is pretty jittery at the moment.

He’s worked 6 days a week since he was 15 years old. This planning time with idle cooking hands is really starting to get to him.

Last night, after we’d picked up Q and returned home, he went running at 10pm to try to sort out his busy brain.

I stayed home watching a sleeping Q, but we were both pondering the same thoughts.

Last night’s tragedy ended someone’s life.

Before they were ready, before they wanted it to, before they had any chance to argue against their hourglass that had suddenly run out of sand.

No one knows how much sand they’ve got left, or the pace at which it is hitting the bottom of their hourglass.

All we can do is consistently take care of the things on the top of our love list.

That woman probably had a partner, maybe a husband of 40 years or more. Children perhaps, grandkids, friends.

I bet they were all at the top of her love list.

That’s why G and I were heading to dinner in the first place. To be with the people on our love list.

And that’s the real reason we want this restaurant.

To care for the person at the very top of our love list. The divine, irreplaceable, unstoppable Miss Q.

My light, my life, my joy, my girl.

Who’s at the top of your love list people?

Go give ‘em a call.

They’re really the only thing in life that ever truly matters.  

KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON. ALL STOCK MUST GO.

Yesterday G, Q and I were driving home and G and I had a squabble about something. I can’t remember what, but I’m sure it went something like this;

G            ‘You’re picking again. Stop it.’

N            ‘And you’re missing the point again. If you didn’t miss the point I wouldn’t have to pick.’

Q            ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAGH’ (She doesn’t particularly care for car travel).

G            ‘It doesn’t matter though.’

N            ‘No, it does matter. It just doesn’t matter to you.’

G            ‘You need to learn to let things go.’

N            ‘And you need to learn to notice things that are important, even if you don’t think they are.’

This verbal volley continued along Victoria Road, (interspersed with Q’s sounds of indignation at having her freedom confined) until G came out with this;

‘I’m going to get a t-shirt printed that says ALL STOCK MUST GO with an arrow pointing to you.’

This is the good thing about our arguments. There’s a fair chance one of us will say something ridiculous, and even though I bite my cheeks, I usually can’t help but laugh.

It’s really hard to stay mad when you’re laughing. Plus you lose a fair amount of credibility with your opponent.

G and I are both stubborn.

And we’re both hot heads.

And we wonder why Q is the way she is.

So fights (or heated discussions as I like to label them) are not regular, but not unheard of either.

(Hopefully this just marks us as a normal couple and doesn’t make all you readers fat with smugness over your perfectly calm and perfectly perfect relationships).

He’s a chef and I’m a performer.

We were hardly going to sit quietly in our rocking chairs and share the crossword now were we?

So we developed a code word for when we’re getting a bit hot under the collar and no inappropriate joke is on the horizon.

SAN DIEGO.

So if, in a couple of months when the restaurant is open, neither of us has slept in 9 weeks, Q is giving me mother guilt for not being there at night to tuck her in and the bills are coming in faster than the income, and you hear us shout the word ‘san diego’ you’ll know why.

Welcome to Monday people.

Keep calm and carry on.  

CHEESY BUT GENUINE

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

This chasing your dreams biz can be expensive, but not as expensive as long-term therapy as you cry to a total stranger about how you had the chance to try but didn’t have the guts to follow through.

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

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

The Olympics.

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

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

I’m sure Einstein at some point was encouraged to abandon his quest for knowledge and become a science teacher instead.

Desserts. Hardly an essential in terms 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 over without people who follow their dreams. We’d still have teachers and doctors and parking officers, but they’d be the boring ones, the teachers without any passion for their craft, doctors with dreadful bedside manner and parking officers without…well perhaps they aren’t a particularly good example, but you understand what I’m trying to say.

Dream chasers make up most of the 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 may not be to conquer quite those heights, (the workload to even try is high enough to be frank), but we do plan for this to be our family’s livelihood.

Which brings me back to my original point about money and how we couldn’t ever have climbed this far without the many generous people who’ve helped us on our way.

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

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

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

Cots – two, left on the side of the road complete with screws and instructions in the box. Thank you rich neighbour who couldn’t be bothered putting them on freecycle. Your laziness was our reward.

Babysitting – two doting grandparents, three thoroughly besotted uncles, two equally entranced sisters-in-law and several wonderful friends mean G and I have been able to do market research without taking our inexhaustible 15 month-old along for the ride.

Honestly, I can’t tell you how many ways and times we’ve been helped out as new parents, and now as new parents 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 prove it to be true, but very grateful to be recipients.

And paying it forward, backward or any other direction is our determined plan and will give us great satisfaction.

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

THE CHILD CARE BATTLE IN MY HEAD

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

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

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

Dinner out the cheap, low-cal way.

Q is quite a social being. The result, I suspect, of us having spent the first 4 months of her life at my parents’ home while we waited for our apartment to be ready. A home that was also housing one brother and his girlfriend who had recently moved back from overseas.

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

Come the beginning of next month, we hope to be the owners of a space that is soon to become our restaurant. Following a refit that will no doubt take longer than we hope, we will then launch ourselves into the culinary world, five nights a week and both days of the weekend.

Initially I will be working all those shifts.

And doing the books.

And writing this blog and another one for the restaurant.

And hanging out with my favourite girl during the day.

And signing up for an anxiety attack by August I suspect.

Am I insane?

Do I always try to do too much?

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

The answer to all of the above is likely a resounding yes.

So what to do?

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

Like I said, she’s a social being.

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

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

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

For a couple of hours, once a week anyway.

But can her mother let her go?

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

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

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

That list would include but not be limited to:

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

·               she’s currently off banana but a huge fan of plums

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

·               she likes to whisper in your ear and tell you secrets

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

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

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

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

·               Her mother will have you on speed dial and is likely to ring every four and a half minutes to inform you of other completely incidental information that she will think is absolutely 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 anxious mother is way more work than a 14 month old.

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

Gregory and I are determined to give Q a happy and relaxed childhood.

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

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

Opening a restaurant doesn’t sound like a particularly relaxing activity to anyone, (except perhaps Cadel Evans who rides up European alps for a living) but it will make Q’s father happy.

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

But can I do it?

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

Ugh.

The battle in my heart and mind rages fiercely.

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