NO BLOG YESTERDAY BECAUSE...

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.

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.

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.

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.

DON'T SPIT ON THE WALLS.

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

No shit Sherlock. Thanks for the tip.

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

Things like:

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

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

PLEASE BE RESPECTFUL OF OTHER PEOPLE’S CEREMONIES

This was posted in City Hall where Gregory and I went to get our marriage licence in NYC. We did consider getting hitched in their chapel, complete with salmon coloured walls and fake flowers adorning a plastic archway, but we decided the forty people who’d travelled from Australia might not appreciate that.

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

PLEASE BE RESPECTFUL OF OTHER PEOPLE.

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

Unfortunately for the Japanese a 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 when I came across this sign, that disastrous event hadn’t occurred yet.

I saw it at a stage when Gregory and I were about to move back to Australia, a country I hadn’t lived in for 8 years, a country he had never lived in, a country I had no professional performing career in, a country he had no career in whatsoever. Hoping to both get jobs in our chosen fields, to make a baby (never having tried to make a baby before), to grow a healthy one, once we conceived it, to be able to afford rent in Sydney, to make new friends and reconnect with old.

Suddenly I realised mini Tsunamis hit your whole life long.

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

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

It seems that opening a restaurant is indeed like facing a mini-Tsunami. But with proper planning and preparation 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.

It is 9am and I am already back from the playground because a 1 bedroom apartment gets boring for a 14 month old 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 something far above her skill level and as I followed her to avoid a trip to the hospital I noticed a little girl a couple of years older than Q sitting quietly on the park bench while her mother sat next to her.

With her headphones in.

Talking on the phone.

And texting.

While her daughter sat still and silent beside her.

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

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

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

Now, dear reader, you may argue that clearly it was I not paying attention to my daughter because I was so consumed by somebody else’s, and you’d be right, so I left my daughter with her father and came home, full of righteous indignation, itching to write this blog.

I had planned to write about something else entirely.

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

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

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

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

Hear endeth the rant.

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.