CHICK MAGNET BABY FOR HIRE $80 AN HOUR

One of my brothers has a full time job that only really requires him to work a few hours a day.

‘Work smarter not harder,’ he tells me, as we set off for our daily constitutional by 2pm in the afternoon.

Often by this stage, Q and I have already been on a couple of walks, possibly a swim, done some serious crawling in the park, admired the planes, birds and dogs in the neighbourhood, thrown some food around the kitchen, sung a few songs, done a few dances and Q has napped long enough for me to put on a load of washing and contemplate cleaning the floor, so I am – justifiably I feel – a little pooped.

In the early walking days, (as a runner I was having a hard time adjusting to walking as a legitimate form of exercise) I used to carry or push Q myself as a bit of extra training, but now I happily offload her to her uncle and enjoy the hour with two arms all to myself.

Now, we are both redheads and people always think redheads are related even if they’re not but for some reason, with a kid in between us, people suddenly think we’re both the makers of the human.

Which is creepy.

And really, really gross.

The upside to this – for my brother of course – is that carrying this human ably and comfortably in his arms also means he gets hit on by all and sundry.

Young and old, male and female, partnered or not, he gets the look.

You know the one.

I used to get it.

Once upon a time.

Or perhaps more accurately I got it once, once upon a time.

Whatever, I remember it in the dim recesses of my brain back when I was glamorous and exotic.

Hang on a minute.

That’s the person I imagine I am.

Well I must have gotten the look at least once, or I wouldn’t be here to tell this tale of my daughter the romance magnet.

My other brother’s friends regularly ask me if they can borrow her on a Saturday morning for a trip to the markets – their ‘niece’ in one arm, a bunch of organic asparagus in the other, they get more hits than a smack addict on a bender.

So, since I can’t seem to land a gig at the mo’ I’ve decided to hire her out.

Whatdya reckon?

80 bucks an hour?

I provide all food and other equipment, all that’s required is that you return her in the same condition as when she left.

Except if she’s yelling. Then you can’t return her until she’s stopped.

I mean, if she got a commercial or a film or something I could take the profits and she wouldn’t even know, so where’s the difference?

Contact me if interested.

DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?

When I hostessed at fancy-schmancy restaurants in LA, people wanting a table at 7.30pm on a Saturday night without a reservation used to say to me ‘don’t you know who I am?’

Last night that’s exactly what I wanted to say to the woman next to me as we f-lap ball changed our way through a tap class.

I would continue…

‘Don’t you know? I’m the mother of Little Miss Q and right now she’s not with me and I have two arms all to myself and I am using my brain for my thoughts and even though I miss her and I’m still thinking about her, imagining her sleeping (I hope) at home with her father, it feels absolutely fabulous to be doing this.

Is that wrong?

I’ve never had a real job, so I didn’t have to contemplate the transition from 9-5-er to SAHM (stay at home mum for those not in the know). I imagine that could be quite confronting – corporate world, corporate outfit, corporate credit card, corporate respect – to the jeans and spew-proof, breastfeeding capable t-shirt, no time for makeup, no one to talk to but a human that can’t speak English, spending the income you no longer earn on take away decaf coffees just to get out of the house and have an adult to converse with.

Yes I can see how it would be confronting indeed.

Mine was a different conflict. 

I’ve never had a real job, and when I’m not working I like to write at home. Writing I thought I’d be able to continue doing while my new human slumbered peacefully in her cot.

Yeah right.

But the truth of it is, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I don’t want to be away from Miss Q right now. (At least not for longer than a couple of hours).

But it was very nice just to hang out with myself.

It wasn’t much, but it did the trick. Reset the monitor, recharged the fast-approaching-flat batteries.

That’s all I needed. Ninety minutes of me-time, once a week on a Tuesday night.

Reclaiming my sense of self. One tap class at a time.

CABIN-FEVER WORKOUT WITH A BIT OF HELP FROM LITTLE MISS Q

For about twelve seconds (and largely because I ate an entire bucket of Ben and Jerry’s half-baked ice cream) I considered going for a run today.

It’s only rain – torrential to be sure – but it’s not going to make me melt. 

Although, as my brother pointed out, I could trip in a puddle and sprain my ankle and then we’d have me with a gammy foot and Gregory with his gammy back and both of us fighting for the sympathy card and that wouldn’t do at all. 

Largely because a slipped disc is going to trump a self-inflicted sprained ankle every time and I don't fancy doing all the chores and taking care of Miss Q with a big, fat cankle and no sympathy.

So instead, I did an indoor workout using household items, furniture and Miss Q as my ten kilo weight.

It's ok though people, I'm going to share, but where I reference Miss Q, replace with your own human or get the heaviest coffee-table book you can find, that ought to do the trick.

The cabin-fever Workout with a bit of help from Little Miss Q:

·               To begin, perform a couple of downward dogs with Miss Q lying underneath. She loves the angle of your face directly above hers, but beware, when she shoves a finger up your nose, you can’t use one of your arms to get it back out again. Ow.

·               Tricep dips off the table bench. Sit Q in your lap for some extra poundage.

·               Bench-press Q style. Bonus points for singing the grand old duke of York at the same time.

·               Incidental Exercise – put the load of nappies in the dryer and start the load of drenched towels being used to soak up the water from the leak in the roof.

·               The bicycle ab set with Q straddling your neck. Fine until she leans forward to pull your hair and cuts off your air supply.

·               Recover – fold one of the five loads of today’s laundry.

·               Bicep curls – lower and raise Miss Q alternating arms after sets of ten.

·               Obliques – sit on the bench with knees raised and feet on the ground and swivel Miss Q from one side to the other. The colours of the rainbow song works well here and gets you an extra bite of dessert.

·               Breath control – join in Miss Q’s conversation and respond to her babble with babble of your own.

·               Lunges, Squats, leg lifts – all can be done with Miss Q in arms or cheering on from underneath.

·               Cool down – lie on the floor and relax. Again, watch out for Q’s wandering fingers.

There you have it people. 

No excuse not to exercise, or at the very least a reason to justify your ice cream addiction. 

And given that this weather is set to continue for the next couple of days, this could be a more valuable blog than it at first appears.

Jeez, this sort of unrelenting, hour-by-hour, close proximity to each other thing could really start to get old. 

At least it's just the three of us.

I don’t know how the Irish catholics do it.