ROCKING ON THE COUCH LIKE A CRAZY PERSON

'I half expected to turn up and find you sitting on the couch in your dressing gown, rocking back and forth talking to myself.'


This is what my friend said to me yesterday when she turned up to see if I...well, to see if I was sitting on the couch in my dressing gown and rocking back and forth talking to myself I suppose.

Not gonna lie, this opening a restaurant gig is fairly intense. Neither G nor I are getting much sleep at the mo', but I have to admit that's also because I'm being selfish. I'm about to start working 5 nights and both days of the weekend.
That is an awful lot of time away from my little girl, and because i'm going to battle with that so terribly, I'm clambering for as much time as possible with her now.

I honestly don't know how I'm going to cope not putting her to bed 5 nights of the week.
I try to remember that that also means 5 nights where I don't have to scrub the highchair, read the same lame arse book and fight about how many times she needs to clean her teeth.
Nah, I'll even miss that.

But I'm also very excited to see my husband's dream come true. 

And last time I checked, the trust fund stood rather empty, so working for a crust is really the only way to go. Unless I help a rich old lady across the road and she leaves me her millions in her will. I have fantasised about that happening for a long time now, but no luck yet.

It's a really tough battle to fight I'm finding. I'm excited to interact with new and interesting people. To get back into the pace of restaurant life, where I finish each night with a warm glass of red and a specially cooked meal from the kitchen...ok the reality is going to be a little different from when I worked in restaurants in LA and NYC. This time, i'll be dashing home to relieve my parents who are our fabulous (and affordable) q-sitters.

Which brings me back to Q. And just how much I'm going to miss my little girl and her zest for life. What about all those adventures she's going to have without me...
Is motherhood just one big lesson in letting go?

That's the part that will have me rocking on the couch...

But since I wasn't in my dressing gown and was in fact dressed when my friend turned up, we had a lovely morning nattering away like two little stay-at-home-mums. She's definitely a friend I'd see more often if we lived closer.
But she lives on the fancy North Shore and last time Q and I visited another friend of ours over there, Q screamed the entire 45 minute journey.
It got so bad I thought my ears were starting to bleed and I seriously considered putting the hazards on, getting out of the car, and leaving Q to it, right in the middle of the Pacific Highway.

Surely some tan booted, slim jeaned, Country Road wearing mother would have picked her up and enrolled her in Montessori School quick smart.

So no, I don't see my friend as often as I'd like and it was terribly nice of her to endure the dreaded Pacific Highway and come my way...bringing dinner with her.

That's right. Despite being the mother of two small children, and step-mum to two teenage boys which would surely be enough to do anyone in, she brings me (mother of one) a home-cooked meal.

My finger is protecting the identity of her son, because that small meal was actually intended for her son.
Somewhere on the north shore a little boy is going hungry tonight...

I'd always thought this particular friend and I were aligned in our parenting and housekeeping sensibilities, but here I find things are not as they seem.
She labels her frozen meals.
I just whack 'em in the freezer and it's part of the fun as the day progresses, to watch a meal defrost and discover it is not bolognese but rather the duck fat leftover from G's last menu test.

And she puts the date on them too.
That is proper Martha Stewart housekeeping right there.

And I love how she thought the meal on the left would serve two.
Not a chance.
Q and I downed both containers before you could say microwave.

What she did was really, really nice.
So now I owe her.
Next time I'll have to be the one to visit her...

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.

I BLAME DAYCARE

Q has a cold.
Punch me in the face.
I blame daycare.
I sent her for two mornings last week, 9-12 on Wednesday and Thursday so I could get some work done for this restaurant that is supposed to be opening in less than four weeks time.

But now I've spent the last 56 hours not sleeping and dealing with my 'responding like her father to what is in fact just a common cold' daughter, which means I'm now 50 hours behind and exhausted to boot, so daycare has turned out to be a total, utter waste of time.
And money.
But that's another issue in itself - paying on a public holiday even though they're not open anyone? What's up with that the tightarse in me wants to know.

And what's wrong with sick kids anyway?
Don't they know it's a perfect excuse to curl up on the couch, tuck in a rug, sip hot drinks and catch up on Oprah?
When they actually have a clue, they'll be wishing they could do it.

But not Q. Oh no, there's not enough action in tv.
It's engaging for about the first twelve seconds until she realises it's a one-way communication device.
Where's the fun in that?


And to add to it all, it is, of course, raining.
Again.
And we live in a one-bedroom apartment.
So she gets cabin fever and I want to stab myself in the eye with a dull pin rather than listen to her whinge  anymore.

This stay at home parenting gig is for the birds. Where's the escape clause?
I've eaten the entire cake my friend made me, and almost all of my sister-in-law's birthday cake. (I told her if she left it here, I couldn't be held responsible).

She's sleeping now, but I've squandered nearly all her nap time talking with Optus (nearly as much fun as caring for a sick 16 month old) and having a whinge on this blog.

If she doesn't wake up feeling better, I'm going to pour the panadol bottle down her throat and chase it with a rum toddy.

Last week started out so well, what with reconnecting with my childhood school buddy Cadel Evans (I think fame by association suits me to be honest).
But if today is an indication of the week ahead, there isn't going to be enough cake in the kingdom.

But for now, there's one piece left. And I'm determined to eat it before she wakes.

Perhaps they should serve this in parliament and we could get this
gay marriage issue done and sorted once and for all.

Post script...I am certain the blame lies with daycare. No way is it because I let her pal around in the rain for an hour last week with her buddy, while the other mother and I watched from under cover. No way at all.

FEED THEM CAKE...

According to that learned journal, Wikipedia, Marie Antoinette never actually said 'feed them cake'. She was far too busy eating her own to even notice the famine going on at her feet.

Now, while we may be working to a fairly tight budget these days, no one is going hungry. Q sees nothing wrong with Tuna Surprise, Breakfast for Dinner and Crock Pot Invention.
I think they appeal to her sense of chaos.

And I see nothing wrong with cake.
Whether you're starving or very well fed.

And this morning at approximately 11.15am, my very own Marie Antoinette knocked on my door and dropped off a delicious orange and coconut cake.

Check out that icing. Slathered on nice and thick. And since no one has seen it but me, I was able to lick all the extra icing off the paper without having to share and they'll all be none the wiser.

Her name isn't Marie, it's actually Marnie. And she lives on the hill by us, so I call her Marnie on the hill. I'm terrible with surnames, so everyone is in my phone with their first name and the last name identifying how I know them.
Eg
Marnie on the hill.
Ed Coffee
Dave Sparkie
and so on...

Makes it a bit difficult to sink your details with your email and whatnot, but I've never been up to speed on all that anyway.

A lot of the men in my contacts list, I met through their women, so they're in my phone as
Chris Sheryl and
Paul Christies Man (Christie having her own title of Christie Mothers Group).

It actually makes a lot of sense, particularly if you've never recovered the brain cells you lost growing and then feeding and raising your own human...which is the reason you need cake in the first place.

She's lovely that Marnie, we met because we both get cabin fever staying inside too long with our little humans, and have bonded over such contentious issues as:

• is co-sleeping because you're too lazy to move them back into their cot bad?
• where can you buy a wedding dress for $500 or less
• and the latest issue on our street - what's your stance on nanny's who smoke. Seriously hot stuff. This one could cause a feud if we're not careful.

So, with Q off napping - growing while she does - I've just indulged in 2 pieces of delicious homemade cake right now and it's my sister-in-law's birthday tonight, so I'll back up with a piece of ginger cake then.

If you consider that both cakes are based on fruits, (well a fruit and a rhizome to be exact. And no, I didn't know that off the top of my head, I had to google it) I'm really just eating according to the food pyramid. Carbs down the bottom, then fruits and a bit of sugar above that.

As long as I come out on top, the rest of the day will be easy as pie.
Sorry, terrible pun. Blame it on the sugar rush.

I didn't actually use the spoon.
I just put it there to look fancy.

This post has been sponsored by Marnie on the Hill. Widely known in these parts for her skeleton leggings, flower wreath headband and generosity of spirit. Thanks lady. xx

A SCIENTIFIC DISCOVERY

This week Q is growing, which means she eats more than me (instead of just the same amount) and she sleeps in.
Instead of the usual 5.32am wake-up call, we've been rising at the dignified hour of 7, sometimes 7.14, once even 8am!!!
Of course, I don't use this time to enjoy a coffee in peace instead of gulping it in between shovelling spoonfuls of warmed weetbix into Q's mouth, no instead I sneak peeks into her cot every 30 seconds as a sleep-in is so rare, I fear the worst.

Now, when you're going to bed at 12.30 (that's what happens when you're opening a restaurant and co-owner of a 16 month old) waking up at 5.32 hurts.
It just hurts. Your brain, your gritty eyes, your soul.

And come 2pm that afternoon I have hit such a state of desperation, the only substance capable of dragging me through till 12.30 that night is sugar.
Sugar in all its nasty unrecommended by the Department of No-Fun forms.
Cookies, chocolate, Nutella straight from the jar, my world famous microwave brownie.

I'm not that fussy really. Just give me sugar with a hot cup of decaf tea while my tornado girl takes a brief break from life and I can carry on.

Now, I have made an interesting discovery over the past three days of extra sleep...
I don't need the 2pm sugar hit. It appears that more sleep decreases the need for sugar.

And by 'need', I mean need in a manner so intense, I've been known to break into my landlord's house and steal his eggs so I can make afore mentioned brownie if he's not home to ask. (I replace said eggs as soon as possible, and for the record, our landlord is a family friend so the boundaries are rather blurred. Let's just say he drops in for tea, wearing his dressing gown having just gotten out of the shower. Whether or not he is dressed underneath that dressing gown is a mystery I wish never to solve).

So now I'm in a quandary.
I have such a serious 2-dessert a day habit, that suddenly forgoing one portion, would cause such a disruption to my system, I fear a complete and utter productivity meltdown.

With a restaurant to open and a 16month old to wrangle, that, my friends, is just not an option.

And so, after great thought and consideration I announce my intent to continue my 2-dessert habit, as the side-effects are just too massive and all encompassing to contemplate.

Change only happens when you're ready to tackle the problem, and I ain't ready. Not by a long shot.

I can hear all you celery eating yogis out there shaking your organically shampooed hair and scolding;
He who rejects change is the architect of decay.


Yeah? Well, the only thing I'm decaying is my teeth people.
And right now, that seems like a small price to pay.

CAN Q BE LIKE JESUS AND RISE AGAIN?

It is 10.20pm at night and I am trawling through the desk drawers trying to find a texta that works so I can write Q's name in her hat.
The only ones I can find have had their lids left off, so the ink has all dried and 'Quinn' now looks more like Gwmm which is not a very nice name at all.
I also have to locate a water bottle that does not look like it has been chewed by a dog and add her name to that too.

I am doing all this because Q is going to daycare tomorrow.

For real.
Last week was just the dress rehearsal.
This time I actually leave the building.
And cower outside, hiding behind the Rhododendrons.

No doubt most other mothers have already stitched their hand crocheted name tags into their child's hat weeks ago.
It's not like I didn't know this was happening.

And they probably had stickers printed with their child's name on it, which can be easily and un-embarassingly added to a water bottle free of teeth marks, and preferably not the free one I got from the gym.

They also no doubt, were prepared for the change in weather and had already purchased winter shoes, that their child had worn around the house to break them in.

Q is going to have to wear socks and sandals which I suppose is fitting given that Jesus did and Easter is just over, but will she be able to rise again from being humiliated Day One in the playground?

What kind of mother am I?

I've done everything I can do sabotage Q's acceptance to daycare. I didn't put her name down when she was conceived. I lost the application form to the one place I applied to. I stalled on visiting. I didn't pay the deposit. I asked for a change of day...the list goes on.

And yet despite my protestations, tomorrow is the day and it's going to be bloody good for both of us.

I have always believed it takes a village to raise a child and I don't want to (nor do I profess to be able to) be everything my daughter needs.

So get over it Hart. You've wasted 20 minutes writing this sob story and you're still no closer to changing Q's name from Gwmm to Quinn and finding an acceptable water bottle.
As for the shoes...unfortunately for Q, there's nothing much I can do.

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.

WARNING. THE MOTHER IS CRAZY...CHILD CARE - CAN I LET HER GO?

This morning I had a casting for a toothpaste ad that happened to be at a studio right around the corner from Q’s new daycare. A daycare that’s so new it isn’t even open yet (owing to evil landlords and government bodies moving offices the week before easter), so I was able to bond with the owner over our mutual set-up and lease disasters and we are now fast friends.

I was in and out of the casting within minutes, which could be a good or a bad sign, you never can tell, but at least it was disaster free in relation to Q…except that she drew on all their application forms and stole their pen. But relative to some of her other performances when left momentarily unattended, that was pretty tame.

So then we toddled off to the daycare because yesterday when I’d gone in to return her forms, the delightful carers in her room suggested I bring her back today to familiarise her with the space…because I was talking a mile a minute and they had me pegged as a neurotic over protective mother the second they laid eyes on me.

I am having a tough time letting my girl go.

A really tough time.

Particularly given that she has more stamina than an LED lightbulb, craves other people’s attention and adores other children, loving them till they run away and hide or cry.

As I said to them, ‘it’s the mother having the problem here, not the child.’

And so I took them one of my famous four-minute brownies so that at least now they might say; ‘well she’s crazy, but she did make us brownie,’ rather than just saying she’s crazy, which is what they would definitely have been saying yesterday. Filing it away in Q’s notes, ‘warning. OOTM (one of those mothers).

Look, it’s nothing new. I’m certainly not original in my distress, and mine runs the whole gamut of concerns from:

·               What if nobody likes her?

·               What if somebody steals her? (Slightly arrogant to assume that out of 70 children a baddie would choose my girl over every other delightful child to steal, but I think I’ve established that not much of this is rational to begin with).

·               What if she needs me and I’m not there?

·               What if something happens? ‘Something’ being anything at all really, from not eating her sandwich to aliens landing in the sandpit.

·               And of course the real clanker…can I allow anyone else to care for my child? Freud told us that not wanting to leave your child with anyone means you don’t trust them.

No shit Sherlock. I thought Freud was meant to be a smart guy. Of course I don’t trust them. At least not initially. And then it’s not trust exactly, but I certainly doubt everyone else’s ability to do as good a job as I think I’m doing. Even Gregory. My husband. Q’s dad. Yes, I might be crazy but I’m also her mother. I don’t reckon I’m alone in this belief, I just might be the only one willing to publicly admit it.

So when we turned up at daycare, (me layden down with Q, her backpack, my handbag and a brownie) Q promptly got down, found herself a baby doll, told everyone around to be quiet because the baby was sleeping, walked up to Daniel the carer, coerced him into sitting down, climbed into his lap and read him a story.

For a while his name stumped her, because her baby cousin is called Daniel and she knows to be quiet around him because he might be sleeping, so we’ve established that this guy is Big Daniel instead.

Jeez it must be complicated in a kids’ mind.

Then she terrorised the outdoor area, marking her territory by driving any movable object until it hit and marked a freshly painted wall, and we rounded off the whole experience with a tantrum because I tried to make her eat lunch when clearly there was a puzzle to put together.

She regrouped, and we left with her waving and saying bye-bye-bye to everyone she had introduced herself to.

As I said before, the only person with a problem in this situation is the mother.

And so next week we go for real. I’m planning a half day at first, so I’ll drop her off around 9, find myself a local café and sit there, anxiously waiting for them to call and say she’s flipping out.

Seems like I could be sitting there for a rather long time.

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.

MOTHER'S GUILT, FENNEL POLLEN & CROCK POT DESSERTS.

Sorry peeps.
It's been FULL ON.
I've had a blog about 'mother's guilt' running around in my head for a week now, but I don't have the time to write it up.
Failing.
Left, right and centre.
But I did make a bread and butter pudding in the crock pot using all the leftover bread in the freezer.
Channeling my grandmother once again. I should have been born during the great depression.

I've also been trying to get the blog up and running over at the restaurant site, Hartsyard.
It's in its infancy, so check in and watch how the fit-out progresses.
Hope you're all well and not suffering mega-mother's guilt.
xx

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.

THERE'S A BATHROOM ON THE RIGHT.

I have our music on shuffle at the moment, and have just listened to Creedence Clearwater* sing about the ‘bad moon on the rise’, which reminds me of a story a friend of mine told me, about how his mum always thought they were singing ‘there’s a bathroom on the right.’

A couple of months ago, Q would finish her milk, then hold her cup out and moan at us, and we would say to her ‘would you like some more please?’

So now she thinks the word for milk is ‘more’ except she says ‘nore’ neither of which are right, but you can hardly blame the girl for trying can you?

I think learning a language must be one of the most difficult tasks to master in the whole world, and have a slight inferior complex because I seriously think I am missing that part of my brain. I did 4 years of German at highschool (it was either that or commerce and I’d rather shove a pin in my eye than learn about economics) and the only thing I learned was how long it took to get from Oxford Street (where we had coffee and raisin toast with the locals still out from the night before) back to school, thereby missing double German but not missing assembly.

That, and ‘um die ecke’ which means ‘round the corner’ which my Oxford Street accomplice and I tried using when we were in Germany many moons ago, but of course those show-off Europeans just replied in flawless English.

Arguably, if you’re only going to remember one phrase, ‘round the corner’ shouldn’t have been it.

I place anyone who speaks two languages on such a high pedestal I get a crick in my neck just looking at them. As for those prodigies who speak several, well really, they’re so clever they must be on the brink of discovering the cure to AIDS, climate change and city rail timetables.

But there's a part of me that think's everyone is just making it up. When I hear someone jabbering away in a foreign tongue, I’m convinced it's all a ruse.

‘There’s no way they’re actually saying real words,’ I think to myself in English. ‘It’s just jibberish.’

Which is probably why I never have a problem understanding my girl. It appears that despite 32 years difference in age and developmental ability, we are, in fact, on the same wavelength.

*Don't judge me too harshly. The next song was Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue.

AUTISM, VACCINATION, KIM KARDASHIAN & WHY WOMEN COMPETE.

Yesterday I finally got myself a new phone which is good because my old one didn’t ring (a fairly key function with a phone) but is bad, because now I have no justifiable reason for not answering it when it does ring.

Or do I?

I just find it impossible to have a remotely intelligent, cohesive conversation with Q asking me for ‘book, book, book’ or ‘up please, up please, up please,’ or ‘gumboot, gumboot, gumboot’.

Gumboots are her very favourite shoe, even in the blazing summer sun. 

Her ultimate outfit is a to be completely naked except for her hat and gumboots.

She grew out of her first pair, but not before Gregory (ever the chef and to avoid a tantrum) considered spraying her feet with cooking spray so he could slide her too-big feet into the boots. Luckily for all involved, a family friend also has a shoe fetish and gave us a fantastic red pair that don’t, unfortunately, quite fit.

‘They’re too big,’ I said to G as we watched Q rip off her nappy and clump up and down the street, happy as Kim Kardashian in a pair of Jimmy Choos.

‘Good. It’ll be like those kids in the polio shoes. Maybe it will slow her down.’

My husband is master of the inappropriate. It gets him into trouble all the time. 

But luckily, that’s not too controversial a statement because kids these days are vaccinated against horrible things like polio. Well, most of them are, but that’s a contentious issue all on it’s own and not one this sleep-deprived mother feels competent to tackle, but it does bring me back to the early days of owning Q, when another mother said to me ‘careful, not wanting to wear clothes is one of the first signs of autism.’

What is it with people? Women in particular. We just love to tear each other down don’t we? It’s a known fact. At least I think it is. Women are a competitive bunch, even if we say we aren’t.

Whenever I was dealing with green card, social security or visa issues in the US, and I’d been in line outside the embassy since 4am in a February snowstorm just to be sure I was one of the first 80 in line, I would stand there chanting ‘please let me get a man, please let me get a man,’ because I knew that if I got a woman my age who somehow, for some reason, resented my position, she could deny my request without any need for explanation.

(Luckily this never occurred because I would always let people ahead of me, to ensure I got the middle-aged father of 3 who just wants to do his job with a minimum of fuss).

But I began this blog talking about my new phone. The new phone that I have just discovered doesn’t work and I have spent the entire time I’ve been writing this on the phone to technical support while they try to convince me that I need to hand this phone in and wait the 15 days it will take them to send me a new one.

Really Opt#s? Really?

I might not answer it very often, but when I do, I would like my phone to work.

I KNEW WE SHOULD HAVE CONSIDERED ADOPTION MORE CLOSELY

When I turned 21 I had a party. I seem to recall it involved a blue coloured cocktail, a jukebox and several people wearing stockings with open toed shoes. Is that a fashion faux pas? I wouldn’t know I live in my gym gear.

It also involved the discovery that I wasn’t the perfect child I’d always imagined myself to be. Come on, I have 3 brothers, how could I be anything but?

But it turns out that my early behaviour was so wretched, my mother delayed having her 3^rd child because she was exhausted from my antics.

At the tender age of 21, when I was surrounded by my friends and family and meant to be hearing nothing but praise and accolades for my fantastic life so far, I hear I caused my mother to reconsider procreating.

It wounded me to the quick and I considered chucking a tantrum about it but then I remembered I was 21 and it wasn’t acceptable anymore.

And now here I am, 12 years on from that horrid revelation, to discover that genetics can be a real bitch.

The apple does not, it seem, fall very far from the tree.

Karma has bitten me but good.

For you see, I too, am now the proud owner of a similarly tempered girl and she is giving me a serious run for my money.

The other day I was looking after my friend’s delightful human, born just the day before Q in the same birth centre, but the turnover is so high in that joint, we didn’t even high five each other as one went in and the other went out.

Anyway, there I was Little Miss Q and her buddy Ini, on our way up to playgroup which required we cross the road. Ini obligingly stays in my arms, but not my girl, no, she commences a complete, full-throttle meltdown on the corner of one of the busiest roads in Sydney.

Throws herself down on the footpath, writhes and thrashes, arching her back like an electrocuted eel but with the noises of a hyena caught in a trap.

Pride and dignity flew out the window as I watched my daughter’s performance with awe. Ini, delightful Ini, observed from her perch on my hip, a look of bemusement on her cherub face.

My mother said she did some reading back when she was enduring the same, and the book said ‘if you find yourself laughing,’ it does not mean you think it’s funny, it’s a sign of hysteria. That you don’t know how to cope and this is the only response your body can think to have.'

I’m pleased to report that I did not, in fact, laugh hysterically, but yesterday (having endured these episodes at least daily, one of them for a full 35 minutes) my body responded by crying. Great tears of desperation and fatigue.

I have it on good authority (my mother-in-law) that my husband’s tantrums were the stuff of legend as well, which leads me to believe that we should have considered adoption far more closely.

You can't really blame Q for her nature when she’s the direct result of Gregory and I. Our procreating is like two meteors smashing together in space. You’d hardly expect there not to be some fallout and debris now would you?

But I'm a Pollyanna, constantly looking for the positive. 

Today dawns a new day. Full of new promise and opportunity.

Don't preempt her I tell myself, she might surprise you.

There was a small scale hissy when I insisted on shoes before our first adventure for the day, and the usual rage when we dress and suncream her, but so far there have been no full body episodes.

Not strictly true, we only allow her chalk.

Then again, it’s only 10.21 and we’ve got another 9.5 hours till bedtime…