ANNOYING FOODS, SHAKESPEARE AND BECOMING THE ONION.

Whenever Gregory cuts onions he stops himself from crying by becoming the onion. I don’t know exactly what it is that he does, but somehow he becomes one with the onion. 

He is the onion.

I am definitely not one with the onion. I am not even two with the onion.

In fact, I am very far from finding any affinity with the onion and cutting one is painful in the extreme.

I have sensitive, allergic eyes at the best of times, and the common domestic task being performed daily throughout suburbia almost does me in.

And so, (on the grounds that Gregory is a trained professional chef and I am not) I am hereby abdicating all onion-cutting responsibility to him.

Onions are not the only food to annoy me.

Glace cherries are right up there too. What is a glace cherry? Is there any actual cherry in them? And if there is, what was the inventor thinking? Cherries are expensive. What braniac came up with a way to ruin an expensive, short-seasoned delight?

Glace cherries are a potent, chewy, unnatural Christmas pudding destroyer and it is perfectly acceptable to pick them out of said pudding and add them to landfill. Unfortunately, I doubt they will ever decompose.

Actually while we’re on the topic, I love most dried fruit, but take serious issue with the drying and sugar coating of tropical fruits. Pineapple, papaya and the like.

There’s no better way to ruin a morning than to take a mouthful of your morning cereal, only to have it sabotaged by a piece of nasty, teeth-sticking dehydrated paw-paw.

Even Q doesn’t like it. (I tried to fob it off onto her, by mixing it in with her puffed rice, but she spotted that sucker faster than a Sydney red-light camera).

Artichokes are tasty, but far too labour intensive for my liking. Seriously, who (apart from a home cook who fancies themselves on a season of MasterChef) actually prepares artichokes?

Chokos. Does anybody still eat them? Tolerable when drowned in cheese sauce. But then, everything is tolerable when smothered in cheese sauce.

Risotto. Love to eat it, but the continuous stirring annoys me. I get bored.

Ice Magic. You know that chocolate sauce that sets hard on ice cream. It was big in the 80’s. It’s runny topping all the way people. No debate.

Jelly. Read my rant in the Herald for further edification. It is total rubbish. The inventor should be ashamed.

Vegetables that require peeling. I can’t peel. I blame being left-handed and my parents never supporting my uniqueness by providing me with a left-handed peeler. Peeling a potato is such an exercise in frustration that I eat frozen beans instead.

Jubes. Contentious I know, but I’m a Jelly Bean girl. Jubes are like thick jelly. 

Gross man, gross.

Mint in desserts. And chocolate and mint together in particular. Unfortunately this is a favourite combination for Gregory. Our house is generally hiding several packets of Mint Slice, so come 2pm in the afternoon, (sugar-hit o’clock) I can easily pretend they’re Kingstons instead.

Instant coffee. Particularly when it’s milky and lukewarm. It reminds me of Church as a kid. Each week we’d be dragged along by our parents, attend the Sunday school where no one spoke to you unless your parents were one of the teachers (which ours weren’t) and the only redeeming feature of the whole experience was the seriously diluted cordial, the crap coffee and the one Nice biscuit we were allowed.

This post is inspired by the instant coffee I’m drinking because the delicious real one I purchased from the café made it all the way home and up the stairs (along with several other packages, a water bottle and one wriggling baby) then suicided out of my hand and all over the floor.

Ask Shakespeare, this is the definition of tragedy.

SYDNEY MORNING HERALD PUBLISHES MY TRIFLE RANT

All self respecting dessert lovers hate trifle, and my little rant about it is today's Heckler in the Sydney Morning Herald

Very exciting indeed!

JUSTIFYING MY DECISION TO HAVE A CHILD

A while ago someone said to me that they ‘couldn’t understand my reasoning for bringing a child into the world. I wouldn’t dare bring a kid into a place as sorry as this,’ they said.

And as I sat down at my computer today, I would probably have to agree.

It’s my fault for having the Sydney Morning Herald as my homepage I suppose, but today it’s cheerily reporting:

·               The death of a 4 year old, mauled by a pit bull

·               A mother of 4 dies after a routine operation

·               They have a found a shoe at the site where they suspect Daniel Morcombe is buried

·               The Murdoch’s are faffing around trying to wriggle out of accountability with their disgraced media empire

·               Gerard Depardieu peed in an airplane aisle, and…

·               A man was eaten by a shark whilst on his honeymoon

These are all horrible, horrible events - even the Gerard Depardieu incident. Imagine if you were sitting next to him – but what depressed me even more was that to find out information about the current state of the famine in Somalia, I had to wade through something about Kurt Cobain’s daughter coming of age, the dangers of teeth whitening and some elevator gossip twitter sensation who works for US Vogue.

Now that could make you question the world your child will inhabit.

So then I looked for the good stuff. They were also reporting…actually no, it seriously is a depressing day for news. Not much positive stuff at all.

But I’m positive.

Miss Q could grow up to discover the cure for cancer, or AIDS, or rudeness.

She could be a champion hurdler and inspire other youngsters to exercise and help reverse the tide of obesity in this nation.

Perhaps she’ll become a nurse and work in aged care. Looking after the very people who say we shouldn’t be having any more children.

Maybe she won’t be spectacular at anything in particular at all. Maybe she’ll just be, no not maybe, definitely she’ll be a loving, gracious and kind citizen of the world.

And I reckon that’s reason enough.

YES! I"M DOING SOMETHING RIGHT! SINGING TO YOUR BABY HELPS YOU BOND - THE SUN HERALD REPORTS

Yesterday’s day began much like the others…too early after not enough sleep, good morning song, nappy change, walk on the balcony to say hello to the world, coffee made, breakfast thrown about the kitchen Pro Hart style, a rock around the living room to some Playschool hits, a few other made up songs, a fair bit of whinging from Miss Q who just seriously wants to get on with the business of walking, a spot of washing, washing up, tidying, blah blah blah…and then an unexpected morning nap from Miss Q (who has a runny nose which I suspect is the reason) which left me with two hands to read the Sun Herald and discover that I am, in fact, doing a stellar job of bonding with my child.

I doubt it’s going to rock your world to learn this, but the Herald reports that ‘singing in the first year of life builds the mother-infant bond, which is the foundation to a child’s development.’

Based on that, Q should be able to do triple jump, recite the dictionary backwards and intone a Gregorian chant.

Because the poor kid has been sung to - incessantly - since the day she was conceived.

Apparently it doesn’t matter what you sing or how badly you do it, all that matters is that you do it with feeling.

But what feeling?

Does that matter?

Because when I sing the chart topping ‘please stop your whinging I want to poke myself in the eye’ song, I do it with feeling.

With sincere feeling.

And much enthusiasm and gusto, because I absolutely mean every word.

Ditto the hits

‘Take a break from life and I’ll see you in an hour’

‘I love you, oh yes I do I love you so’ (a simple melody on repeat. It seems to calm her when nothing else does - calms me too for that matter. But I bet a glass of wine would work just as well.)

‘Nobody likes a whinger, you won’t have any friends’

‘Who’s that little girl in the mirror?’ (she’s a bit of a narcissist)

And the recently exhausted

‘It’s a beautiful day in the sunshine’.

Miss Q has had her life narrated to her in song every day of her existence. Which – according to the study – should mean our bond is ironclad.

It’s nice to get a bit of a mothering boost every now and again. 

Sure makes up for the time Q was relishing in being rudee-nudee and another mother told me to be careful, ‘refusing clothes is one of the first signs of autism.’

Whatever.

At least I’d be sure we’d have bonded.

HOW SHOULD WE TREAT OUR TEENAGE GIRLS? AN ESSAY IN THE SYDNEY MORNING HERALD

Emily Maguire has written an article in Saturday's Sydney Morning Herald arguing that we should give our teenage girls more credit than we are and challenge them to challenge society and stand up to any undesirable situations they may find themselves in.

Shielding them, she argues, does them no favours and patronises a group of young people that are (in the overwhelming majority) sensible and well informed.

I tend to agree.

I do think knowledge is power. Sidestepping life’s realities, or worse, pretending they don’t exist at all, could find an impressionable teenager in a dangerous situation.

To be frank, I am Captain Naivety, and there were a couple of times in my 20’s where I very quickly found myself in a rather unanticipated circumstance.

Thankfully my parents had instilled a sense of self that allowed me quite happily and confidently to tell the man in question to ‘sod off’ and thankfully he did, but it is something I’m already aware of for Little Miss Q’s future.

At 8 months old, we’re obviously dealing with more pertinent issues such as

·               Is it too early to start foreign language lessons?

·               When should I expect her to walk?

·               Should she start a musical instrument now or when she’s one?

I’m kidding.

(Although I’ve met mothers who would think those questions entirely appropriate, so I don’t hang out with them anymore).

I think the responsibility of educating, informing and instilling self-confidence and respect for others in our younger generations falls to us all.

The parents of sons, the parents of daughters, teachers, medicos, the local grocer.

Everyone can play a part in making a younger person a well-rounded citizen of our world.

The old saying that it takes a village to raise a child has never been truer than in today’s society, which can be so fractured and impersonal with all its technology and social media.

Emily is right. ‘Teen girls are not a separate species’ and neither are teen boys. Or twenty-somethings. Or the retirees. Or the baby-boomers. Generation X, Y or ABC.

We all belong to the same world. (And more specifically, to the same city or culture or community). We’ve all had different influences, grown up in different times with different current affairs, but we should all still be working towards the same common goal.

Our teenagers aren’t facebooking so frequently they’re completely oblivious to their surrounds.

But are we?

DANGLING PARTICIPLES AND ALL THAT JAZZ

 I went to school during the era of no grammar, which was fine for me because I hated learning definites. I always struggled with exactitudes.

It suits me much better to work within a framework where imagination and creativity are the rules and therefore nothing can really ever be wrong.

Not so with grammar it appears.

For example:

*            Commas have a special place and the frequent use of such means your writing isn’t tight enough.

I am a chronic over-comma-user. I write the way I speak – using a hundred words where twelve would have been necessary. I like to talk.

*            You only use an apostrophe after a word ending in ‘s’ if you would say the ‘s’ out loud. For example:

Rhys’s bike is over there.

But if you were talking about Brett Michaels, You would just say Brett Michaels’ bike is over there.

Who knew?

Lots of people probably, but not anyone who went to school during the 80’s and 90’s.

I learned all this at my workshop with Dan Kaufman, which is on again this Sunday and I’m just as excited about it this time as I was last week.

He is a real profesh. Seventeen years in the biz, eleven of them with the Sydney Morning Herald, and willing to impart his knowledge to the thirty wannabees that filled the room.

He talked of front-loading content, the inverted pyramid, circular structure,

And dangling participles.

I have absolutely no idea what they are but who cares. 
It’s such a fabulous title that that is entirely irrelevant. I never thought grammar could have a sense of humour.

I’ve been trying to bring the phrase up in sentences all week, but not knowing what it means is holding me back somewhat.

I could look it up but, where’s the fun in that?

Once I know what it means, I’ll be forced to acknowledge I’ve been writing with participles dangling incorrectly all my life and that wouldn’t do at all.

Sure, for the most part, knowledge is power. But not in this case.

Knowledge in this instance would just make more work.

SYDNEY MORNING HERALD SAYS NOTHING'S TOO GOOD FOR BABY - THEY SHOULD HAVE ASKED ME!

In Saturday’s business section of the Sydney Morning Herald was an article about cashed-up mums and dads and how much money they waste on their newborns.

I wish they’d interviewed me. I could have debunked the entire article.
Then again, I don't think Gregory and I qualify as cashed up.

The business section is not an area of the Herald I usually find myself in, but I’m glad I did. It made for some very enlightening reading.

Apparently some people buy nappy wipe warmers.

Would anyone actually admit to doing that?

Firstly, it’s Australia. It doesn’t get that cold. 

Secondly, if you’re really that concerned, do what my mother-in-law does in the middle of an east coast US winter, and nuke ‘em for 5 seconds in the microwave.

Other people purchased a bath thermometer.

Whatever happened to sticking your elbow in and seeing if it burns? Worked for my Grandma.

It also says that in the affluent areas new parents can spend up to $7000 on their baby.

Seven thousand dollars people. That’s a serious amount of dosh.

I’ve always lived by the theory that if you don’t know how much something is, it’s not that expensive. I never check my credit card statements, or what the bottom line is at the grocery store, I just blithely sign my name and wish the checkout person a lovely day.

But that's also because I abide by the policy of nonessential items and only purchase things I really need (apart from scarves, where I seem to think it is necessary to have one for every day of the year) thereby counteracting the fact that I never look at what I spend.

If I only buy what it essential and have a healthy fear of anything over twenty bucks, I reckon I’ll be ok.

Still, I decided to test the accuracy of my theory and tried and remember how much we spent before the arrival of Little Miss Q.

·               Cloth nappies – ok serious purchase here of over $700. I nearly gagged. BUT, we’re doing our bit for the world and saving money along the way. Consumer reports reckon we’ll be saving approximately $2000 not using death-to-the-environment disposables.

·               Mountain buggy -  these guys (who used to be owned by Kiwis, but now are not) are doing a serious business in the groovy inner-west of Sydney. And my buggy gets a brutal workout. From home to the local café, to the Woolies for soft cheese that I’m now allowed to eat again, back past the café via the organic grocery store, with a short detour past Adriano Zumbo's for a pastry of great deliciousness. Actually, I’m too impatient to stand in his queues, but my buggy does work hard for its five hundred dollars. I have a ten k run around the inner city that I take it on (with Miss Q strapped safely inside) and load it up with groceries at the local farmer’s market. Totally trendy shopping I know, but the style Gregory and I have always been partial to – know your food source and support local growers. But I won't get started on that rant today.

·               Two fancy-pants cots – that we found out the front of a neighbouring house. When we asked the guy why they weren’t selling them (they still had the packaging and instructions and all the bolts were safely packed away in their original containers) he said they couldn’t be bothered. We have it on good authority that they are the you-bute-passionfruit brand. So Miss Q has one with us and one at my parents for when she’s old enough for a sleep over. My parents can hardly wait.

·               Everything else – clothes, toys, books, serious aluminium framed running pram, bed linen, highchairs, mobiles, baby fences, room decorations (hardly necessary since she doesn’t have her own room) have all been given. Donated to team Llewellyn Hart as we grow our first human. Honestly, the generosity of parents one step ahead of you is unbelievable. Perhaps they are so ready to rid themselves of anything reminding them of the trauma of potty training, baby led weaning and everything else new humans have to learn, that they’re thankful to get it out of their range of vision. Their purging is to our great benefit.

So sure, you can spend $7000 if you like. Or you can save it for your child’s private school fund instead. But that is different blog entirely and best saved for another day…

The Sydney Morning Herald Weighs In On Child Development

What do you think of this people?
For my part, I'm reassured I'm on the right track boring Miss Q silly by narrating her life to music all day long...

THE BENEFITS OF BREASTFEEDING

The other day I hung out a load of washing with one arm while breastfeeding the peanut in the other. There has to be a medal somewhere in the world for that. Seriously. It required great skill and dexterity, wit, (to outwit the wind) patience, (never my strong suit, but greatly improved since the arrival of the peanut) and a very bendy left arm.

It also required a lowered clothes line since I couldn’t stretch and a sturdy elbow for holding down clothes while the hand of the same arm twisted and reached for a peg to secure the item. I can’t guarantee my husband’s jeans were completely dry (one leg was hung at the knee, the other at the hip pocket) and since I couldn’t do a preemptive shake, all the wrinkles formed during the wash are now cemented into the clothes and as I am vehemently opposed to ironing, there they shall stay until next we wash them.

This is atypical in the land of breastfeeding I have discovered. You see the greatest benefit of breastfeeding is a total shonk-off of all household chores.

Making the bed is impossible – try doing hospital corners with one hand. Instead I just wait till the peanut is out of it, (don’t tell the midwives she sleeps with us) pull up the quilt and call it a day.

Washing up is ridiculous and just ends in a broken wine glass - not that I’m drinking of course…

Taking out the garbage is off the cards – would you like to eat your dinner with one hand and hold a bag of day-old prawn shells in the other?

Sweeping - same deal, it’s hardly hygienic.

Mopping, dusting, folding laundry…they’re all nigh on impossible when one of your appendages is taken up by a small human that is stuck like a leech to your nipple.

I have tried eating with some success – so long as it’s my left hand that’s free to feed myself. My right hand isn’t so great with fine motor tasks like that and the peanut wore more of the Weetbix than made it to my mouth.

And I’ve now managed to make this whole breastfeeding gig even more luxurious by having to lie down while I do it. It’s not my fault. My milk flows so fast that if I don’t the peanut drowns – choking and flailing her arms about in a violent, turbulent and desperate pantomime. It doesn’t look good in public people, (people tend to frown at mothers choking their own babies) so I’ve developed a weird sort of faux-lie position to prevent me being entirely housebound and strangers from calling child welfare services.

So there I lie, shanghai-ing passersby into getting me glasses of water, grabbing a book or switching on the computer, even my brothers who would fall about feigning broken legs and other defective body parts if ever I previously needed them will jump to my every request so their precious niece can be sustained. I am charged with a most important duty after all. Raising the next generation is to be taken most seriously. Mothers of such should be treasured indeed. Treasured, adored and praised for their excellent work.

In my defence, this breastfeeding gig takes up A LOT OF TIME. The peanut usually takes the better part of an hour to feed and she likes to do that every two hours, so by the time you burp, change and play with her you’re back to the beginning again. Tonight she fed for nearly three hours. THREE HOURS PEOPLE. She completely drained both boobs, (so I tried to replace them with a hefty serve of ice cream and chocolate topping) and slurped and gulped her way through The Prince Of Persia, a so-so film that kept me company while I was devoured.

I am led to believe by that esteemed journal, The Sydney Morning Herald, that breastfeeding mothers make 1.7 litres of breast milk a day. Seven weeks ago I might have questioned that. In fact, had I read that statistic before the peanut became a human I might have tried to find a way to back out of the whole deal, but now I can tell you that the statistic is most definitely true and what’s more, the little humans need every last drop.

Lying down should be the least us breastfeeding ladies get. Simultaneous foot and head massages followed by a hot spa and a full body rub down would be more like it. But that would take longer than an hour and that’s more timeout than my little peanut will allow.

Article in today's Herald!

If any of you get Saturday's Sydney Morning Herald, take a look in the careers section.  I know, not a spot you'd think to find me in, but have a read of this week's 'the office'.  It's written by yours truly!
I can't seem to find the online link unfortunately, but i'll keep looking!

POCKET SIZED POOCHES

Is it just me, or has the number of breeds of small dogs in Australia increased dramatically during my absence over the last seven years?  I don’t mind the occasional game of dodge the dog, but the smaller they are, the bigger the problem.  They’re harder to see, they dart rather than trot, their movements are unpredictable and they are NEVER ON A LEAD!!!!!!!!!!!!  I appreciate giving dogs their freedom – I would try with ours but he has no street skills and we live just off a major arterial road.  He would be free all right.  Or his spirit would be, as he took up his place in doggie heaven.

All I mean to say is, sometimes it’s a little frustrating to have to hop, skip, cartwheel, gallop and levitate to avoid squashing a dog the size of my sneaker under my pounding heel.  Truly this is not a rant against dogs, or dog owners, I am one and a lover of both.  But it’s a bit like when people are strung out all along the footpath and the person directly in your way refuses to move over to allow you passage despite the fact that footpaths are, as far as I’m aware, a two way street.  Dogs don’t speak English, so I don’t expect them to understand.  But presumably their owners do.  Does it not occur to them that their untethered midget canine is actually rather a nuisance?  If the situation were reversed and I was blithely allowing my pet duck to wander at will across a path, would they not find themselves frustrated?

Don’t worry, I didn’t let this issue with the vertically challenged pooch ruin my run, and it was a glorious one in the warm, fading autumn sun.  Owing to my article in today's Sydney Morning Herald, I had skipped Yoga out of fear that someone would recognize my name when I checked in to take class, but will be back again tomorrow.  I don’t normally do this many yoga classes in a week, but the tight arse in me is lured by the flat rate they offer you for the first seventeen days.  I guess they hope you’ll develop a yoga-addiction, but for me it’s purely mathematics.  This is a good deal and I’m going to exploit it.

SYDNEY MORNING HERALD DEBUT!!!

Look who is in today's Sydney Morning Herald.  It is curiously similar to a blog I wrote recently, but now it's in hard print.
Very exciting indeed!