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…  

CURSE YOU MOTHER NATURE

Curse you Mother Nature and your never-ending rain.
Look what you forced me to do.
Painting.
With my 15 month old cyclone.
Inside.
Call me a bad parent, but after that experience (which involved a bath and full soaking of all participant's clothing) we put our gumboots and raincoats on and went singing in the rain.
My girl's response? Well, she was happier than a pig in mud.
Happy Friday people.
Stay dry, drink some lovely red wine & tell folk tales about the drought of yesteryear.

JUDGE ME IF YOU WILL, BUT THE FLOOR WAS MOPPED LAST THURSDAY

This morning Q and I went to visit a dear friend who lives on the other side of Sydney. As the crow flies, it’s not that far, but as the Pacific Highway flies it’s a good 45 minutes.

45 minutes that Q chose to use to develop her lung capacity by screaming the entire way.

No joke. By the time we turned up her eyes were so red they were just about swollen shut. And she was so beside herself she couldn’t decide if she hated my guts or wanted cuddles from me to calm her down.

I, however, (because I am a perfect mother) stayed perfectly calm, kept up my medley of songs which eventually did nothing more than clash with the pitch of her screams, and considered ditching the car, putting on the hazards and walking Q the rest of the way there.

I dreaded the car trip home, but thankfully, after 15 minutes she fell asleep. 

Blessed sweet relief…until we get home and she woke upon transfer, whereupon I spent the next 20 minutes convincing her she needs to sleep for longer because her mother needs her to sleep for longer.

Success.

So then I make my cup of tea, my day-saving, dreamt of cup of tea, get out the packet of M and M’s I’ve got hidden in the cupboard…and drop them all over the floor.

Again I kept my cool, (which I think relates more to my level of fatigue rather than my ability to mediate my emotions) and assessed the situation.

Here were the mitigating factors:

*  The kitchen floor was cleaned last Thursday, and swept a couple of times in between.

*  We are mostly barefoot in the apartment, so no trace of dog poo was possible.

*  If I picked them up one by one instead of sweeping them into one pile, they would have less contact with the not-so-dirty-dog-poo-free floor.

And so that’s exactly what I did.

I picked those m and m’s up one by one.

And now I am eating them one by one, accompanied by my steaming hot cup of tea.

Judge me if you will, but these are desperate times my friends, desperate times indeed.

So go forth in your day, knowing that whatever your misdemeanours, there is someone out there eating chocolate off a dirty floor.

Although mine are pink & red because they're
a special Valentine's pack from my sister-in-law in the US.
The yanks do novelty celebrations way better than we do.

Glad to be of service. 

YESTERDAY'S TRAGEDY MADE ME THINK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How very, very sad.

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

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

And now she’ll never get there.

Ever, ever again.

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

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

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

What if it was just a horrible, dreadful accident?

And what if they were driving like a ninny?

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

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

G is pretty jittery at the moment.

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

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

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

Last night’s tragedy ended someone’s life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go give ‘em a call.

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

KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON. ALL STOCK MUST GO.

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

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

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

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

G            ‘It doesn’t matter though.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

G and I are both stubborn.

And we’re both hot heads.

And we wonder why Q is the way she is.

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

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

He’s a chef and I’m a performer.

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

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

SAN DIEGO.

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

Welcome to Monday people.

Keep calm and carry on.  

IF YOU'RE BREASTFEEDING, DON'T READ THIS.

There is no blog today because yesterday nearly did me in and today I underestimated the walk from the bus stop to my parents place, and sweated for twenty-five minutes pushing Q uphill in her chariot in the blazing midday sun.
And all I can think of is brownie.
My world famous chocolate brownie.
So I whipped it up and am about to eat it all piece by piece by piece.
And you too can whip it up because I'm going to share the recipe with you below.
But I warn you, don't try this if you're breastfeeding.
Because one taste of this delicious lifesaver at 3 o'clock in the afternoon when your eyeballs are hurting with the effort to even stay in their sockets, and you'll be hooked.
It's like a defibrillator. It will bring you back to life in 4 minutes or less. Guaranteed.

NAOMI'S WORLD FAMOUS CHOCOLATE BROWNIE
1 cup sugar
120g butter
2 eggs
1dash of vanilla
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup cocoa

Melt butter, beat eggs, wack in a bowl with everything else.
Mix.
Pour into a small-ish dish that you've lined with paper.
4 mins in the microwave
And there you have it.
Your life is saved.
But remember, don't blame me when you find yourself making it every single afternoon.
I did warn you.

These are not mine.
 Mine are way better but I don't have the
cord to connect to the computer.