tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75437443754621840282024-02-08T15:08:54.294+11:00BumparellaRunning for the Fertility Express on Route IVF to Babysville.
And making it.Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-2487636309817378042013-12-13T15:41:00.001+11:002013-12-14T16:56:05.375+11:00A Luau Party<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Aloha!<br />
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Last weekend we channeled our inner hula-hula and threw a luau for Francesca's third birthday party.<br />
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We hadn't held a party for her before because, well, who wants to throw a party where the guest of honour is likely to face plant in the cake (one year olds) or snatch things out of the hands of party guests shouting "MINE", leaving a trail of wailing toddlers and distraught parents in their wake (two year olds).<br />
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At the age of three, the manners are a little more civilised (although 'civilised' is perhaps too strong a word) and children seem to cope a lot better with copious amounts of sugar, gift mania and adrenalin.<br />
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Sort of.<br />
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It is also the age where children seem to 'get it'. Francesca couldn't remember her previous birthdays so everything was new and magical and filled with wonder.<br />
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On the morning of her birthday, she kept thanking us. Check out this video of her opening her first present. I love Jack's sense of occasion and suspense, and of course he's absolutely gagging to help her (she finally gives him permission, bless)<br />
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The day of the luau dawned bright and sunny. I woke up with the birds at 5am and, despite willing myself to go back to sleep, the fun of hanging pom poms and sticking fruit into a pineapple was too inviting so I got up and began preparations. And no, I'm not being sarcastic. Whilst playing endless games of 'shops' and pushing the swing 42,000 times a day makes me want to throw my pretend cappuccino at the pretend wall of the pretend cafe, I love organising my kids birthday parties. <br />
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I shamelessly nicked the idea of a luau from <a href="http://www.kellehampton.com/2012/05/five-years-luau-party.html" target="_blank">Kelle Hampton</a>, the queen of kids parties, and I'm so glad I did. It was not only the perfect theme for little kids on a warm summer's day, but it was relatively easy and inexpensive to prepare. Kelle puts enormous effort into her parties, but I knew I would have to take a few shortcuts, so I tweaked the theme to suit me and added a few little ideas of my own. Please feel free to go ahead and perpetuate the nicking of this kids party idea!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was very considerate of our hibiscus trees to bloom just before the party</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What's a luau without a paper umbrella?</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leis waiting at the entrance for guests to don on their way in</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Utilising some of my old hospitality skills (fan napkins were all the rage in the 90s I'm telling you!)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strings of pom poms ($2.50 from the local discount store) prettied up the old gazebo roof</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The good ol' Kmart clam shell filled with water and frangipanis made a gorgeous tropical pool (which filled with dirt and grass within ten minutes!)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Polkadot cups awaiting a <strike>pina colada</strike> non-alcoholic punch</td></tr>
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I decided not to run any games. I'm still scarred by Jack's 5th birthday party when every kid made off with their lolly after unwrapping their paper from Pass The Parcel, until only two little kids were left passing the pathetic little parcel between them and looking utterly miserable and lonely.<br />
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I think small children, who, let's face it, still aren't fully socialised, are happiest when they can wander around doing their own thing so I set up two little craft stations.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFwu0B4j2BHNV9LPOCEXyQsD7mggR1XizWPNx_G7M4zYcDlvJBLT0kktOQ5Rj7quzKSjU6lzGiQMmDdVp4wekWeLVVBBKqDK0TTQL2OR6SYQ5I81a5UQ57ifVoDXLWitYHtlOyiFW9OMY/s1600/Biscuit+decorating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFwu0B4j2BHNV9LPOCEXyQsD7mggR1XizWPNx_G7M4zYcDlvJBLT0kktOQ5Rj7quzKSjU6lzGiQMmDdVp4wekWeLVVBBKqDK0TTQL2OR6SYQ5I81a5UQ57ifVoDXLWitYHtlOyiFW9OMY/s400/Biscuit+decorating.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The biscuit decorating table was very popular. Store bought cookies (one of those shortcuts I mentioned - I really was planning to make my own!), choc chips, sprinkles and icing in tubes - surprisingly little mess!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love the concentration on this little one's face</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCKzjP7ODs10bP-T5-PasrmeT0C00OT3swwQmsIxviJ4NbgdZq8XFyaZ5VYeExXJoKpxnWZsSCLMGr1RnLcpbke1MnJmIdYbTa61qd15tg0RTK5OnDh0sxcCVi8fg3K3ziEhObzAIj2Es/s1600/Paper+dolls1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCKzjP7ODs10bP-T5-PasrmeT0C00OT3swwQmsIxviJ4NbgdZq8XFyaZ5VYeExXJoKpxnWZsSCLMGr1RnLcpbke1MnJmIdYbTa61qd15tg0RTK5OnDh0sxcCVi8fg3K3ziEhObzAIj2Es/s400/Paper+dolls1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This craft table held thin foam dolls with cutout clothes which had sticky, peel-off backs (K-mart).</td></tr>
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We also had a small jumping castle that a friend generously lent to us (thanks Mick and Tina), and the trampoline was still a big hit.<br />
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Of course, it wasn't long before the kids discovered the two clam shell pools and the pretty party clothes were peeled off. One little boy got all his gear off and ran around quite happily starkers, yahooing and whooping it up around the backyard, no doubt amped up on the goodies on the biscuit decorating station. Can't wait to go to his 21st!<br />
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Then it was time for food! We served ham sandwiches and sprinkle sandwiches cut into shapes using cookie cutters, mini hot dogs, popcorn, fruit from Mr Pineapple Head and, in a nod to our ongoing love affair with all things Peppa Pig, some Peppa cookies (thank you Coles).<br />
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It was just gorgeous seeing all those sweet children tuck in to their party food, squealing & chatting by turns, and being gently guided by their mamas to try the fruit. And of course, there was our girl at the head of the table with her two jaunty pigtails and a perfect plumber's crack.<br />
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It makes me laugh, but also feel secure in the knowledge that these same little girls will be acting as each other's wing-women at parties in the future, making sure that no one leaves the house with too much boob showing or their skirt tucked into their knickers or, indeed, a plumber's crack. They'll remind each other not to accept drinks from strangers, to make sure no one goes home alone and they won't care if no boys ask them to dance - they'll tear up the dance floor together and laugh till their mascara runs down their beautiful faces.<br />
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A huge, massive, very big thankyou to our friend Riley who is just finishing Year 11 and still found the time to make this perfect Peppa Pig cake. Honestly, it blew me away! Sooo much better than what I had planned to make in my head.<br />
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Well that's about it for Francesca's Luau Wrap-Up. I'll leave you with a picture of a clucky looking John and a very contented little 10 month old Lucy in his arms at the party. He does have a way with babies. They love him. (And before you ask, the answer is no, we are too old, but yes, we are looking forward to grandchildren and yes, we will be laughing tears of relief as we hand them back.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Thank you everyone!"</td></tr>
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A very big shout out to my wonderful blend-daughter (we're trying to come up with fun ways of not saying 'step-daughter'!) Christianne and her gorgeous flatmate Gemma for keeping the backend machinery of the party rolling and topping up the champers & guava in the mummys' glasses!<br />
<br />
In case you're interested, I also created a playlist on the iPod for our Luau. I've been playing it as my office music ever since. Loving it!<br />
<br />
Here tis:<br />
<br />
1. Little Brown Gal - Maile Serenaders<br />
2. Island of Lost Souls - Blondie<br />
3. Over The Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole<br />
4. Under The Boardwalk - Rolling Stones<br />
5. Surfin' Safari - Beach Boys<br />
6. Roar - Katy Perry<br />
7. The Girl From Ipanema - Stan Getz & Astrud Gilberto<br />
8. Surfin' USA - Beach Boys<br />
9. Better Together - Jack Johnson<br />
10. Limbo Rock - Chubby Checker<br />
11. Kokomo - Beach Boys<br />
12. Yellow Bird - Chris Isaak<br />
13. The Tide Is High - Blondie<br />
14. Rock-A-Hula - Elvis<br />
15. Summer Nights - John Travolta & Olivia Newton-John<br />
<br />Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-75895292617149675682013-11-03T15:31:00.000+11:002013-11-03T15:31:16.437+11:00All The Little Effers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I know, I know . . . I've been so quiet with the writing. Do you want my excuses? No? Well here they are anyway. Skip the next paragraph or two if excuses bring out the finger-wagging school teacher in you.<br />
<br />
Our <a href="http://childfriendly.com.au/" target="_blank">other business</a> has been ridiculously busy which, after ten years of trading, we're pretty happy about. Like the birds flying south for the summer, we've been migrating both our website and our accounting over to new (hopefully better!) systems.*<br />
<br />
However, unlike the dozens of dead migratory birds we've found washed up on the beach lately (too tired to keep going apparently - I know how they feel!), our whole flock of data has successfully migrated across and I can stop waking up at 3am shouting things like <i>"The CSV file needs to be sorted by Column B!"</i> and <i>"Stop! Don't enter pre-1 July orders!!"</i><br />
<br />
And then also, um, life. She's got her busy bottom on. Big client projects, rugby trips away, a new extra-curricular routine involving hapkido and piano, SOS calls from friends and, of course, these are the Big Birthday Months for our family. You want lots of crazy summer sex, people? You need to suffer the consequences of birthday burnout in September/October as all those little summer conceptions turn into actual people who expect presents and parties and cakes in the shape of popular animated characters for the rest of your life. Consider yourself warned.<br />
<br />
But then, those little people do keep us entertained do they not? Francesca, for example, is at the perfect age for linguistic faux pas.<br />
<br />
She now recognises the letter 'F' as the letter her name starts with. Whenever she sees an 'F' in a sign or a headline, she says 'Look Mummy, there's my F'. Which is all fine and good and isn't she clever? But when she sees an 'M', she also says 'Look Mummy, there's <i>your</i> F', upon which I correct her and say 'No darling, that's my <i>letter</i>, not my F.' I guess it shouldn't have come as a surprise when she accidentally dropped an alphabet puzzle last week and exclaimed "Oh no, I dropped all the little effers!" Cue snorts of laughter from surrounding adults.<br />
<br />
As if the alphabet wasn't hard enough to master, there's all that tricky alliteration to get your tongue around.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The offending chicken with the salty skin</td></tr>
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I roast a chook once a week, rubbing lots of salt into the skin, and the kids and I eat it, hot and sizzling, straight out of the oven. A few weeks ago, we were sitting around the kitchen table with chicken juice running down our fingers, and Jack announced that he loved the salty skin. Of course, little Miss-Contrary in one of the moods that makes me quake in fear in anticipation of her teenage years, announced loudly "I don't like sulky kin". And because it's fair sport in this house to make the toddler repeat her most hilarious mispronunciations for our own comedic pleasure, I asked 'What did you say sweetheart?'<br />
<br />
'I don't like skulky sin!' <br />
<br />
So there you have it. Sulky kin and skulky sin. Be warned suitors of the future who may wish to woo our girl, she simply won't stand for your grumpy relatives or crimes of a cowardly nature. And if you rub too much salt into the chook, then God save you young man!<br />
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<br />
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<i>*Business Catalyst for the website and Xero for the accounting in case, like me, you have a nerdy interest in these things.</i>Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-81883441180695908922013-10-08T07:03:00.002+11:002013-10-08T07:11:06.097+11:00On Turning Thirty-Fifteen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I hadn't planned to do anything special for my birthday this year. After all, forty-five isn't a 'big' year ending in a zero and, unlike Jack who celebrated the big double-figure milestone this year, I have been in double figures for quite awhile now.<br />
<br />
And yet, as so often happens in our family, a plain old vanilla Monday birthday turned into a whole birthday weekend and I had the loveliest, busiest few days, allowing my brain to ignore the fact that I was, in fact, turning forty-five.<br />
<br />
Forty. Freaking. Five.<br />
<br />
Quick, pass the champagne. Let's turn it into a birthday week!<br />
<br />
The thing is, when I think of that number (let's say it again shall we? FORTY-FIVE!) I don't actually connect it to myself. A forty-five year old person should be a stable, settled, accomplished adult. And occasionally, I do feel that. But for much of the time, I feel like an awkward, naive misfit who's still trying to find her feet. I mean I only discovered eyebrow waxing when I was thirty-four. There I was walking around all Kahlo-eque with a monobrow for three whole decades when I could have had perfect arches and a nose that didn't emerge from a small forest! Girls in their teens know about eyebrow waxing. How come I didn't? Too busy knitting leg-warmers probably.<br />
<br />
This year, more than ever, advancing another year in age has given me pause and I've come over all reflective.<br />
<br />
In the small, wakeful hours of the morning when you can't turn off a brain that is determined to dwell and wallow and turn molehills into huge flipping alpine regions, I play the horrible, terrible, no good numbers game.<br />
<br />
At 45, my mother had a 27 year old daughter, all grown up and off her hands. My daughter is 2. When she is 27, I will be staring down the barrel at my 70th birthday.<br />
<br />
Ouch.<br />
<br />
I pray every day that I will have managed to keep my marbles and good physical health so that she can enjoy her travelling, career-building, family-starting decade with a mother who is in a position to still help and not hinder.<br />
<br />
Forty-five is half of ninety, which means I've only got another half of the game to go. Another half in which I need to score all those tries and conversions so I can hold up some kind of trophy at the end, and not just a plaque that says "Was good at knitting leg-warmers and baking cakes."<br />
<br />
Shall I be really macabre? If I lived in the Middle Ages, I'd have been in my grave for the past 15 years, assuming I'd lived to the average life expectancy age of 30.<br />
<br />
So let's dwell on the good instead.<br />
<br />
The upside of feeling not-quite-grown-up is that I also feel reasonably young in mind and body. Well, most of the time. Living with a toddler helps with that, but I'm beginning to understand what my mother-in-law meant when she turned 80 and said "But Shell, I just can't believe it. I still feel like I'm in my twenties and haven't changed a bit."<br />
<br />
The years are passing by, sure, but our basic essence, who we are, doesn't change much. I'll always be curious. I'll always prefer vanilla to chocolate ice-cream. I'll always feel like there's more to learn, more to do and see, just like I did in my twenties.<br />
<br />
I still yearn.<br />
<br />
And I'm in some pretty sexy, sassy company, turning 45 with the likes of Naomi Watts and Kylie Minogue this year. Nicole Kidman and Halle Berry are already there (the old hags!). But it's rather sad to think that I've outlived Princess Diana by 9 years (where did THOSE years go?) and that sweet little boy of hers, who I remember leaving the hospital in his mother's arms, just left hospital with his own baby in his arms.<br />
<br />
And now I sound just like my nan, so enough with the royal baby reminiscing.<br />
<br />
But the yearning is important. As long as I'm yearning more for the future than for the past. When I start <i>crying</i> over the royal babies of other royal babies coming home, then you'll know I've hit the point of no return (and slap me while you're at it).<br />
<br />
I've also learned to take pleasure in the present, a skill I needed those four decades to develop.<br />
<br />
So I celebrated 45, or as my friend called it, my thirty-fifteenth! I like the sound of that. Two more numbers that have meaning. I gained a step-mother when I was fifteen and became a step-mother when I was thirty.<br />
<br />
There was champagne and cake and a sparkly helium balloon with the words "Happy Birthday Shell" written on it that Francesca appropriated for 48 hours, insisting, since she chose it, that it was hers. She even slept with it to ensure nobody else could snaffle it.<br />
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There was a day in the city with my gorgeous gal-pal Susie during which we may have drawn breath for, oh, around five minutes. We talked on the bus, we talked on the ferry, we talked all through lunch and the whole way through our hand and foot treatments at the day spa. When we got to the Art Gallery of NSW, we went straight to the cafe and talked for an hour, then talked our way around the Contemporary, Modern and Classic exhibitions.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch at the Ivy was followed by tea and macarons on the fancy floor of Westfield.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some creepy 'installation' in the contemporary section of the Art Gallery of NSW. That is a dead clown on the floor. Told you. Creepy.</td></tr>
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<br />
I was spoilt with gifts by family and friends - a handbag from Mum, a wallet from my generous step-daughter, dinner and babysitting from the boys, a beautiful pair of silver earrings from Jack, an ipad from a husband who not only tolerates my technology addiction, but enables it. And lots of lovely bangles, cuffs and pendants from friends who know how much I love to accessorise!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birthday spoils, featuring the annual homemade card from John full of pics from our year.</td></tr>
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<br />
So here I am, thirty-fifteenths, grateful for my health, my fabulous family and friends, and especially grateful that we don't live in the Middle Ages. The lack of sewerage systems would be a deal breaker and I'd be sure to muck up all those thee's and thine's.<br />
<br />
Hopefully I have another thirty-fifteenths ahead of me to achieve the things I still yearn for.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"You don't have to be just one thing. But you have to start with something."</i></div>
<br />
Do you know the song 'Amazing Life' by Clare Bowditch? No? Well, here it is. Listen to it somewhere quiet. It's a gentle and inspiring kick up the butt with a velvet boot. Take her words on board. I intend to.<br />
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Tell me, how did you feel on your last birthday? Excited, reflective, depressed, in need of vodka or just looking forward to a nice bit of cake?</div>
Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-68184025409992304602013-09-11T20:39:00.002+10:002013-09-11T20:40:34.258+10:00Alone Not Lonely<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been taking part in <a href="http://fatmumslim.com.au/how-to-play/" target="_blank">Fat Mum Slim's Photo A Day</a> challenge this month, mainly to feed my iphone photo app addiction, but also because it's a chance to flex a little creative muscle in a life that is currently dominated by procedure, organisation and analytical thinking. And navigating children's meal times (<i>"I don't like chicken anymore!"</i>, <i>"I POUR DA MILK!"</i> So much fun.)<br />
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The prompt for Day 4 was the word 'Alone' which immediately reminded me of my friend Taylor who posted this on our mother's group page recently:<br />
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<i>I want a day off. Alone. Just one. An entire one. At my own house where I am all alone and don't have to do a single thing for anyone else. Alone.</i></blockquote>
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And doesn't that just sum up perfectly how many parents feel? We love our children without a doubt, but oh my giddy aunt, the desire to have a teensy tiny window of time alone can be overwhelming.<br />
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I sometimes look back at my single-girl twenties and wonder what on earth I did with ALL. THAT. TIME. And I would still not get around to paying bills. What on earth did I do? I honestly can't remember, but I was obviously extremely, very, enormously busy looking after myself and indulging my own needs. It's a wonder I got around to having a shower some days!<br />
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Earlier in the year I wrote about the <a href="http://bumparella.blogspot.com.au/2013/01/through-golden-door.html" target="_blank">intense desire I still have to spend time alone</a>, a desire that was indulged by three days at the Golden Door. Alone.<br />
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I remember talking to some friends at the time who found my request to spend time alone a little odd. There were comments like <i>"I could never leave my children for three days"</i> or <i>"I wouldn't know what to do with myself" </i>or <i>"My husband would never cope."</i> I can understand those sentiments, I really can, but I can't bring myself to say them because, for me, they are not true. I could, I would and he did. But that's just me.<br />
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Although dig a little deeper, widen the circle, and overwhelmingly there are many of us harbouring a secret urge to occasionally run away for a bit. In my case, not so secret. And nor should it be.<br />
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Whilst the good ship Mother-Guilt is difficult to disembark, I am firmly of the opinion that it is critical to leave her vegemite-encrusted decks and give yourself time off, to remember what it's like to be you, just you. To be alone with your thoughts, to let them ramble or spin off on random trajectories, not reined in by timetables and shopping lists. To let the horse have her head and gallop wildly. For dreams to come out of hiding and be thrown into the light, imagining what they could become. A novel written, a new baby planned, a trip to Paris that you will start saving your gold coins for.<br />
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I've always been good at being alone. Oldest child, only girl, vivid imagination - my childhood laid the foundations for an adult who is comfortable buying a single ticket to the movies or sitting alone in a restaurant. I look forward to the two days a week when I work alone at home. I get the children off to school and daycare, put the kettle on for an uninterrupted cup of tea (which I get to drink while it's still hot! Imagine!!) and happily camp out in my own head for the day, working on our various businesses and periodically engaging with the world via email, social media, sometimes the phone.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrxy0yrIfAZ-80774yNZiENWJurGRJ1o3I4x_q98ATpiCf-hpLZyfZTHQ_iyTC86Q8pwcKuBQ8e34Olum-qnnZfMUR35viXWwpWepH59QgDlATtvC0c_wgyw2SJlF_xRrtAAPAtSgYvLE/s1600/Michelle+toddler+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrxy0yrIfAZ-80774yNZiENWJurGRJ1o3I4x_q98ATpiCf-hpLZyfZTHQ_iyTC86Q8pwcKuBQ8e34Olum-qnnZfMUR35viXWwpWepH59QgDlATtvC0c_wgyw2SJlF_xRrtAAPAtSgYvLE/s400/Michelle+toddler+2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me aged 3. Resemblance to anyone?</td></tr>
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When I first met John, he had forgotten how to be alone and for awhile it caused occasional friction between us. He couldn't understand why I needed to sometimes wander off alone and I couldn't understand why he wouldn't want to. Eventually I came to the realisation that he had been an employer, a father, a husband for so long, he had forgotten how to be Just John. Like an atrophied muscle, he had to start flexing it again, teaching it what to do. Nowadays, Saturday mornings see him champing at the bit to get out on his paddle board. He drifts away on the sea, out of sight around the headland, and dwells in the land of Just John for a bit.<br />
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I believe in the ability to be alone but not lonely. Contentedly alone. Although the contentedly bit can be hard to achieve, sometimes impossible. I hate that. Alone time and a brain that insists on being a scattered, worried mess. Like shopping for clothes with a wallet full of cash and being unable to find a single garment that suits me.<br />
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I want my kids to develop the alone muscle, and not just for the obvious fact that the quality of my alone time is directly proportional to the quantity of their alone time. Invariably they will find themselves on a train from Rome to Paris with only a novel for company, or stood up in a bar, or in the limbo between starting a new school or job and making friends. I want them to be okay with that. To know they are a self-contained entertainment unit, content with an audience of one.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"There is no friend as loyal as a book"</i> Ernest Hemingway (shame old Hemmers didn't take the same view regarding wives!)</td></tr>
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Francesca is growing out of her daytime naps, a milestone I've been dreading. Being around a toddler from sunup to sundown without a break is enchanting on so many levels, but utterly exhausting as well. It's easy to fall into the trap of feeling like you need to entertain them all day - an endless parade of food, drinks, outings, babycinos, books, songs with actions and swings. Oh God, save me from the swings! The two hour daytime nap was the circuit breaker we both needed.<br />
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Thanks to the <a href="http://www.babybunting.com.au/gro-clock.html" target="_blank">magic clock</a>, she still has at least an hour's break a day. We call it rest time. She must stay in her room until the 'sun' comes up on her clock (I set it for approx 75 minutes). Sometimes she falls asleep, but most of the time I can hear her pottering about in her room, chatting to her dolls and teddies, drawing on her blackboard or pretending to read her books. In other words, learning how to be alone.<br />
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Can you guess what the best part of being alone is? Not being alone at the end of it. Spending time by myself brings my relationships into sharp relief and, dare I say it, makes them better. <i>"Absence makes the heart grow fonder." </i>A tired old cliche, sure. But an <i>accurate </i>tired old cliche.<br />
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So here's a crazy idea. Why don't we all just agree that there is nothing selfish or strange about wanting to spend time alone. That it's part of being human and doesn't need to be cloaked in an excuse. Let's just agree that it's normal and energising and inspiring. Go on. It's really quite liberating.<br />
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As Audrey Hepburn said <i>"I have to be alone very often. I'd be quite happy if I spent from Saturday night until Monday morning alone in my apartment. That's how I refuel."</i> And Audrey Hepburn was a goddess. You want to listen to a goddess, don't you?<br />
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It's now 1.29pm. The clock is set for 2.30. I can hear Francesca talking to her baby doll (who is being told to close her eyes!) and I have 61 minutes in which to miss her, forget about her and be a better, rested, happier mum for her when she comes out.<br />
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I'm outta here. Ciao!<br />
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<i>You can follow my Photo A Day challenge over on <a href="http://instagram.com/michbarra/#" target="_blank">Instagram</a> . . . (join me!) </i><br />
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<br />Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-53429350593532531132013-08-23T13:44:00.002+10:002013-08-23T13:51:52.240+10:00In Which I Hobnob With Fancy Fashion Folk<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhIjxCtT98VQvNtnjEe8wYl9noYVGdyO85jq38h_CgYF5kLoicGkSB7z57R-K9Cc2NiPvK_oSfKBDfsSoCBisvk7tyuCrYelIpUgwrX_xei-JJE3Q0Z6MhY94_BcIRn2JalWtesv2K2OU/s1600/Show.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhIjxCtT98VQvNtnjEe8wYl9noYVGdyO85jq38h_CgYF5kLoicGkSB7z57R-K9Cc2NiPvK_oSfKBDfsSoCBisvk7tyuCrYelIpUgwrX_xei-JJE3Q0Z6MhY94_BcIRn2JalWtesv2K2OU/s400/Show.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mercedes Benz Sydney Fashion Festival kicks off</td></tr>
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So onto more desirable subjects . . .<br />
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On Wednesday night I was lucky enough to win two tickets to the <a href="http://mbffsydney.com.au/" target="_blank">Mercedes Benz Sydney Fashion Festival</a> as a guest of fashion/style/beauty guru Nikki Parkinson from <a href="http://www.stylingyou.com.au/" target="_blank">Styling You</a> and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/MaybellineAU" target="_blank">MaybellineNY</a>.<br />
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That's a whole lotta name dropping isn't it? Well here's another one. <a href="http://rubyrose.com.au/" target="_blank">Ruby Rose</a>. She's the MaybellineNY ambassador we got to chat with before the show. A sweeter, more drop-dead gorgeous, down to earth girl you could not find. She even pretended to buy my friend Clare's line that she wanted a <a href="https://twitter.com/mrscprior/status/370112823717666816/photo/1" target="_blank">picture</a> taken with her just so she could show her teenaged daughters. But in reality, we were both just so excited to be hangin' with Ruby Rose, pretending that we weren't old, wrinkly, forty-something mums.*<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Ruby and a non-working flash!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUm9Qc1doVM_6kGBBbKeQGLxvGgkHcSexiYr97cDFdcd_DBYeUgGIjtVN7_N0sRfT8BTKCaQZEkrS_pLM-c5ym-UHX_mtA83Jh7rm7TE4CgleCjIjadCURwAUPnv9NtrPSwEMeExbhAZI/s1600/Nikki+Ruby+Rose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUm9Qc1doVM_6kGBBbKeQGLxvGgkHcSexiYr97cDFdcd_DBYeUgGIjtVN7_N0sRfT8BTKCaQZEkrS_pLM-c5ym-UHX_mtA83Jh7rm7TE4CgleCjIjadCURwAUPnv9NtrPSwEMeExbhAZI/s400/Nikki+Ruby+Rose.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nikki, Ruby Rose and a working flash! (Pic courtesy <a href="https://www.facebook.com/StylingYou" target="_blank">Styling You</a>)</td></tr>
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For just one night, we were transported into the glittery, shiny, wrinkle-free world of fashion where the espresso martinis were plentiful and the 'oh wow' moments kept on coming.<br />
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I was a little nervous about what to wear, but as I rifled through the hangers in my wardrobe I realised that the only person with a care factor of more than zero about what I looked like was me. So I opted for comfort over speed with skinny jeans, a floaty top to hide any muffin action, and boots with a solid mid-heel to navigate me along ferries, trains and city streets.<br />
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I was excited to meet Nikki, as I not only love the content of her website (my weekly <a href="http://www.stylingyou.com.au/category/nina-proudman/" target="_blank">Nina Proudman style fix</a>) but admire her as a professional blogger who seems to effortlessly blend great content with the brands she works with, all in a voice that feels like a message from your best mate. She is also phenomenally productive, (unlike a certain blogger whose blog you may or may not be currently reading). Run don't walk over to her blog when you've finished here for Nikki's fabulous fashion, beauty and style ideas.<br />
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Unfortunately, my entrance to the private Maybelline lounge to meet Nikki was far from elegant. I had decided to take my trench off just before entering the room and couldn't get the sleeve over the ten-strong bangle party happening on my wrist. I'm trying to say "Hello, it's so lovely to meet you" to Nikki and the other guests, whilst trying to shake off an unwieldy garment hanging from my arm (picture much wild arm shaking, orangutan style). It was like an embarrassing moment from some sad comedy. In the end, I shook Nikki's hand with the trench coat still hanging from my right arm (how professional! how dignified!), then tore the whole thing off so that the sleeve ended up being inside out and flung it on a nearby chair. Classy much?<br />
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Nikki, on the other hand, looked so polished and fabulous in white jeans and a sparkly Sass & Bide top. She instantly put me at ease, as did the glass of champagne that appeared at my side by Andrew the waiter, who smiled and kept them coming.<br />
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After everyone arrived, we set off on a tour backstage where we got to watch all the models having their makeup done and received a few tips from Nigel Stanislaus who is Maybelline New York's Australian makeup director. You can see his little talk about how to contour your face with bronzer (and how NOT to) <a href="http://www.stylingyou.com.au/2013/08/mbffs-maybelline-ny/" target="_blank">here.</a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhczuaRGHSHS9lkwtgcp2AnJxJ8n1M1-JXsCE5ihBSlgSC3KNz5GGMyUYQ-e907O74JXSkABFJBIqBKTVV7FUZeHupWiVAP1DYJS0uBZLYwR8EO3Ouol_XhUEWPfCZdAzicfOh7Sq6BVr0/s1600/Clare+Shell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhczuaRGHSHS9lkwtgcp2AnJxJ8n1M1-JXsCE5ihBSlgSC3KNz5GGMyUYQ-e907O74JXSkABFJBIqBKTVV7FUZeHupWiVAP1DYJS0uBZLYwR8EO3Ouol_XhUEWPfCZdAzicfOh7Sq6BVr0/s400/Clare+Shell.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I know, I know, you're thinking "potential model material" but we're just too busy unfortunately</td></tr>
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I was a little bit worried that they might mistake Clare and I for models and we'd get pounced upon by hair and make-up people (a mistake easily made of course) but I relaxed when I realised the gap between our thighs was, well, non-existent and we would be left alone. PHEW!! <br />
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Then it was time for the show. I must say I was surprised and delighted by the whole thing. I didn't expect to enjoy it so much. The clothes were from labels that I know I can find easily locally and, more
importantly, would actually wear. Well most of them. Whilst there wasn't a see-through poncho or
deconstructed tuxedo in sight, I would be hard-pressed to find an occasion on which to wear an evening gown made of wetsuit material!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ZDuz8TG0PFnkRxgWWUvhiL1bR1ovoRIgTXJAzqZhydF7EFMPT95vpwxDWhanxApMWGIApfFztt7BHmUhBSy7EQ2vHBeEwOLxXYQDi_bff_k0g5uorpHIdFIjFwqtt7lDNVYKe9T_vi0/s1600/IMG_8297.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ZDuz8TG0PFnkRxgWWUvhiL1bR1ovoRIgTXJAzqZhydF7EFMPT95vpwxDWhanxApMWGIApfFztt7BHmUhBSy7EQ2vHBeEwOLxXYQDi_bff_k0g5uorpHIdFIjFwqtt7lDNVYKe9T_vi0/s400/IMG_8297.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am no expert but I am fairly sure these frocks were made of neoprene. Pretty convenient if you fell in a pool at a party!</td></tr>
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After the show it was down to The Hub for more fabulous cocktails and food. Did I mention the espresso martinis?<br />
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In the Hub you could get a touch up at the Maybelline make-up stand, get all styled up for a faux fashion shoot, stock up on Redken samples and ooh-aah over a fancy lookin' silver Mercedes Benz. No idea how they got THAT down in the bowels of Town Hall, but I had other things to focus on, like finding my perfect lipstick colour.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clare showing me that she loves me. Awww . . .</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzApGlL-lehEAZh4qeZcjcJZgjXfp5meK8mFL1G5DSFOy4x6Ao1H1W6g_5mAmwRAKRx8Oo1G4gJouCKcSPpw9TQwwrcTiGP4RYE559r607lh7rFOPqDGMspc2JQbMPnF_yfFv-I5prdc/s1600/IMG_8287.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzApGlL-lehEAZh4qeZcjcJZgjXfp5meK8mFL1G5DSFOy4x6Ao1H1W6g_5mAmwRAKRx8Oo1G4gJouCKcSPpw9TQwwrcTiGP4RYE559r607lh7rFOPqDGMspc2JQbMPnF_yfFv-I5prdc/s400/IMG_8287.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me finally discovering a pink lippie that suits me - thank you Maybelline makeup artist!</td></tr>
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The other highlight for me was meeting another of Australia's most successful bloggers, Christina Butcher from <a href="http://www.hairromance.com/" target="_blank">Hair Romance</a>. Not only is she absolutely gorgeous, there is nothing she doesn't know about hair. On her website you can learn how to do a chic braid without looking like Heidi or download her <a href="http://www.hairromance.com/30-hairstyles-in-30-days" target="_blank">30 Hairstyles in 30 Days e-book</a>. She also has clear, simple-to-follow tutorials on every hair style imaginable.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4TzwdUFMLl9cjblxpcfIH13Gr3HRc-t7WuyfaCRhAvgQQyqvAGkvVTQmSKuXSBqgS0OvhtKhLbQPm8OqbhQsE4AArog91B0Q-AT-3_wVYs11Y5AeE1P9P_-y4Ou04gL8P0DT_znmOi0/s1600/IMG_8288.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4TzwdUFMLl9cjblxpcfIH13Gr3HRc-t7WuyfaCRhAvgQQyqvAGkvVTQmSKuXSBqgS0OvhtKhLbQPm8OqbhQsE4AArog91B0Q-AT-3_wVYs11Y5AeE1P9P_-y4Ou04gL8P0DT_znmOi0/s400/IMG_8288.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nikki, Christina & starstruck moi</td></tr>
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The next morning, I sat with Francesca as we unpacked the very generous Maybelline showbag. Oh my goodness, that glitter nailpolish was like a magnet and required instant application onto toddler fingernails. I can't wait to try the <a href="http://www.maybelline.com.au/products/163/face/foundation/dream-pure-bb-cream/light/001?shadeId=849" target="_blank">Dream BB Cream</a> and the <a href="http://www.maybelline.com.au/products/159/eyes/eye-shadow/color-tattoo-24h-metal/silver-strike/004?shadeId=838" target="_blank">Colour Tattoo metallic eyeshadows</a>, as well as all the never-would-have-chosen-for-myself lipstick colours in their new <a href="http://www.maybelline.com.au/products/160/lips/lip-colour/color-whisper/25/001?shadeId=823" target="_blank">Whisper range</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTsPdG0XNNdUbHYqR9075SJEahDHh-CXMnq8_ta2cEeZ90A27rlEjict4651udsOdPtaazIZlkalzX8Sx5mYTTnUNLnR-MqbUAQpVrNQzcBlFh49XOO6tBFVradwoQkx0sRBij3DV5gR4/s1600/IMG_8296.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTsPdG0XNNdUbHYqR9075SJEahDHh-CXMnq8_ta2cEeZ90A27rlEjict4651udsOdPtaazIZlkalzX8Sx5mYTTnUNLnR-MqbUAQpVrNQzcBlFh49XOO6tBFVradwoQkx0sRBij3DV5gR4/s400/IMG_8296.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I want that one mummy"</td></tr>
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So there you have it. A gushy post, yes. But a much nicer gushy than my last post I think you'll agree.<br />
<br />
Have a fabulous weekend everyone. A big fashion show MWAH to you all (double mwahs to Nikki - thank you so much) xx<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>*Actually, I'm speaking for myself. Clare may be forty-ish, but she is also drop-dead gorgeous and funny as f@#% and I love hangin' with her too.</i>Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-65770765413956765352013-08-19T06:56:00.000+10:002013-08-19T09:29:18.355+10:00The Mystery of the Exploding Toilet<i>I will preface this post with a warning: Do not read if the subject of poo offends you. Also don't read if you are eating, especially if you are eating mushy weetbix. If you are a parent, read on, as neither of those things will bother you in the slightest!</i><br />
<br />
I was having a coffee with my friend Nat on Friday before we headed off to our sons' athletics carnival. We were congratulating ourselves on both of our toddler daughters becoming fully toilet trained in the last month, which is a pretty big milestone, not only for them, but for us. It is the Milestone of No More Nappies, and by extension, no more cleaning up someone's poo off their, admittedly adorable, bottom! Parents of the world, you know what I'm talking about. We crave this milestone. We <i>love</i> this milestone.<br />
<br />
Cue a perfect example of 'pride goeth before a fall'. Oh the pride! Oh the fall!!<br />
<br />
Downstairs at our house we have a very large two car garage. Well I'm sure technically two cars would fit, but our garage is so full of STUFF that you would be hard pressed to park a pair of roller skates in there.<br />
<br />
Off the garage is a small bathroom with a shower and toilet. On Saturday, we went downstairs, opened the garage and were greeted by the alarming sight of a garage floor swimming in poo and a toilet overflowing with what seemed like the effluent of the entire population of Collaroy. And here's the reason for my earlier warning. It looked exactly like mushy weetbix. With dates floating in it. And a MUCH more fruity scent.<br />
<br />
And Oh. My. God. The stench! <br />
<br />
I grabbed my phone and called our friend Guy who is a professional fireman, but like most firies, has another trade; in Guy's case, plumbing. He instructed us not to let any water down any sink in the house or flush any toilets and he would be there within the hour.<br />
<br />
And so began a back-breaking, heart-breaking, nose-breaking five hours of removing every item from our garage that had been seeped in poo onto the lawn, and the removal of ALL THAT POO.<br />
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I don't want to gross you out more than I already have. I think you get the picture. Oh you want a picture? Really?? Well okay . . .<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnUyEYV8mWqSwLckX15yew6-rb_OPzwaUzS6M_RLn7CMMSCH2RtS7-1Z5p_obZZDxckrf2GSYP1Hvgpz8kRA73M59uOXtD7rym6pLmCtXEDVeuPy9kgNFTGbkiIvcBowLBPCPxd06RWE/s1600/oh+shit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnUyEYV8mWqSwLckX15yew6-rb_OPzwaUzS6M_RLn7CMMSCH2RtS7-1Z5p_obZZDxckrf2GSYP1Hvgpz8kRA73M59uOXtD7rym6pLmCtXEDVeuPy9kgNFTGbkiIvcBowLBPCPxd06RWE/s400/oh+shit.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh come on, you know you wanted to see it . . .</td></tr>
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Then Guy arrived - the plumbing equivalent of Superman - and John and I let our own superpowers be revealed. Together, we became some kind of stinky Super Heroes League.<br />
<br />
My super power? Poo Immunity. As a mother, I have wiped up enough poo to make me resistant to its malodorous stink and repulsive appearance.<br />
<br />
John's super power? Poo Eliminator. As a Virgo, he wields disinfectant like Spiderman wields webs. He dispatched two litres of Pine-O-Clean in 15 minutes. No germ escaped his reach. Bring in fellow Virgo, big son Ryan, and you could've eaten off the garage floor after 5 hours. (Or not. I probably still wouldn't).<br />
<br />
But Guy? He was the Big Kahuna of our little poo elimination outfit. First up, his detective work. We had to download a Sewer System Diagram for our property from the internet. Using this, he began to dig. And dig, and dig, and dig. He cracked the concrete path like it was honeycomb and, when he could sense he was getting close, he gently troweled away the dirt like a skilled archaeologist until he hit the jackpot - a sewerage pipe with a big problem.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzf74edl5keSAk-cIJ0RMCbYQb3GZmPqp0bMnG2Fm_MFXqKYvnjYDHvQWrXzL2_2JyeReHez0_tyVjezjcZwHeZ9Mv78_mwX_dUgyVYWobFmoqHtQThUJz2Io1FX5Jam67BM4xpy4vTF8/s1600/Excavation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzf74edl5keSAk-cIJ0RMCbYQb3GZmPqp0bMnG2Fm_MFXqKYvnjYDHvQWrXzL2_2JyeReHez0_tyVjezjcZwHeZ9Mv78_mwX_dUgyVYWobFmoqHtQThUJz2Io1FX5Jam67BM4xpy4vTF8/s400/Excavation.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Amazing Guy - our super hero!</td></tr>
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Due to a dodgy plumbing job where someone had done a rough silicon job of covering the outlet in the pipe, hundreds of tiny plant roots had wormed their way into the cracks, thirsting for the ultimate plant food. Inside the pipe, being fed by the finest fertiliser produced from collective Barraclough bottoms, the roots had grown fat and eventually blocked the pipe completely. This is what ultimately caused the massive backwash that exploded from the downstairs loo on Saturday.<br />
<br />
After this excellent piece of detective work, Guy pulled out the electric eel, a contraption that worms its way through the pipes underground, breaking up all the roots and other blockages in its path.<br />
<br />
I must say, the whole experience, watching Guy work and figuring it all out, was fascinating and I learned a lot about sewerage systems and plumbing in general.<br />
<br />
We were lucky actually. It could have been so much worse. It could have happened upstairs where we live. We could have lost irreplaceable items. There could have been carpet involved for heaven's sake - can you imagine?!<br />
<br />
And finally, it was over. We left most of our belongings from the garage out on the lawn overnight and headed inside for hot showers and a large tankard of whiskey for John and a gallon of wine for me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_8tsUV5Vm8fDiJosEP8NCIRsuaPFKNF_l66yzSX3yXw2wo6bYeusm8AryDkrkujVt02sSi7DagEzeIwXihyphenhyphenFkFzZMUvqUmRwgWp4CJSmMzJebSBAacoTJU8DdTs-Mri-XcI-tO_2gPWc/s1600/IMG_8216.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_8tsUV5Vm8fDiJosEP8NCIRsuaPFKNF_l66yzSX3yXw2wo6bYeusm8AryDkrkujVt02sSi7DagEzeIwXihyphenhyphenFkFzZMUvqUmRwgWp4CJSmMzJebSBAacoTJU8DdTs-Mri-XcI-tO_2gPWc/s400/IMG_8216.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Feeling exhausted but satisfied by our handling of the situation, I carried Francesca to her room later that evening, chatting about what stories we'd read before bed. I was so proud of her. She had gotten herself up from her afternoon nap and had happily occupied herself on the deck above where we were working with a tube of moisturiser. (Oh there was so much moisturiser. But we ignored that. She was happy and quiet and busy so we left her to it).<br />
<br />
As my soft-skinned daughter and I walked into her room that night, my nostrils were once again filled with a familiar scent. I peered into the potty we keep in her room for emergency night wees, and lying there in a semi-circle, like a taunting grin, was a sweet little turd. <br />
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A perfectly fitting end to the day wouldn't you say?Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-11098591885069036572013-08-16T15:06:00.000+10:002016-02-23T13:31:40.671+11:00SwishThere are many, many reasons why I love my mum. She is warm and loving, buys nice clothes in the wrong size which end up in my wardrobe, cleans my fridge whenever she visits and, much to my brother's delight, has stopped putting sultanas in savoury dishes.<br />
<br />
But most of all, I love that when I emailed her a couple of months ago and asked her if she would come up to Sydney from Melbourne and mind the kids for four nights, she didn't hesitate to swap all golfing and other retirement-related activities for toddler-wrangling and school runs.<br />
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You see, John and I had devised a madcap scheme to shirk all work and parental duties for a four night getaway to Thredbo where we planned to ski, eat, drink, sleep and apres-ski our irresponsible butts off, something we never could have done without Mum agreeing to shoulder the burden.<br />
<br />
What? You think just because she had three kids before the age of twenty-one and worked her fingers to the bone supporting us for 25 years that she should be having a rest and enjoying her retirement? Don't be ridiculous. Looking after my kids is her REWARD after all those years. Just ask her.<br />
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Mum? . . . . .<br />
<br />
Oh, she's probably at the golf club showing her friends the adorable videos she took of the kids while she was here and telling them all how SELFLESS I am for allowing her to spend such a chunk of quality time with her grandchildren.<br />
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Anyhoo, moving on!<br />
<br />
A gazillion thank yous darling mother - our little snowy getaway was heavenly. <br />
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You can't even begin to imagine how liberating it was to spend six hours in a car without a single "are we there yet?" or "can we stop for Maccas?" or suffering a sustained whiplash from passing endless food options to a toddler.<br />
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Last year when we drove to Crescent Head, we spent five hours listening to the world's loudest toddler crying and whinging, only to have her fall asleep within 15 minutes of home. We felt like we'd been trapped in a war zone, finally escaping the car with ashen faces and the glazed-over look of the undead. The deaf undead.<br />
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Giddy with excitement about our alpine adventure, we literally leaped out of bed at 5.30am, shrugged on the clothes we'd laid out the night before, and without so much as dragging a toothbrush through our mouth or kissing the kids goodbye, we tiptoed out to the car, which was all packed up, and made our getaway. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOjf-wbCSjQVzu_B7FoUYVagYzoPrvRNeaSzJIiIcZLSYCxOQnurhI0-Pr2A3Oj2kPAxA1ZSLR6K0TJ7Mcmgunq0J5hqda4DSuoUEu6EpafoQgTR2rjDGdPZqqliwIMswe1gfrEXTSNx8/s1600/Sunset+in+car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOjf-wbCSjQVzu_B7FoUYVagYzoPrvRNeaSzJIiIcZLSYCxOQnurhI0-Pr2A3Oj2kPAxA1ZSLR6K0TJ7Mcmgunq0J5hqda4DSuoUEu6EpafoQgTR2rjDGdPZqqliwIMswe1gfrEXTSNx8/s400/Sunset+in+car.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leaving the coast and the sunrise behind us</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Next stop - Goulburn for brekkie!</td></tr>
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We stopped for breakfast at the historic Paragon Cafe in Goulburn, where the waitress, bless her, didn't even blink at my request for gluten free toast (no) or decaf coffee (yes). In fact, she must have been used to city slickers like me, with our silly new age food requests and ridiculous caffeine-free notions, because she said they really should start providing gluten-free items. Or perhaps she was just being lovely and wanting to make me feel less silly and ridiculous. Namaste nice Paragon waitress.<br />
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Now one thing that you always hope for when you go to the snow is . . . well . . . snow. The whole week leading up to our trip, the snow cams at Thredbo showed a distinct lack of snow and a disturbing amount of dirt and rocks. So you can imagine our joy, just outside Canberra, when we spied the white powdery stuff on the hills. Coming through Cooma, we practically cried tears of joy as the cars lumbering past us on their way back from the mountains had giant white snowy mattresses on their roofs. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A welcome sight on our way to Jindabyne</td></tr>
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Our four nights at the Thredbo Alpine Hotel and five days swishing down the slopes were everything we hoped for. We skiied from 9am until last lifts most days, ate goulash and soup and cake at every cafe on the mountain, scoffed mini Snickers bars on chairlifts, listened to live music every night before dinner, dined on whole river trout and Brazilian barbeque fare, slept in till 8am each morning and generally just enjoyed every last second.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"type":45}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption" data-gt="{"timeline_og_unit_click":"1","app_id":"124024574287414","action_type_id":"282366618453208","object_type":"instapp:photo","unit_id":"447280888645770","og_ref":"ogexp"}">The
Thredbo Alpine Hotel likes to offer its guests a swim in the hot Swedish pool and a hot cider
after a hard day's skiing. Guess which one I went for?!?</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZK5Kd_J6F32nD6zWb5S-9s79Q99_fhK6pOpWlnvjpabjYVWcJPFXYBtmernjd7v_SEUvU20CrcRyVgLUFzimnBwjeSlKHKJJ7bTmqze_zI3toQLzfFYV86b-_Obwv-ZJ1CgQ3b7Eve4/s1600/IMG_8090.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZK5Kd_J6F32nD6zWb5S-9s79Q99_fhK6pOpWlnvjpabjYVWcJPFXYBtmernjd7v_SEUvU20CrcRyVgLUFzimnBwjeSlKHKJJ7bTmqze_zI3toQLzfFYV86b-_Obwv-ZJ1CgQ3b7Eve4/s400/IMG_8090.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So I didn't choose 'pool'. Surprised?</td></tr>
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John declared that the Tuesday was quite possibly the best day out of 15 years together. I'm assuming he's not counting our wedding day or the days we welcomed two new babies into the world, or the day we picked up the Golf GTI (his dream car for years apparently).<br />
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And the skiing? We were lucky, lucky, lucky. There was snow and no lift queues which meant no crowds which meant the likelihood of me careening into someone or having them crash into me was minimized. This is a good thing. I am not the world's most proficient skiier. I'm a blue run gal all the way. I love the rush I get from skiing down a perfectly groomed, powdery slope, and in my head I look incredibly stylish and elegant whilst doing so. The reality is that I look like a red and white teddy bear with knock knees. Check it out . . .<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/TlFWvCSY1EI" width="420"></iframe>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
But really, for me, the goals are to get down that mountain in one piece, stay as warm as possible and unwrap mini-Snickers bars on chairlifts without losing a glove or pole, all of which I managed to achieve. Huzzah!</div>
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I also managed a fabulous bed-in on the third day. Leaving John on the slopes, I took to the king size bed for the rest of the day, snoozing and reading and a little more snoozing. Exactly the kind of battery-recharge session I needed.<br />
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Did I miss the children? Oh most definitely. There were many occasions when we'd say things like "Oh Jack would love this" (but interestingly not as many occasions when we'd wish a curious, loud, opinionated toddler was with us - go figure!) However, while it felt like a little part of us was missing, we also kept coming back to the happy fact of our coupledom. To forget about the washing up and whose turn it was to get up with the kids and what to cook for dinner. To leave the petty gripes and parental guilt at home with the piles of washing. How good it felt to spend this time together - to remember 'us' and each other and ourselves as individuals too. <br />
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Whether it's the snow or a hotel in the city or sending the kids around to your mums for a night, I highly recommend, if it's at all possible under your circumstances, that you go on an extended date with your partner. You might even find out you still like each other.<br />
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And whatever you do and wherever you go, schnapps shots are compulsory. Prost!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAXI5nKfARfZHmuNe3owmip4Fj2OjNQEzDbdbJJx8h4FoSAr-3g4IoCJaEuQ9NtKnPpRFVzJySONJb5h7PTbuS-9O6N_-fP3DxQHGbNvuUQhO95Ew1O8L9OA1iebrtU9IeFWilCVKAKVY/s1600/IMG_8077.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAXI5nKfARfZHmuNe3owmip4Fj2OjNQEzDbdbJJx8h4FoSAr-3g4IoCJaEuQ9NtKnPpRFVzJySONJb5h7PTbuS-9O6N_-fP3DxQHGbNvuUQhO95Ew1O8L9OA1iebrtU9IeFWilCVKAKVY/s400/IMG_8077.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At least I look the part (thank you Aldi & your affordable ski gear) </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhl9SPHqjUFYsRQtnb2tUGz_CAYYq9S32k7XjaEeqYr_nPJywrX7Vf5hLyoFOQ1YV7hhN9xOjDJES2H-h8VeSsgZeLAbkwb39PuJT4ZNyQLpxVs5L590wtSFR9Dq9hkdVqxEo5YCcSzgA/s1600/IMG_8099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhl9SPHqjUFYsRQtnb2tUGz_CAYYq9S32k7XjaEeqYr_nPJywrX7Vf5hLyoFOQ1YV7hhN9xOjDJES2H-h8VeSsgZeLAbkwb39PuJT4ZNyQLpxVs5L590wtSFR9Dq9hkdVqxEo5YCcSzgA/s400/IMG_8099.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coffee-in-the-sun o'clock!</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXiDuc2oNedUvav-v0iAzDh27syV2Uh2LpJMhCquIHZ6JrUbPYE1dxxh3DA5qgLQW_6KjTigPOIfTZKNyj3bmlzP09XSLtdzGZs2TAEugenZQ6NxEWpDgopHoTVHvX3gIutaFEjHLifVU/s1600/Sexy+feet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXiDuc2oNedUvav-v0iAzDh27syV2Uh2LpJMhCquIHZ6JrUbPYE1dxxh3DA5qgLQW_6KjTigPOIfTZKNyj3bmlzP09XSLtdzGZs2TAEugenZQ6NxEWpDgopHoTVHvX3gIutaFEjHLifVU/s400/Sexy+feet.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No ski boots allowed in the main hotel so this was my footwear solution for trips to and from the boot room. Nice huh?</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">* Music is Strauss's Blue Danube - courtesy EMI</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://theredhippo.com.au/store/?tap_a=3992-c32cbe&tap_s=23199-b2354a" target="_blank">Red Hippo</a> </span>Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-7075098163364868982013-08-07T08:15:00.000+10:002013-08-07T08:17:36.079+10:00Layered Rainbow Birthday Cake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One of the advantages of watching Masterchef is that Jack will occasionally see a recipe that he wants to have a go at making. One of the disadvantages is that they are usually Adriano Zumbo creations that involve acetate and titanium dioxide and a degree in chemical engineering. His recipes have reduced grown men to tears. Level of difficulty? Off the charts.<br />
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So you probably heard my heart thud into the pit of my stomach when I asked Jack what kind of birthday cake he wanted this year and he replied "Liliana from Masterchef's Rainbow Cake."</div>
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Now I haven't been watching Masterchef religiously this year so I had no idea what cake he was referring to and had to look it up online. You can imagine how utterly thrilled I was to discover that Liliana was eliminated from the show for making this Rainbow Cake because it was TOO SIMPLE for Masterchef. "Not a Masterchef dish" said the judges. Music to my ears.</div>
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So here you go. Jack's birthday cake, aka Liliana's Rainbow Cake, aka The Elimination Cake!</div>
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You can find Liliana's recipe <a href="http://lilianabattle.com/portfolio/rainbow-cake-3/" target="_blank">here</a>, however when I read that it took 6 hours to make, I decided to go to my own fall-back cake recipe - a mix-and-melt cake batter that has been handed down to all the women in my family from my great-grandmother. Each quantity makes 2 cakes so the whole thing only took me 2.5 hours, including cooling time and decorating.</div>
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<h4>
<span style="font-size: large;">Grandma Dillon's Mix-n-Melt Cake</span></h4>
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(You will need 2 quantities to make 4 cakes)</div>
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-]</style>2 ¼ cups SR flour <br />
1 ½ cups castor sugar <br />
2 eggs<br />
1 cup milk </div>
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1 teaspn vanilla extract</div>
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125g butter, melted </div>
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Colours - blue, green (mix blue and yellow), red, orange (mix red and yellow)</div>
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Mix all ingredients and beat well. Divide evenly into two bowls and add enough colouring to make the colour really vibrant. Add a little more. Go on.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Radioactive Green & Sizzling Hot Pink ready to go in the oven
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue and orange seem positively sedate compared to red and green!
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Spoon mixtures into 2 tins lined with baking paper and cook in oven at 180C for approx 25 mins. Skewer should come out clean when cooked.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Butter Frosting</span></h4>
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500g butter</div>
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6 cups icing sugar</div>
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1/2 cup milk</div>
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2 tspn vanilla extract</div>
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Beat all ingredients well until thick.</div>
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When cakes are cooled, use a long, sharp bread knife to slice the rounded top from each cake so that the top of the cakes is now flat. (Be prepared to be dazzled by the vibrant colour of your cake inside!) This will make layering easier and your cake is less likely to look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.</div>
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Sandwich each cake layer between slatherings of butter frosting, then once the cake is assembled, use a spatula to smooth frosting onto the top and sides of the cake until it is completely covered. </div>
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In a bowl, mix up any kind of sweets you like to decorate the sides. We used Nerds and sprinkles, but you could include anything you find in the cake decorating department of the supermarket! Mini M&Ms could work well too. We literally grabbed handfuls and sort of pressed them into the side of the cake. I won't lie, it was messy but fun! Instead of piping frosting onto the top of the cake, we used chocolate covered marshmallows.<br />
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The cake was a huge hit with the kids at Jack's party. There was a big "ooh-aah" factor when it came out. But it is sweeeeet!! My tooth fillings rattled as I raised a spoonful of cake to my lips.</div>
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Enjoy!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A big knife for a big cake!</td></tr>
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Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-53347171517757153642013-08-03T10:25:00.005+10:002013-08-03T10:33:00.206+10:00TenWarning: This is a completely indulgent, unapologetic love-a-thon for my son Jack, whose recent tenth birthday got me quite pathetically mushy and sentimental. <br />
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<br />
My darling Jack<br />
<br />
In the words of every parent in the history of the universe "I can't believe you're ten! Where has that time gone?"<br />
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I'm writing this letter to you here on my blog because as I've taught you, if it's on the internet, it's out there forever and I want you always to be able to tap into your ten year old Jack.<br />
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I think you'll look back and like him. You should. He's amazing.<br />
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There are so many things that make you so very 'you' and I'm not just talking about those gigantic, swimming pool blue eyes, or that adorable smattering of freckles on your nose, or the way you insert the word 'actually' into many of your sentences.<br />
<br />
You love nothing more than to run around in bare feet and I'm fairly sure that if you were the Prime Minister, you would ban shoes altogether (but that would make a lot of women very unhappy and, trust me, you don't want to get on the wrong side of women. Especially shoe women. Life lesson). We went to the mall last week and you got out of the car in bare feet, accidentally-on-purpose 'forgetting' to bring your thongs, which are, by the way, considered by you to be the only acceptable form of footwear year round. It wouldn't surprise me if you turn up to your own wedding in bare feet. And that's okay, just as long as you've ditched The Shorts by the then. You know what I mean by The Shorts don't you? The khaki cargo shorts with the elastic waist that you wear on permanent rotation now have holes in the bum but I still can't get you out of them. You're loyal like that.<br />
<br />
Every now and then, more frequently these days, I get a glimpse of the man you will become, mostly when I watch how you interact with your two year old sister - gentle, kind, a strong sense of justice, an ability to find silly in the serious when needed. You can jolly Francesca out of a whingy mood with a wrestle on our bed, or a game of chasey where you always let her catch you (after awhile anyway!) It does make me laugh, though, how you roll your eyes when Cesca talks about Thomas or the Wiggles, like you can't believe you ever went out with them!<br />
<br />
You are beginning to open up to the world outside your own sphere - questioning, considering, speculating, reasoning. You watch for other people's reactions and moderate your own responses. It's not just you and teddy anymore kid. In other words, you are maturing and it swells my heart to watch.<br />
<br />
I'm especially proud of the way you've handled the transition to your new school, in particular how easily you've made new friends, yet maintained the authentic friendships from your old school. I think the reason you've made such great new friends is that you know from experience how important it is to be kind, inclusive, non-competitive and giving of yourself. The difference in you is amazing. You are more confident, eager to learn and willing to stand up for yourself. You also look great in yellow! How cool that you get to wear your favourite colour to school every day.<br />
<br />
Despite your rapidly growing maturity, you are still very much a kid. You love to run the wrong way up escalators when the coast is clear, wrestle with Dad on the king size bed, perform arm-fart concerts in the bath and conduct fantastical mock battles between Autobots and Decepticons. You are a champion lego builder and an excellent hand-baller and you still can't eat an ice-cream without getting a chocolate moustache. And beard. At least ice cream is one of the foods you will eat. Ahhhh Jack, let's not talk about food hey? Let's just say I hope you take after your brother Ryan who, for awhile there would only eat meat and bread, preferably meat inside bread. Now he eats everything on God's green earth, even salad. Think of it. SALAD!! You roll your eyes now about the Wiggles. One day I hope you will roll your eyes remembering your infatuation with white processed foods, while tucking into a quinoa, beetroot and goats cheese salad.<br />
<br />
You have begrudgingly accepted that Monday to Thursday is screen free time and when you forget that you don't like that particular house rule, you actually enjoy the other things you find to do. I find you curled up in a corner with a book, practicing your favourite piano pieces, playing handball against a wall, skating in the cul de sac with your mates, or sitting quietly in your bedroom recreating lego spaceships into new and fanciful masterpieces.<br />
<br />
You don't need much help with your homework these days, and when the teacher tells you to write interesting sentences, you really do take that on board big time. Here are some examples of your recent sentences:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
On Monday I shot a blazing, hot arrow into the sky and accidentally knocked a poor crane to the ground. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The energetic heifer was jumping up and down and magically started flying and got stuck in a tree. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The old man earned a pittance for his amazingly, massive job. (Damn capitalists!) </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The young, intelligent boy pasteurised the milk to get the dreadful germs out. </blockquote>
<br />
I get the feeling you've been learning all about adjectives in class this term. I must say I'm very pleased there is a young, intelligent boy in charge of the milk. I must also remember not to walk under trees that have magical, flying, energetic heifers in them!<br />
<br />
You have long legs and lanky arms that seemed to have stretched overnight (oh my chubby-faced, roly-poly baby boy - where did you go?) but which can still curl up neatly in order to fit on mum's lap which, thankfully, you still like to do every day.<br />
<br />
You smell a bit more like a sweaty boy now. And suspiciously like chocolate milk a lot of the time.<br />
<br />
You love sport. Any sport, but rugby union, rugby league, soccer and AFL are your favourites. You get in there and give every sport you play 100%. Losing never seems to bother you or many of your mates. You just love the game, the tackling, the fun of it all. And the sausage sandwiches slathered in tomato sauce of course.<br />
<br />
You have encyclopaedic knowledge about all things Minecraft and I am blown away when I watch you journey through the incredible worlds you've created. You are a true digital native, navigating the online world in a way that is second nature to your generation. I will scramble to keep up with you, but keep up I must. The internet is a big, scary universe and it's my job to protect you and remind you of what is real and good, that the internet can distort reality and make bad things seem normal. I love that we can talk about that stuff now and I hope we always will.<br />
<br />
Most of all I feel incredibly lucky that I get to come along for the ride (and I promise not to embarrass you <i>too</i> much - no more Abba songs!)<br />
<br />
All my love always & forever<br />
<br />
Mum xoxo <br />
<br />
PS. I've made a little video for you . . .<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/5UgH6r5yzPE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<br />
<br />
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Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-8999530106774074362013-07-15T13:25:00.002+10:002013-07-29T17:13:48.657+10:00Glass Half Full<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7f80OW92pdO2wkgOJ5y6D127gRYNynsK_VODweYbT5ViNoxha865FGQO1ETauhLS8T423iFYuVOsZ88esavIQkPzTY4bbudQJfsOgYo98N9EnQykKLN84_0i88R7ubNHAlGRuNminfc4/s1600/Lemons.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7f80OW92pdO2wkgOJ5y6D127gRYNynsK_VODweYbT5ViNoxha865FGQO1ETauhLS8T423iFYuVOsZ88esavIQkPzTY4bbudQJfsOgYo98N9EnQykKLN84_0i88R7ubNHAlGRuNminfc4/s400/Lemons.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lemons at the ready! That's if the Very Hungry Caterpillar or that mean looking Transformer doesn't get them first*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I try to be a glass half full kind of girl, I really do. But there are days when it's not as easy as it sounds to make lemonade out of lemons. <br />
<br />
"Hey ho sad little lady, let's make lemonade!" says the universe.<br />
<br />
Seriously? I'm having a shitty day when I can't even be bothered to drag a toothbrush through my mouth and you want me to put the damn juicer together, squeeze a gazillion lemons, spend half an hour adding enough sugar to make sure it tastes palatable, then dismantle the juicer and wash it, getting tiny bits of lemon out of its 27 moving parts?<br />
<br />
Well okay then. I'll do it!<br />
<br />
Why?<br />
Because if I do, at least I'm doing something to take my mind off my shitty day.<br />
Because if I do, I might enjoy it.<br />
Because if I do, I'll be rewarded with a sugary, lemony drink somewhat resembling lemonade for my efforts.<br />
Because if I don't, I'll feel shittier. <br />
<br />
Last week, I accidentally sprayed hairspray in my eye. After 30 years of forcing various hairstyles to stay glued in place (especially the Farrah Flick I sported in Year 11) you'd think I'd have perfected the art of closing my eyes while spraying. But in a not uncommon brainfart moment, I opened them at the wrong moment and copped an eyeful of Tresemme Extra Hold.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Your blogger at a 1984 Christmas party with attempted Farrah Flick. Oh dear.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The hairspray incident occurred after having a shower at the same time as John decided to do the dishes and being treated to alternating boiling hot and icy cold water on rotation (he likes to rinse every article before placing it in the rack - not complaining, BUT did a bit of Morning Fresh residue ever kill anyone?)<br />
<br />
Later in the morning, I carefully placed Francesca's banana smoothie on the front seat of the car while I did her belt up, only to find it tipped over when I got in, thick creamy milk oozing into the crack between the seat bit and the back of the seat, and dripping into the space between the seat and the door. The first word that escaped my lips rhymed with 'duck' which was a very bad mummy moment because Francesca, the world famous copycat, was in the back. Fortunately she was glued to my iPhone (another awesome parenting example) and I just sat there feeling suddenly that it was all too much.<br />
<br />
I'm sure you know what I mean when I say I felt paralysed by a sudden and utter sense of hopelessness. That moment where it all feels too hard. That the little things have accumulated into a big thing that just might be insurmountable. And the fact that they're such silly, inconsequential, first-world-problem things just makes it seem so much more pathetic. But for whatever reason, whether your serotonin has taken a dive or the silly thing is just ONE MORE THING that went wrong today, you can't help it. <br />
<br />
Lemons. <br />
<br />
Despite wanting to cry and wallow and shake my fist at the silly universe and its silly way of showing me not to sweat the small stuff, I forced my brain into gear. My lemonade instinct. I remembered I had the weekly grocery shop in the back including a triple pack of paper towel. I ripped open that paper towel packaging like a lion tears at its prey. I may have even growled. I used reams of the stuff to soak up the smoothie. I found a new home for the watermelon and used the plastic bag for all the soggy paper towels and used a baby wipe to remove the stickiness from the leather. Huzzah! I was a canny, resourceful survivor! I was a problem-solving Man from Mars! I was making lemonade, dammit!!!<br />
<br />
So when I say I 'try' to be a glass half full person, I mean I really do
try. And sometimes it's trying. Very 'ducking' trying. But if I don't try, then I'd be a glass
half empty gal and somehow I just don't think that would feel as good.<br />
<br />
<i>* Note to self: Clean sorry looking fruit bowl. Remove alien robots. Populate with more actual fruit.</i>Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-66900295325501292122013-07-08T11:27:00.003+10:002013-07-15T11:51:01.393+10:00What's Floating My BoatSo we're a month into winter and I'm desperately trying to remember what it was like to not have my ugg boots glued to my feet. Sydney was all warm and yummy right through autumn and then it wasn't. Just like that. Overnight, the bone-chilling westerlies blew their way east and the mad dash from warm bed to hot shower began.<br />
<br />
I'm a summer gal, no two ways about it. I like the heat and I don't mind a car full of sand, especially if it means I've spent a glorious morning splashing in the ocean. I'm even good for the first bit of winter, embracing jean/boot/scarf combos and pulling out my fancy tights.<br />
<br />
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<br />
But then I get sick of having cold feet and frigid fingers. I get tired of layering my whole body in clothing when it craves air and sunlight. I even get to a point where I start to resent my slow cooker and it's 'falling off the bone' creations. I crave tartness and bite and crunchy, summery freshness.<br />
<br />
So this winter, I'm determined to keep my positive attitude for as long as possible by embracing wintry stuff. Finding new ways with jeans. And boots. And scarves. And not forgetting the fancy tights. Taking lots of pictures of the natural world surrounding us so that I'm obliged to really look at its winter-sharpened beauty. And discovering that it's actually rather gorgeous to stand around a barbeque in winter and 'winterfy' salads with roasted vegetables and toasted nuts.<br />
<br />
Here's what's floating my boat at the moment and helping me to enjoy, not just endure, winter . . .<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Creating</span></h2>
It's beanie mania around here at the moment. I discovered the magic of circular knitting needles last year and have picked them up again this winter with gusto. So far since May I've knitted beanies for the whole family and finished my sixth beanie last night . . . for me!<br />
<br />
I don't really have a good beanie head. You know how some people just look simply adorable in a beanie? All flicky-out hair from the bottom and big doe eyes peeping from under the rim? Here's a good example of that:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/NN5KCDC9XBg" width="560"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
Not me. I just look like a pasty-skinned boofhead. Possibly a female football hooligan. But John and I are off to swish down the slopes at Thredbo in a couple of weeks so I'm putting warmth ahead of style and will be rocking that beanie daily.<br />
<br />
If you want to jump on the beanie bandwagon, <a href="http://www.instructables.com/id/How-to-Knit-a-Beanie/" target="_blank">click here for an excellent tutorial and super easy pattern</a>. And for the little knitted flower, you can find the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-_ZDB3Su9Hc" target="_blank">tutorial here</a>. I just made the first little flower but if you like the big layered number, go for it! I also used normal, not circular, needles for it. And if you want any help with either of them, just ask me and I'll try to enhance your project, not confuse you further.<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Cooking</span></h2>
<br />
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<br />
What says winter more than Chicken Soup? Well, maybe apres-ski cocktail, but that's not always appropriate now is it?!<br />
<br />
My friend Deb (who by the way is an extremely talented artist and you should <a href="http://www.artwhatson.com.au/milkfactorygallery_1/deborah-cassimatis-hooper" target="_blank">buy some of her work</a>) is half Greek and makes a killer Kotopoulo Avgolemono (Greek Chicken & Lemon Soup). It's the only soup my finicky son will eat (he used to call it 'chicken porridge') and is a divine winter warmer.<br />
<br />
I made some on Saturday and served it with a herb damper.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span style="font-size: large;">Deb's Killer Kotopoulo Avgolemono</span></span><br />
<br />
<b>Ingredients</b><br />
1.5kg chook (free range and/or organic if you can find it)<br />
1 onion<br />
1 carrot<br />
1 stick celery<br />
1 bay leaf <br />
Water to cover chicken<br />
1/2 cup rice <br />
Salt & pepper<br />
2 eggs<br />
4 tablespoons fresh lemon juice<br />
<br />
<b>Method</b><br />
1. Rinse the chicken and remove any organs that may be inside. Place
in a pot with the vegetables and fill with enough water to cover by about
2cm. Cover and bring to a boil. When boiling, reduce heat to low and
simmer for about 90 minutes.<br />
2. Remove the chicken from the pot and pop it in a large dish where you can pull all the gorgeous meat off the bones. Discard the carcass.<br />
3. Strain the broth and discard the vegies. Season the broth with salt and pepper to taste.<br />
4. Throw the rice into the broth and simmer for 20 minutes until the rice is cooked.<br />
5. Whisk the eggs with the lemon juice in a bowl. When the rice is
done, turn off the heat. Gradually add one ladle full of hot stock into the eggs
slowly, while whisking. Gradually whisk in more stock until
the egg mixture is heated. The idea is not to let the eggs curdle (or indeed, cook!) by heating them too quickly. Then pour the egg mixture back into the pot,
whisking briskly. Season with additional salt, pepper or lemon juice if you like.<br />
6. Add the shredded chicken back into the pot and voila! You have ze yummy soup!<br />
<br />
And here's my recipe for the damper to go with.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span style="font-size: large;">Herb and Cheese Damper </span></span><br />
<br />
<b>Ingredients</b> <br />
(I used gluten free flour which worked well too)<br />
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</style>1 cup wholemeal SR flour<br />
1 cup white SR flour<br />
1 tspn salt<br />
60g butter, softened<br />
1/2 cup grated tasty cheese<br />
1/4 cup chopped oregano leaves<br />
3/4 cup milk, plus extra to glaze<br />
1/4 cup water<br />
1 tbs grated parmesan<br />
<br />
<b>Method</b><br />
1. Preheat oven to 180C.<br />
2. Sift the flours into a large bowl with 1 teaspoon of salt. Rub in butter until mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs.<br />
3. Stir in cheese and oregano.<br />
4. In a separate jug, combine milk with water. Make a well in the centre of the flour and stir in 3/4 of the milk mixture. Add remaining liquid a little at a time until mixture just comes together.<br />
5. Turn out onto a lightly floured surface and knead gently for 1 minute. Don't over-mix or over-knead or it will become tough. Shape into a round loaf and place on a greased baking tray. Brush top with milk and sprinkly with parmesan.<br />
6. Bake for 30 mins or until loaf sounds hollow when tapped. Serve warm.<br />
<br />
Okay, that's the official recipe. Here's what I do (saves about 15 minutes of boredom, frustration and goo under your nails). Place flours, salt and butter into a food processor till it resembles breadcrumbs. Add cheese and oregano and pulse briefly. Pour in 3/4 of the water/milk combo and pulse briefly till it comes together. Then turn it onto a board to knead, etc.<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Watching</span></h2>
I'm just a little bit addicted to <a href="http://ten.com.au/tvshows/offspring.htm" target="_blank">Offspring</a> at the moment. I know the Proudmans aren't everybody's cup of tea, but I love the quirkiness of the script, the gorgeous clothes and the way it portrays life as beautifully imperfect, just as it is.<br />
<br />
I didn't think it would be possible to enhance my Offspring experience beyond getting the kids into bed and settling in with my knitting and a cup of tea for an hour's uninterrupted Nina-a-thon. But an essential part of the experience is now reading, first thing Thursday, Nikki Parkinson's blog <a href="http://www.stylingyou.com.au/" target="_blank">Styling You</a> where she has a special section devoted to die-hard Offspring fans called <a href="http://www.stylingyou.com.au/category/nina-proudman/" target="_blank">So You Want To Dress Like Nina Proudman</a>.<br />
<br />
Nikki has all the inside info on Nina's signature boho-luxe style and where you might be able to buy the same or similar pieces to enhance your own style.<br />
<br />
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My style is very similar to Nina's (yes, even before Offspring came along!), although I'm a little less confident with the whole boho look. I realised I was missing a few elements to really polish the look, mainly in the accessories department, and that I should become a bit braver with what I match with what. I've learned new ways to wear scarves, how to layer necklaces and that a simple ponytail can look great with the right earrings and a fresh makeup approach.<br />
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You might be more of a structured Billie Proudman fashionista! Don't worry, Nikki has that <a href="http://www.stylingyou.com.au/2013/06/offspring-style/" target="_blank">covered too</a>.<br />
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So my lovelies, that's what's floating my boat at the moment. What's floating yours?Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-6411743450248338742013-06-30T16:34:00.002+10:002013-06-30T17:17:30.998+10:00The Sympathy Gene<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Honey, talk to the hand . . ."</td></tr>
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Is there a sympathy gene? If so, I think I may be missing it. I also think my daughter may have inherited the lack of a sympathy gene from me.<br />
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Last week, I got up too quickly from my desk and banged my knee on the edge of the desk. And not just any old bang, but the father, son and holy spirit of all bangs! The dead centre of my patella struck the sharp corner at full speed. I found myself sprawled on the floor clutching my knee with tears in my eyes and trying to breathe deeply in and out through the pain. I went straight into <a href="http://bumparella.blogspot.com.au/2010/11/calm-birth-are-you-crazy_9615.html" target="_blank">calm birth</a> mode but without the, y'know, HIDEOUSLY PAINFUL ACT OF GIVING BIRTH. <br />
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Francesca, who had observed the whole thing, had perched herself on the chair I had so recently and dramatically vacated. As a little involuntary sob escaped my lips she peered down imperiously at me from on high and said "Well don't cry about it. Just get up mummy. You're fine."<br />
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What?!<br />
<br />
So here's the thing. I make a really concerted effort to show sympathy when my children hurt themselves. I hug them, say things like "Ooooh, that must have hurt darling" or "Naughty chair/step/table/corner", and distract them with teddies, stickers, television, food or whatever comes to hand. (Yeah, yeah, food as comfort. Sosueme)<br />
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But my poor beleaguered husband is a different matter. Let's just say I am sympathetic <i>to a point</i>. The <i>point</i> being just shy of 'man cold' accusations, and a damn long way from "Oh you poor darling. Let me give you a massage, then get into bed and I'll make you some chicken soup from scratch." <br />
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I may even have uttered the words "Well don't cry about it. Just get up. You're fine" under my breath as John battled some awful lurgy. A certain toddler, her sharp ears unsullied by Bruce Springsteen concerts, blue light discos and<i> Like A Prayer</i> at MAXIMUM VOLUME on the Walkman, appears to have stored those phrases for later use.<br />
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As I hobbled to my feet under the disinterested gaze of my daughter, my tears turned into gobsmacked laughter and as I looked at her I thought, good grief, she's a mini-me. And like me, she reserves her sympathy for her children. Pink Teddy, Tiger, Baby and all her other imaginatively named 'children' receive warm cuddles and "Don't worry, I love you's" from her every day (despite the fact that most of their injuries are inadvertently inflicted on them by their loving mother). Her sister's dog was sung <i>Oh Darling</i> by the Beatles on rotation by way of a lullaby last month. The dog!<br />
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The next day, Francesca accidentally knocked my freshly made, unsipped, much anticipated smoothie onto the kitchen floor. With the smoothie still all over the floor, I quickly grabbed my phone and asked her to repeat what she said:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/fT_B7fzu-IE" width="560"></iframe>
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By now of course it was a bit of a joke, but please note the steely gaze beneath the cute exterior when I ask her to repeat what she said. If her handwriting is crappy too, she's going to make a hellava doctor.*<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">* No offence to doctors, most of whom are brilliant, warm, engaging people, but we've all had the doctor with the unaccountably shite bedside manner, yes? I'm talking to you, unknown doctor, who after inspecting my friend's ankle x-rays insisted she walk through the hospital with a huffy "it's not broken!" It was later discovered she had severe ligament damage. She was in a lot of pain. She was also sitting in a wheelchair, which I could have wheeled her in. Naughty doctor.</span>Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-45307581208229731492013-06-14T14:40:00.000+10:002013-06-14T14:41:17.796+10:00The Mother's Group<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mother's group 2011. What a beautiful bunch of <strike>cleavages</strike> babies.</td></tr>
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It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of a baby must be in want of a mother's group. Or so sayeth the nurses at the early childhood centre. However, it is a truth only privately acknowledged that, for some of us, the idea of walking in to a room full of unknown, hormonal, sleep deprived women is a slightly <strike>scary</strike> daunting prospect.<br />
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And yet, those faces will soon become so familiar to you, those girls your tribe. For our mother's group, these were also the women that would help one of our gang weather a storm that no parent should have to.<br />
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For those of you unacquainted with the mother's group scene, here's how it goes. A nurse pops in when you get home from hospital, not only to check on you and the baby, but to tell you the date your mother's group starts. It is both recommended and assumed you will join in and, for the most part, I agree with that. The four weeks you spend attending the centre learning about settling your baby, avoiding cracked nipples and what to do when your baby projectile vomits, form an essential manual for how to work the baby when you're at home.<br />
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After the four weeks, you can decide as a group whether you'd like to continue meeting at each other's homes, or a local park or cafe. Or not.<br />
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My first mother's group, which I joined when Jack was born nearly 10 years ago, was a godsend. We inhaled each other's experiences along with the chocolate biscuits, entire mornings consumed by conversations revolving around dummies, sleep patterns and poo. We shared our children's milestones, delivered meals to those moving house and those welcoming new babies, held hands during tough times. And there was tea and wine and always cake. Strong friendships formed and firmed, or fell away as people returned to full time work or moved away, either physically or philosophically. It was enjoyable and wonderful, but also intense, exhausting and emotional for those first few years. <br />
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So for me, the thought of joining another mother's group after I had Francesca made me feel . . . y'know . . . a bit tired.<br />
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Although I have to admit I was tempted by all the cake.<br />
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I also thought it would be good for Francesca to have some friends her own age. A little mate to step across the threshold of her first classroom at the local primary school with in years to come.<br />
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So off I went to my new mother's group meeting and like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pride_and_Prejudice#Charles_Bingley" target="_blank">Mr Bingley</a>, once I got to the ball, I found that all the ladies were entirely agreeable and very much to my taste.<br />
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I plunged, once more, into the world of babydom, this time as the elder stateswoman. The forty-something mum who'd been-there-done-that. Unfortunately for the other mums, I have a shocking memory and wasn't much help on the advice front. Fortunately for me, these twenty- and thirty-somethings were all extremely well-informed and willing to share advice with this forgetful old women.<br />
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When I had Jack ten years ago, Facebook was merely a glint in Mark Zuckerberg's eye, so my mother's group relied on the telephone and our weekly catch-ups for sharing advice, eating cake and moaning about stuff. But with my new mother's group, we not only had the magic of Facebook, but were all having intense love affairs with our iphones which meant 24/7 access to each other when needed. Sitting on the sofa for that wearying 40 minute feed at 2am? Iphone. Facebook. Instant company! Oh those silent 2am online chats were some of the best. And they sure beat the endless Guthy-Renker infomercials (although I did find the Roto-Curler strangely alluring). <br />
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It also helped that the women in my new mother's group were simply lovely. <i>Are</i> lovely. Two and a half years on and we still meet every week, not just for the sake of our children, but because we genuinely enjoy each other's company.<br />
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We've also formed a bond. Not just a casual affinity created by the shared experiences of motherhood, but the kind of tight coalition that is formed when a tragedy befalls one in a group and the group surrounds her, turns in to face her, leans in to support her.<br />
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Our beautiful K fell pregnant with her second baby at around the <a href="http://bumparella.blogspot.com.au/2012/08/advanced-fertility-lessons-from-baby.html" target="_blank">same time as nearly every other mum in the group</a>. It was very exciting among our merry band of mamas with so much potential newborn-cuddling action on the horizon. K's baby, in particular, was a heaven sent surprise to them as they'd had some difficulty conceiving their first child and had been on the emotional fertility rollercoaster too many of us are familiar with. To fall pregnant with their second baby naturally was wonderful.<br />
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On the 30th May last year, K's baby Jamie was stillborn at 32 weeks. He was perfect. A handsome, soft-skinned, beautiful boy.<br />
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The details of Jamie's birth are not mine to share. That is a story for K and her husband to tell. I can only tell you how it was from the outside looking in.<br />
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The initial floundering for words, the intense desire to help in some way, the uncertainty of protocol or of K's expectations upon seeing her for the first time afterwards. To hug? To console? To acknowledge? How to make the words come without cliche. How to express what a full heart feels without overwhelming. Too much? Too little?<br />
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These things are difficult to navigate alone, but with a group used to sharing the minutiae of everyday life, it became easier. In our huddle, we threw our thoughts and feelings and ideas into the middle and came out with a plan. Along with attending the funeral, planning a two week meals roster and the gift of a pendant inscribed with her two sons' names, we opened our arms and our ears, ready for her to enter when she felt ready.<br />
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K's calm bravery and generosity of heart throughout the entire ordeal was incredible, and continues to be. At our first meeting together after the funeral, we put our toes gently in the water. There was unspoken consent to cocoon her but also give her room to breathe. To speak. Did she want to talk? She did. K let us in to her world with heartbreaking honesty.<br />
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Over the past awful year, surrounded by swollen bellies and newborn babies, she has continued with that same candid courage and we have been guided and inspired by it. There have been tears and fear, enormous pain and the constant ache of what-ifs, but she has turned up, leaned in, kept moving forwards, for her two year old son, her husband and herself. I am in awe of her.<br />
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Two weeks ago marked the anniversary of Jamie's birth and death. We decided to celebrate his day. Jamie's Day. There was champagne, sunshine and, of course, cake. A birthday cake, irresistible to little fingers.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje4-O4YbN5_dvnJbtmril88LX2NjW-OGkZK4rR9V8VUzNBwxRGqDADdrikTQE4x5Hs7LJ58I1yO_lUy95BWaKcXp81Ytigf1Tmo_xTggXhtKov1dczvjBA90_DmV-hFX4RYnBszVQOzmM/s1600/Kylie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje4-O4YbN5_dvnJbtmril88LX2NjW-OGkZK4rR9V8VUzNBwxRGqDADdrikTQE4x5Hs7LJ58I1yO_lUy95BWaKcXp81Ytigf1Tmo_xTggXhtKov1dczvjBA90_DmV-hFX4RYnBszVQOzmM/s400/Kylie.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brave mama</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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At day's end, the text messages went round. Drinks? Girls night? Let's do it. We washed down guacamole with champagne, toasted our brave buddy and her angel and then got lost in the meandering lanes and byways of lady-chat. Kids, husbands, holidays, Brazilian waxes, books, movies, school days, drunk days, good and bad days. The big dirty martini of life.<br />
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This mother's group - a posse, cleaved together for better or worse.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42Y70Qfj_aMa-RSvpWSlS12RtKdu4CT0VaQzzVpuOp20kiETE0ITH5IeY_OzCwn6FT8qg2FHio84Rc3iGIi1PKYMfZmeawUmf9y9CI9a5j9iiW7ZohZVjX8FLVSjIk1HSP_KbVDJADZc/s1600/Drinks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42Y70Qfj_aMa-RSvpWSlS12RtKdu4CT0VaQzzVpuOp20kiETE0ITH5IeY_OzCwn6FT8qg2FHio84Rc3iGIi1PKYMfZmeawUmf9y9CI9a5j9iiW7ZohZVjX8FLVSjIk1HSP_KbVDJADZc/s400/Drinks.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQXeZzoprgIgPyXnTmhjoW9G3MUfDiPMLLbFSXk4ioBu_dsY_gK_3zyZCnaqGPzpSlc6iZFfMygbpbz-_pqRyY7hp2sCOIakP8BfEmDDspjrz_hZAuDaE3OtD0eFBQVBm2_pEApEeN8Js/s1600/Cheers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQXeZzoprgIgPyXnTmhjoW9G3MUfDiPMLLbFSXk4ioBu_dsY_gK_3zyZCnaqGPzpSlc6iZFfMygbpbz-_pqRyY7hp2sCOIakP8BfEmDDspjrz_hZAuDaE3OtD0eFBQVBm2_pEApEeN8Js/s400/Cheers.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>If you have experienced a stillbirth or know someone who has, you're not alone. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>The Stillbirth Foundation - <a href="http://www.stillbirthfoundation.org.au/">http://www.stillbirthfoundation.org.au/</a></i></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>SANDS has excellent fact sheets for friends and families as well as parents - <a href="http://www.sands.org.au/resources/">http://www.sands.org.au/resources/</a></i></span><br />
<br />Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-69006399518818409422013-05-31T18:38:00.002+10:002013-05-31T18:40:33.072+10:00Plaits, Ponytails & Plenty of Posing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Oh dear, there I go with the alliterative title again. That <a href="https://mauzandsparky.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Mauz</a> has a lot to answer for!<br />
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Anyway, many of you will already know, due to my daily bombing on Facebook of my mug and various body parts, that I partook in the April Style Dare. <br />
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"What is a Style Dare?" I hear you ask. (Yes you, lone reader who doesn't know me in real life and thereby did not suffer through a month of me poncing around in selfies on Facebook and <a href="http://instagram.com/michbarra/#" target="_blank">Instagram</a>) <br />
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Well, lone reader, I'm glad you asked.<br />
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Style Dares are run by the gorgeous and very foxy Andrea over at <a href="http://www.foxinflats.com.au/" target="_blank">Fox In Flats</a> and I have to say it was the most fun I've had with an iPhone, various fashion accessories and a tube of lipstick.<br />
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There were three things I loved about doing it:<br />
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1. I rediscovered things in my wardrobe that I had either completely forgotten about (hello denim jacket!) or found a new way of wearing (like the necklace stack - a bit like a pancake stack but with necklaces. Huh.)<br />
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2. I went <i>way</i> outside my comfort zone on a couple of dares. I have never worn my hair slicked back, nor would I have ever considered wearing fuchsia coloured lipstick. And yet I could and I did and the fashion police didn't come around and handcuff me. <br />
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3. I loved the creative aspect of photographing each day's style dare. Those of you who know me will tell you I never met an iphone photography app I didn't LOVE! Hipstamatic, Afterlight, Tiltshift Generator - I love them all. I am not a big fan of the selfie, but there comes a time when we have to learn to love 'ourselvies' (sorry, that was kind of pathetic . . . ) Seriously though, I enjoyed the challenge of coming up with new ways to form each composition, using various angles or lighting in different parts of the house or garden, using natural light whenever I could and then jooshing it with my beloved apps. I also met some seriously clever, funny, warm women on Instagram via the Style Dare challenge and learned more about style and photography as the month wore on. I also learned a lot of people like cats on Instagram. <br />
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Fun times!<br />
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It's all starting again tomorrow with the June Style Dare and I'm tempted to jump on the whole merry-go-round once more. But what I would love, more than anything, <a href="http://bumparella.blogspot.com.au/2010/09/serially-serious-about-cereal.html" target="_blank">MORE THAN CEREAL</a>, is for some of my buddies to get on board with me.<br />
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Come on! It's fun, it's easier than you think and there's no pressure to do every single dare. But I guarantee you will enjoy yourself and, if we live close by, think of all the money we can save by sharing tangerine nailpolish and hot pink lipstick!<br />
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Also, the first dare is Big Hair! A chance to release your inner <a href="https://www.google.com.au/search?q=melanie+griffith+working+girl&client=firefox-a&hs=tke&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=G0CoUZ7rGsjmiAexpYDgBA&ved=0CAoQ_AUoAQ&biw=1920&bih=871" target="_blank">Working-Girl-Melanie-Griffith</a>. Or perhaps, <a href="https://www.google.com.au/search?q=elizabeth+hurley+austin+powers&client=firefox-a&hs=4Sz&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=zUCoUZSZCujRiAeP5YCgCA&ved=0CC8QsAQ&biw=1920&bih=871" target="_blank">Austin-Powers-Elizabeth-Hurley</a> is more your style. How can you possibly pass that up?! <br />
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You can find this month's line-up, including tips and ideas for each style dare, <a href="http://www.foxinflats.com.au/2013/05/style-dare-a-day-june/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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And if you have no idea what I'm talking about and missed all the selfie-action in April, here's a recap of my <strike>Idol Journey</strike> Style Dare Journey<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidfUr04QeOyLqaHmYRL_71ItZqNwFhMTR-Q7DCsoUc-1Y5m26uv6FqBbHt5XgaRNy1GGi48QoUBPRzBXoTLLleai6JRL_UrDM3hclRpzrEVWGSnIPjna3yNUjYX_WSoOmakizZXRefOZ0/s1600/Arm+Party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidfUr04QeOyLqaHmYRL_71ItZqNwFhMTR-Q7DCsoUc-1Y5m26uv6FqBbHt5XgaRNy1GGi48QoUBPRzBXoTLLleai6JRL_UrDM3hclRpzrEVWGSnIPjna3yNUjYX_WSoOmakizZXRefOZ0/s400/Arm+Party.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 1: Arm Party</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5VSz4lTPZJbVy6BuCdSCBMhwZgGqeXb6-6SSPOUMLhbZTNcNXFvJhlsrnFe2_3GT7Gp372kPa6JT5XRN6382S0UHqqJrzwhO2ACjdrWEz295yEGIOV20MeGCcMdF0IdEos_sWcW0RHiY/s1600/Sparkles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5VSz4lTPZJbVy6BuCdSCBMhwZgGqeXb6-6SSPOUMLhbZTNcNXFvJhlsrnFe2_3GT7Gp372kPa6JT5XRN6382S0UHqqJrzwhO2ACjdrWEz295yEGIOV20MeGCcMdF0IdEos_sWcW0RHiY/s400/Sparkles.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 2: Sparkles</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjPkermpsE8bBedpKHE0acuoHoaHfqkH8yihwtzdGIrTu0kOuyhZIEzj3gAnyH5mwwMVO3Zo7PgiDRER_dNKJ2AMckGQ3Ou6zTolVNT43TYyoa-7FlB1NlmPPNSVx99qj3aQkr3QotmkQ/s1600/scarf.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjPkermpsE8bBedpKHE0acuoHoaHfqkH8yihwtzdGIrTu0kOuyhZIEzj3gAnyH5mwwMVO3Zo7PgiDRER_dNKJ2AMckGQ3Ou6zTolVNT43TYyoa-7FlB1NlmPPNSVx99qj3aQkr3QotmkQ/s400/scarf.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 3: Scarf</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ZrcsLCCYn_J7FNu0HVTtKvAoQPZLVR-5vjSIHeGYvnm1-XM_SirvtLTxrPh6Mk2b52EayP69q83n4Wn3tYOUM_m9AsHgypSg09dFgWwyV6yOoll1V59pmGSYJGPwqW0WYKAdsR-aryU/s1600/Slick.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ZrcsLCCYn_J7FNu0HVTtKvAoQPZLVR-5vjSIHeGYvnm1-XM_SirvtLTxrPh6Mk2b52EayP69q83n4Wn3tYOUM_m9AsHgypSg09dFgWwyV6yOoll1V59pmGSYJGPwqW0WYKAdsR-aryU/s400/Slick.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 4: Slick</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJTecz5C3a9zZ6vj1AgYH7PEOFU111BjurgHyLD1803kf8hn2qEeQvmPvJSSRlsJgu33WLw4acUM1A_hN9iN4-yIjPahBHjQUjMHXvxW9cYSTx-uzkEOG6X1_t11eq7wMEsD4-OrL5PNE/s1600/pink+lips.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJTecz5C3a9zZ6vj1AgYH7PEOFU111BjurgHyLD1803kf8hn2qEeQvmPvJSSRlsJgu33WLw4acUM1A_hN9iN4-yIjPahBHjQUjMHXvxW9cYSTx-uzkEOG6X1_t11eq7wMEsD4-OrL5PNE/s400/pink+lips.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 5: Pink Lips</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7Xdzws4wIIinf1IxmblZZd9dFEIEmgB2yeopkcmTJh6TLyjpiYeD3ZpRg3Gm3RtvBLaFj0q0-Gwizg0UQpC9etegsrLocxucU3VVW8t6n6b9LYtnnquWQ-LervY8MBxDFG3rit1blcA/s1600/IMG_6314.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7Xdzws4wIIinf1IxmblZZd9dFEIEmgB2yeopkcmTJh6TLyjpiYeD3ZpRg3Gm3RtvBLaFj0q0-Gwizg0UQpC9etegsrLocxucU3VVW8t6n6b9LYtnnquWQ-LervY8MBxDFG3rit1blcA/s400/IMG_6314.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 6: Boots</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1mj0cFrVM-Q5MHEF7xg5ZMAWUazZt0aJl-pz0-JGe6sVSPce-u_7VNrQ0f4lyUfS4GnVekoja-_YM16wAlRSSxp0ssPvvks_PIQ0JlARGR7qT8L4kzgWK1t8Jo_1ciTLdzDTk8v-OC_M/s1600/Dress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1mj0cFrVM-Q5MHEF7xg5ZMAWUazZt0aJl-pz0-JGe6sVSPce-u_7VNrQ0f4lyUfS4GnVekoja-_YM16wAlRSSxp0ssPvvks_PIQ0JlARGR7qT8L4kzgWK1t8Jo_1ciTLdzDTk8v-OC_M/s400/Dress.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 7: Dress</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1sbWwjP7o3uvnIlraRzm37g944EWYaI8VxZr6giba-7cuP-kWLLCCjnjmupp4d-sqkabeRYL3sMtVtsmn_HaolYWh5HTb5yKsYjSo4dJIK3PruYUyPg8XxoUh2uSAcJ3Udq1YPODKs1k/s1600/Braid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1sbWwjP7o3uvnIlraRzm37g944EWYaI8VxZr6giba-7cuP-kWLLCCjnjmupp4d-sqkabeRYL3sMtVtsmn_HaolYWh5HTb5yKsYjSo4dJIK3PruYUyPg8XxoUh2uSAcJ3Udq1YPODKs1k/s400/Braid.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 8: Braid</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKzNQQlkT75KOWmgmiOhKrWKLU1Y_JivD0JSQfzpCMXv-hionbHf0PNnlpiw_I7WRjqoc2BBpkUG2oB5AvQ36UTT3vKqhqPAd4A8-6_c0kWc671xBl9dxIgm4wi-G-D3x5x6zUGSNpyZA/s1600/Stack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKzNQQlkT75KOWmgmiOhKrWKLU1Y_JivD0JSQfzpCMXv-hionbHf0PNnlpiw_I7WRjqoc2BBpkUG2oB5AvQ36UTT3vKqhqPAd4A8-6_c0kWc671xBl9dxIgm4wi-G-D3x5x6zUGSNpyZA/s400/Stack.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 9: Necklace Stack</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6S5QHah395ghxgSzKd-gVNnb6OQ7_r0j5KfRFQ9WwHUXchWsefI3XlRdCCzq9OFJjfgZSpadG6D2IXfQL3QVcoT5M8okKXcdh6HhuzXcFVu340pPuH9pTHdtemgfJHthp6MDNEvsfkE/s1600/Red+Nails.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6S5QHah395ghxgSzKd-gVNnb6OQ7_r0j5KfRFQ9WwHUXchWsefI3XlRdCCzq9OFJjfgZSpadG6D2IXfQL3QVcoT5M8okKXcdh6HhuzXcFVu340pPuH9pTHdtemgfJHthp6MDNEvsfkE/s400/Red+Nails.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 10: Red Nails</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieYoJDC0RkhqgacCXlit3KFyKC7mXsjwz_vxN2EIEBLoAI31ViqdIOlV6jfwagTPfvaA-_4TmskxNp28EwumFjqB5yJrMm5XgTKOdkPLMYk7b-nISVr2H0X9TVGJt-rOcTPjns1EtJ4ys/s1600/Denim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieYoJDC0RkhqgacCXlit3KFyKC7mXsjwz_vxN2EIEBLoAI31ViqdIOlV6jfwagTPfvaA-_4TmskxNp28EwumFjqB5yJrMm5XgTKOdkPLMYk7b-nISVr2H0X9TVGJt-rOcTPjns1EtJ4ys/s400/Denim.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 11: Denim</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx4hxAfbEYrRuDPFEnt56600O9pFleIngomJ-fDLFW_Rek6qD_TJHsem9fshhLw2Qlq0c3sep-e67LYDhbpNtNS31zg8BiU3PLXnXcRgwsF0MndiIjeuJ_aSQb4bjvSmZbKmGugCXf7JU/s1600/Animal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx4hxAfbEYrRuDPFEnt56600O9pFleIngomJ-fDLFW_Rek6qD_TJHsem9fshhLw2Qlq0c3sep-e67LYDhbpNtNS31zg8BiU3PLXnXcRgwsF0MndiIjeuJ_aSQb4bjvSmZbKmGugCXf7JU/s400/Animal.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 12: Animal Print</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh64D-3dnNaH_gm3zKi37U8pnV581K8cM4z7l36W-3wTM8_IMk8YnkE_g-UfprPQEbSLx_6I8DrJYlulVdnsDlCJ4PpaiwOP2APqwBm744WvJMZR79HiQX1BkSxgNjle0k2tcsiKMtAFgc/s1600/All+Black.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh64D-3dnNaH_gm3zKi37U8pnV581K8cM4z7l36W-3wTM8_IMk8YnkE_g-UfprPQEbSLx_6I8DrJYlulVdnsDlCJ4PpaiwOP2APqwBm744WvJMZR79HiQX1BkSxgNjle0k2tcsiKMtAFgc/s400/All+Black.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 14: All Black</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8vA9bM9D-cwrvggjAlUu9wxbH0VC8tm9kG52iQmkYScrShG5oIuRlvv3z6vb6YLJMmR4WSaNlnqciJnxOgCmZyfPPsLicqe20n4pqBjTaIscoBNgjBPd1K7a5dlc30SnHTFlnaPR0bM/s1600/Curls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8vA9bM9D-cwrvggjAlUu9wxbH0VC8tm9kG52iQmkYScrShG5oIuRlvv3z6vb6YLJMmR4WSaNlnqciJnxOgCmZyfPPsLicqe20n4pqBjTaIscoBNgjBPd1K7a5dlc30SnHTFlnaPR0bM/s400/Curls.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 15: Curls</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij3K8I404lHYfe8_THL4fAouaRYqnc06UWPfrQHkuu09RUrDTdszq23GBL0PGyRqcml2J2_bDYnl5W3RymVu5uElNqNs7gO22dy9oc73o7-pBEwVktZlcj_Ya__4IVEf7lMsai4xOA86E/s1600/Stripes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij3K8I404lHYfe8_THL4fAouaRYqnc06UWPfrQHkuu09RUrDTdszq23GBL0PGyRqcml2J2_bDYnl5W3RymVu5uElNqNs7gO22dy9oc73o7-pBEwVktZlcj_Ya__4IVEf7lMsai4xOA86E/s400/Stripes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 16: Stripes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLllyewo_ACUuUd-J8lvBxRf8d-hNcCax_r9Dt3q904AL4ULVQcv_FvYT2v7WjFDdmwlKqRD_Lu6GOg0xEkE9yI0uZSidCY_PwMW4ljPRlAZ9B7dfK20fbAmkPTPqnB0_LcNrVa1ZrmrA/s1600/Studded.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLllyewo_ACUuUd-J8lvBxRf8d-hNcCax_r9Dt3q904AL4ULVQcv_FvYT2v7WjFDdmwlKqRD_Lu6GOg0xEkE9yI0uZSidCY_PwMW4ljPRlAZ9B7dfK20fbAmkPTPqnB0_LcNrVa1ZrmrA/s400/Studded.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 17: Studded</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj09Q9S0c363vtFL5CUuLBpe-p5pt6WWA67CX7OEBfbbWQTfpAA2383VPmfentWVkK5qVCqkHYtbS2LGBWzJiuZG4OjQ2M9QTsdvV31QD66kZsnkNmTTL2JlkxHmDW1RZJXgf5x4h3QBF0/s1600/Pattern.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj09Q9S0c363vtFL5CUuLBpe-p5pt6WWA67CX7OEBfbbWQTfpAA2383VPmfentWVkK5qVCqkHYtbS2LGBWzJiuZG4OjQ2M9QTsdvV31QD66kZsnkNmTTL2JlkxHmDW1RZJXgf5x4h3QBF0/s400/Pattern.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 18: Pattern</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG95djmCrvmMJAEDcVdwu_EkDdD_OWRUnucff_PFUCk5W8erGvommb6eBU3W4AprUCh5fMFI0QBGSkVeIUeUdiVZj1mOKMkQl0TIboJjZ88cj599_hnXYvZ2t4VQ20JcU2TKBi4RcmmBA/s1600/Brooch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG95djmCrvmMJAEDcVdwu_EkDdD_OWRUnucff_PFUCk5W8erGvommb6eBU3W4AprUCh5fMFI0QBGSkVeIUeUdiVZj1mOKMkQl0TIboJjZ88cj599_hnXYvZ2t4VQ20JcU2TKBi4RcmmBA/s400/Brooch.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 19: Brooch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitEcewsfZfW52xbbXi_nBMQn22uKOCFM3aDRS-fYPGkgLq99LBoEqckzy6jBHNEOdX4lYjK6_bvurc93wBbBix4ph_VTkvoipzsH1FB8Bk74d0I6TVSq0Gxlfa7V41G3uB7N8PZXNelyo/s1600/IMG_6544.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitEcewsfZfW52xbbXi_nBMQn22uKOCFM3aDRS-fYPGkgLq99LBoEqckzy6jBHNEOdX4lYjK6_bvurc93wBbBix4ph_VTkvoipzsH1FB8Bk74d0I6TVSq0Gxlfa7V41G3uB7N8PZXNelyo/s400/IMG_6544.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 20: Black Eyeliner</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4OBS_Fp1gYML6T6pSiWCMjai1rx7eLRngVhOqg-XHRtXXIf0ShYY_VJQ03yw4fVzDP_t0LMfpYlUpXj-VbNvaPLakLZmnt8q92KkgDQSqw_8bAiy0LF5NDeFz7z6eNrQClhFMnkcB4mU/s1600/IMG_6581.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4OBS_Fp1gYML6T6pSiWCMjai1rx7eLRngVhOqg-XHRtXXIf0ShYY_VJQ03yw4fVzDP_t0LMfpYlUpXj-VbNvaPLakLZmnt8q92KkgDQSqw_8bAiy0LF5NDeFz7z6eNrQClhFMnkcB4mU/s400/IMG_6581.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 21: Multicoloured Mani</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTq_T8bxS6TBJDMy2AR_E0Xc35OVC1_ikLYFzO9_mf5TOaT7yNzZLxBng6Kna5AzWtTzmTuFToP4TyaK8YDG9gzFncKgWHSyp0QXaKOaevcTCaDE4GHp5oMTOuoDcnDMTNA6Eg2TCtTnY/s1600/IMG_6631.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTq_T8bxS6TBJDMy2AR_E0Xc35OVC1_ikLYFzO9_mf5TOaT7yNzZLxBng6Kna5AzWtTzmTuFToP4TyaK8YDG9gzFncKgWHSyp0QXaKOaevcTCaDE4GHp5oMTOuoDcnDMTNA6Eg2TCtTnY/s400/IMG_6631.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 23: Ponytail</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWyzCJAQS4wKtO-mV0kP6UqtjdrsEnTGZwciLGBhFrzrhkzouMatvWNha88gEt7bbOkJXwUCeF3n9b9Ihrtk-PF1xlDwdlvLq9qbTv-bDaGw0RkRnoJegdlcdraCt1grvpDNIOHrZPkk/s1600/IMG_6645.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWyzCJAQS4wKtO-mV0kP6UqtjdrsEnTGZwciLGBhFrzrhkzouMatvWNha88gEt7bbOkJXwUCeF3n9b9Ihrtk-PF1xlDwdlvLq9qbTv-bDaGw0RkRnoJegdlcdraCt1grvpDNIOHrZPkk/s400/IMG_6645.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 24: Red Lips</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvz28IGilTcdLZ8RY77gP5o1b4Avpq4TBO52UCwHHo120GwDg1Qo-evNlwAALbf_lRqtv6G6kt6z7fetad4wNbj91s3bIyNy5geJHqOKJTfVRCRM_B5mX87z3gnQQ3ZhpzMvtr7Pqltj8/s1600/IMG_6657.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvz28IGilTcdLZ8RY77gP5o1b4Avpq4TBO52UCwHHo120GwDg1Qo-evNlwAALbf_lRqtv6G6kt6z7fetad4wNbj91s3bIyNy5geJHqOKJTfVRCRM_B5mX87z3gnQQ3ZhpzMvtr7Pqltj8/s400/IMG_6657.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 25: Australian</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiox9MWVwx3FZW8VJ2zS0AOCnXJk3FIvag_UY7Vw9Am9r8tBKkiiMH1P4HLDPCpwxutwUB-4g9eaOArm6wog9KEFlJIZBAmhWfCEQ2zL0rtguzV9GGQw9K_NzB-RFIQyurxaVdd89eEnJc/s1600/IMG_6662.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiox9MWVwx3FZW8VJ2zS0AOCnXJk3FIvag_UY7Vw9Am9r8tBKkiiMH1P4HLDPCpwxutwUB-4g9eaOArm6wog9KEFlJIZBAmhWfCEQ2zL0rtguzV9GGQw9K_NzB-RFIQyurxaVdd89eEnJc/s400/IMG_6662.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 26: Collared</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM9ZTva8wH8Qy8YUm4EigGaQb9nm1DL01fWjLQxwtzBwYfkrWXxYRJRHYf_9nMaH185nF8qi-fD-EAbheaXSWrM74JX8hIeXo-bd8Vn85H3aKUrHJvfexVVN3LaehtpzacCFlkYEthpUg/s1600/IMG_6717.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM9ZTva8wH8Qy8YUm4EigGaQb9nm1DL01fWjLQxwtzBwYfkrWXxYRJRHYf_9nMaH185nF8qi-fD-EAbheaXSWrM74JX8hIeXo-bd8Vn85H3aKUrHJvfexVVN3LaehtpzacCFlkYEthpUg/s400/IMG_6717.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 27: White</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD08oTDvWtga2WF2d0n6o1RRb4JcT8nqtAN1k540O_SarYrdr0DC8Dp6129TJSGr5nDYBeFm44px4p8NLyH7fej4SDZByxitsiLuYRvYmdUBvPg0oD_S00kTkmpppF__D8y-ZMq8qc8Do/s1600/IMG_6868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD08oTDvWtga2WF2d0n6o1RRb4JcT8nqtAN1k540O_SarYrdr0DC8Dp6129TJSGr5nDYBeFm44px4p8NLyH7fej4SDZByxitsiLuYRvYmdUBvPg0oD_S00kTkmpppF__D8y-ZMq8qc8Do/s400/IMG_6868.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 28: Pigtails</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisZqV4WbCUEJy4RWg7yuyEsIwZ-okw3NY_P406X3nbW_w2wSnVSuHcGeMTv_DNi5We2yzRMQ2ZuLGONtlR8FuU6Mtc6qi-J0vXM7zWlFAwva_wfaN3YqCsvA4iW3AdV6k1WBuC5d4IQaY/s1600/IMG_6880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisZqV4WbCUEJy4RWg7yuyEsIwZ-okw3NY_P406X3nbW_w2wSnVSuHcGeMTv_DNi5We2yzRMQ2ZuLGONtlR8FuU6Mtc6qi-J0vXM7zWlFAwva_wfaN3YqCsvA4iW3AdV6k1WBuC5d4IQaY/s400/IMG_6880.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 29: Flower</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbi8pgiAbLyZ58JamGnhD9dSn49Y2fNBnag_o3d8OdGrKPPHB6SyoMQsdJTTq0unDgZOX9H_JF3qF9LD6mTuBs6HC6PM9kEO9zhfnlXfO29VeJQQl6LZsyD1JO6pjaYsXBMJzLUSPkQLk/s1600/IMG_6925.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbi8pgiAbLyZ58JamGnhD9dSn49Y2fNBnag_o3d8OdGrKPPHB6SyoMQsdJTTq0unDgZOX9H_JF3qF9LD6mTuBs6HC6PM9kEO9zhfnlXfO29VeJQQl6LZsyD1JO6pjaYsXBMJzLUSPkQLk/s400/IMG_6925.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 30: Hat</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So come on chicks! Don't be chicken. Come on in - the water's fine xx <br />
<br />
<br />Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-21424384737841971782013-05-24T17:45:00.000+10:002013-05-24T17:46:50.280+10:00Sydney's Public Transport - I Thank You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbxg2RcNuxVW98e3XJw99aWudCVI_ojoRFbk8XeQwUSckeSfNj9RRkjamgyY443sIsyT0gqQzfB0KDIIkleBjW2wX8ktJLHlqfrsDnclardFT9iGC2kxGhZ-WDZSloag78TsTaFrmUo_c/s1600/Bluewall1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbxg2RcNuxVW98e3XJw99aWudCVI_ojoRFbk8XeQwUSckeSfNj9RRkjamgyY443sIsyT0gqQzfB0KDIIkleBjW2wX8ktJLHlqfrsDnclardFT9iGC2kxGhZ-WDZSloag78TsTaFrmUo_c/s400/Bluewall1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Today is one of those days when it seems inconceivable that I was swimming in the ocean a mere eleven days ago. Winter has sprung in formerly-sunny-Sydney. The ocean is fifty shades of grey-green, big white marshmallow clouds are galloping across the sky and the ugg boots have come out to play.<br />
<br />
Just a word on ugg boots . . . my neighbour Jo just popped in to invite us to a shindig at their place on Saturday night. She was wearing ugg boots. I was wearing ugg boots. The dress code for their party is ugg boots. Because that's the way we classy Collaroy chicks roll. Woo! We do, however, draw the line at cardy-chardy cask wine you'll be relieved to know. We drink from BOTTLES!!<br />
<br />
However, I didn't plan to write about ugg boots. Not to say that I couldn't write a whole post on ugg boots. I have a few good ugg boot stories. They aren't all pretty, but then, neither are ugg boots. All I will say is that black ugg boots may <i>look</i> good, but they ARE NOT GOOD. Subject closed.<br />
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Anyhoo . . .<br />
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We were forewarned by the weather bureau that this miserable cold wet weather was going to set in, so on Tuesday I decided to take advantage of the last sunny day of our rapidly diminishing Indian summer and take Francesca on some public transport.<br />
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This was not her first adventure on public transport. She went on a bus with our friend Philippa last year. And only last week, I took her on a train ride from North Sydney to Waverton, an impressive distance of one station north. AND BACK!<br />
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Right about now, those of you who don't have children or who are too old to remember what it's like to have many, many, many, many long, long, long, long hours in a day to find ways to entertain a toddler, are thinking that I am a miserly cheapskate with no imagination. Public transport as entertainment? Am I mad?<br />
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But those of you with pre-school children are nodding and chuckling and throwing back another glass of wine (from a BOTTLE I hope, you classy reader you!) in acknowledgement. Public transport as a form of pre-schooler amusement, is absolute gold!<br />
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It's new! It's exciting! It's time-consuming! It's cheap! And to a small child, it's like a fabulous dream come true in which every appealing, lovable, highly merchandised form of transport has crossed over into real life. Thomas! Chuggington! Cars! Who is that blowing the whistle? OMG, IT MUST BE THE FAT CONTROLLER!!! (cue toddler swoon).<br />
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On Tuesday it was time to try the big kahuna of Sydney's public transport system - the ferry. Whenever we cross Spit Bridge, Francesca points out the window and yells excitedly "Look Mummy, BOATS!!" Fortunately, we live in a city where it is very easy to fulfill a toddler's boat riding dreams. For the price of a movie ticket, we were able to jump on the Manly ferry for the half hour ride to Circular Quay and oh my, it was every bit as exciting as it promised to be.<br />
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All the way to Manly in the car, Francesca was talking about the boat and how it was going to be a yellow boat. THANK YOU Sydney Transport for painting your boats yellow. Mind you, Francesca's grasp of colours is not all that great. The ferries could be painted in purple and orange stripes and I'm pretty sure I could have sold her on the fact they were definitely yellow.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirze0_rCpBBYhZyNMYYDs5GKcY3BW_mXc1W1NF3T-Knc9VEpEdTw01C2rd_oHkb5QCdvVh332pL2Rxdrqb_qkHa7ekuhJXrFTCYuxNGuDfOp_hTOexa3mCoi334TQgxCP5vi_Hkmk7NJM/s1600/Quay3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirze0_rCpBBYhZyNMYYDs5GKcY3BW_mXc1W1NF3T-Knc9VEpEdTw01C2rd_oHkb5QCdvVh332pL2Rxdrqb_qkHa7ekuhJXrFTCYuxNGuDfOp_hTOexa3mCoi334TQgxCP5vi_Hkmk7NJM/s400/Quay3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thank you Sydney Transport for painting your boats yellow</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The journey across the harbour was terribly eventful, what will all that going inside, going outside, going inside, going outside business. To the lady trying to read her novel just inside the door, who lost her place every time we opened the door to a blast of wind, sorry. I'm glad you moved. Eventually.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 'outside' bit</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 'inside' bit</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Even though we didn't need a reason to go to the city because, hellooo, BOAT!!!, we decided it would be fun to do something once we got there and arranged to catch up with my gorgeous friend Clare, who works in a vault somewhere under Castlereagh Street. Under all that Chanel couture and Mont Blanc pennery (new word!) is a vault where the Jason Bournes of Sydney can store all their alias passports, fake moustaches and fifty kinds of currency in private safety deposit boxes.<br />
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After inspecting the vault, we decided to go for coffee and cake.<br />
<br />
And that's where the excitement of the BOAT!!! came back to bite me. Because everyone knows that too much excitement in a tiny body can cause a subsequent meltdown.<br />
<br />
We went to a fancy cafe on the fancy level of Westfield (Jones the Grocer) where the cakes looked like works of art and the olive oil was backlit. We sank onto the leather banquette ready for a good catch-up chat only to have Francesca proceed to whine and not dine. She didn't touch her layered babycino, and spat out the jam filled cake she had determinedly chosen. Oh, it was painful. Clare laughed it off and, because she not only remembers the toddler years but is also like a sister, didn't hold it against me. She didn't give me the pained look that says "This is why I'll never have another baby." She just said it. "This is why I'll never have another baby." God love her. Obviously I agreed. She will probably look at me the same way in 13 years, with the pity of a woman who has survived three teenaged girls.<br />
<br />
Then Clare did what all good aunties do . . . took Francesca next door to the lolly shop for a sugar fix. Problem solved. Those ten jubes occupied Francesca in her stroller all the way back to the ferry. In fact, she was so relaxed and happy all the way home, I decided to forgive her for being blacklisted from the fancy cafe on the fancy level at Westfield. I also got a chance to play with my iphone photo apps and take some pics of my daughter's first excursion to the city she lives in . . .<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSPNhde1IX481KyYbILmulFdI_iv1E4PtNpohyphenhypheneKtl1Pdmc99IPwrR-HhAdpcVVF8rHntwhTmxIwqNfAPud1fNa_Fv06jiUCDVu8WmzQiAAuTYxdVgA_FiOjZChtSdfYE-iALIpLV5r6Y/s1600/Buildings1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSPNhde1IX481KyYbILmulFdI_iv1E4PtNpohyphenhypheneKtl1Pdmc99IPwrR-HhAdpcVVF8rHntwhTmxIwqNfAPud1fNa_Fv06jiUCDVu8WmzQiAAuTYxdVgA_FiOjZChtSdfYE-iALIpLV5r6Y/s400/Buildings1.jpg" width="388" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I spend a lot of time looking 'up' when I'm in the city - I love seeing our gorgeous heritage buildings rubbing shoulders with shiny modern architecture</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWOZkVuM2dCdYWRXdsDK4us494VX6adu3R043_K04hLcO1o6IXSN-Hn-5vjoR5gPwK1tAIeHUsWxqp-sFFjRY1ROSlMTwZBP-rnZxmrgZafvmfUacw55xoAA6IIdvVFqpRjZHapMdmDBY/s1600/Quay1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWOZkVuM2dCdYWRXdsDK4us494VX6adu3R043_K04hLcO1o6IXSN-Hn-5vjoR5gPwK1tAIeHUsWxqp-sFFjRY1ROSlMTwZBP-rnZxmrgZafvmfUacw55xoAA6IIdvVFqpRjZHapMdmDBY/s400/Quay1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting for the ferry, Wharf 3, Circular Quay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSDHsEWu7jOmIj87di4oM9bSPAPq_VH2RcPYJ2T4ZLi9zZICalgIAiyNc2-9hXVkIozDLXalLe2ChacNt0lnIn9oKueAHP3K2NETK2t4VlZbFNVDl3jbnRI062KtUSsnlkapn83hPYQlU/s1600/Quay2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSDHsEWu7jOmIj87di4oM9bSPAPq_VH2RcPYJ2T4ZLi9zZICalgIAiyNc2-9hXVkIozDLXalLe2ChacNt0lnIn9oKueAHP3K2NETK2t4VlZbFNVDl3jbnRI062KtUSsnlkapn83hPYQlU/s400/Quay2.jpg" width="398" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_xHhfyj1RAFIDZlJ3smEOirMGQwIPBtz_eTJyvC02587sHCn0y_wb1JzrpPYUkOreI4AVJGH2WyC7CbbBxm8VaxP6tkZIW_CXKFnn2E3sIAB-iIrpbsxmMtx-lb4nxmcoW7cj1edsQo/s1600/Seahorses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_xHhfyj1RAFIDZlJ3smEOirMGQwIPBtz_eTJyvC02587sHCn0y_wb1JzrpPYUkOreI4AVJGH2WyC7CbbBxm8VaxP6tkZIW_CXKFnn2E3sIAB-iIrpbsxmMtx-lb4nxmcoW7cj1edsQo/s400/Seahorses.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking up again, this time at Circular Quay, where these seahorses live under the roof</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVQYG96HiDd9_4-gGJ8BkA0iE70e9IPL_fXEq4YJveVXKx7q3DdebkxyUUfJsdKPPqW0K3hb-ZFEBYOcqI-99x7SLEZCGpF_KUpH1GYrhCY9RXzkDIPB_PAK9374-zPgfqaHUwIGcl9ZY/s1600/Sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVQYG96HiDd9_4-gGJ8BkA0iE70e9IPL_fXEq4YJveVXKx7q3DdebkxyUUfJsdKPPqW0K3hb-ZFEBYOcqI-99x7SLEZCGpF_KUpH1GYrhCY9RXzkDIPB_PAK9374-zPgfqaHUwIGcl9ZY/s400/Sky.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The giant gnarled fig tree in Macquarie Place takes my breath away, flourishing next to its concrete & stone neighbours</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4IQRs10ugo5MAzyOG66O2D9LzY5n21SFc8bbRPLw8M7uy2_foi5lcv4-igAZ82jTzjg08KwKOoGu49Ce1BhvsDH4-cReMZvl5J8vUpODuEFM892dRGWYKWktTUMw3W1nczU6m3sC2faA/s1600/Strolling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4IQRs10ugo5MAzyOG66O2D9LzY5n21SFc8bbRPLw8M7uy2_foi5lcv4-igAZ82jTzjg08KwKOoGu49Ce1BhvsDH4-cReMZvl5J8vUpODuEFM892dRGWYKWktTUMw3W1nczU6m3sC2faA/s400/Strolling.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strolling . . .</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid-vDQK6BWzcPpQBlZbc-llIu_7dEe0R0-bN33_5m1hW5cB4eKUUedswj7n-gLLd61lsI7Zf9PP6S8PyfhuwA5hLZJrhHh5XuIKjGginfBmwBUKLDCmW9R1fgHgLO8nVg_jtQfXWJJC_U/s1600/Bluewall2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid-vDQK6BWzcPpQBlZbc-llIu_7dEe0R0-bN33_5m1hW5cB4eKUUedswj7n-gLLd61lsI7Zf9PP6S8PyfhuwA5hLZJrhHh5XuIKjGginfBmwBUKLDCmW9R1fgHgLO8nVg_jtQfXWJJC_U/s640/Bluewall2.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back in Manly. Melt down? What melt down?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-70269216055329407362013-05-13T11:35:00.000+10:002013-05-13T13:23:58.466+10:00The Mama Mix<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOgvcRQR0Q5fDT1IDXri3lcrprqWumLeRT_PlXOf9ICDpQWnPAIQu5HCHqdDRNvq0sYBo32rwpjPNhv1-bV3ZOnahvdzECCya3eyD9S4XCKr9sgAgXDE7lA60iDqMDBDr07u-bPIoClwA/s1600/IMG_1575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOgvcRQR0Q5fDT1IDXri3lcrprqWumLeRT_PlXOf9ICDpQWnPAIQu5HCHqdDRNvq0sYBo32rwpjPNhv1-bV3ZOnahvdzECCya3eyD9S4XCKr9sgAgXDE7lA60iDqMDBDr07u-bPIoClwA/s400/IMG_1575.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Four generations of Bumparella women</td></tr>
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</style>So, let me tell you a modern day fairy tale.<br />
<br />
Once upon a time there was a little girl who dreamed of one day meeting a handsome prince. (No, not <i>that</i> little girl; that one had to move to Denmark, live in a palace, wear designer clothes and learn to speak the notoriously difficult Danish language - how very dull for her . . .?)<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, the little girl in our story met, instead, a lovely commoner and fell head over heels in love with him, even though he already had three children. So she married the man and became, not a princess, but a stepmother. (Oh, okay, she was a<i> little bit</i> of a princess too, but we all know you don't need a crown to be a princess huh?)<br />
<br />
So by now, clever reader, you've figured out the princess-ish stepmother is me.<br />
<br />
On my wedding day, I stood at the altar and looked at my new husband and my three new step-children and thought “Wow, I'm actually marrying four people. Hmmmm . . . how hard can Danish really be?!"<br />
<br />
No, no, no . . . I jest! What I really thought was, “Oh God, let me be a good stepmother and create a happy home for them.” I thought it was the parents who do the teaching, not the other way round. <br />
<br />
Well, those kids taught me a lot of things. I learned how to:<br />
<ul>
<li>Put on a band aid, and take it off with only minimal screaming </li>
<li>Iron hair</li>
<li>Listen to a girl with a broken heart </li>
<li>Get out of a top bunk bed at 2am with a hot arm strangling me and a slingshot digging into my chin without waking a child</li>
<li>Have three-way conversations with a teddy bear named Paddington </li>
<li>Bake birthday cakes in the shape of a football</li>
<li>Read every Harry Potter book out loud and do a pretty good Voldemort voice that’s not too scary</li>
<li>Cheer along at every sports event every weekend (on only one occasion to the point of embarrassment) </li>
</ul>
But probably the most important thing they taught me is that ‘mothers’ and their children can come in many different forms. You don’t necessarily have to be related by blood in order to be a mum or to love someone else’s children. They also taught me to be real. To be myself. Such a hard lesson to learn, when you're doing everything in your power just to be liked. I felt I somehow needed to make it up to them for being someone they didn't choose to have in their life. It took awhile for us all to realise that we were an "and" in each other's lives, not an "or".<br />
<br />
Lessons about how to be a mum also came from my grandmothers. <br />
<br />
My maternal grandma had eight children. Eight! Can you imagine? Clearly a good Catholic family. (Also, it was the 1940s. No television. Say no more).<br />
<br />
Without going into too much detail, my unwed mother found herself in the family way at the tender age of 18. Now, in the 1960s, this often led parents to come up with solutions for their unwed daughters that these days we would find unacceptable. Banishment. Adoption. Sent to live with nasty maiden aunts. But my very Catholic, extremely devout grandparents never considered anything but supporting their daughter and welcoming their new grand-daughter (me!) with much love and understanding.<br />
<br />
So from my maternal grandmother I learned what is probably the most important lesson in how to be a mum - how to give unconditional love.<br />
<br />
My paternal grandmother taught me about the importance of a bosomy hug as a fix-all solution to any woe. She also taught me the art of Tim Tam appreciation and how to play poker. In this age of sugar reduction and political correctness, this may seem irresponsible but I'm telling you, Tim Tams still have their place in a mother's arsenal of bribery tools. Likewise, you shouldn't underestimate the ability to pull a good poker face.<br />
<br />
My own mother has, of course, taught me a lot about being a mother. By 21 years old, she had 3 children under 4. I think she has selectively blocked most of the early years from her memory, but I haven’t. From her I learned these things: <br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>When making a cake, let your children lick the bowl</li>
<li>Let your daughter wear a crocheted bikini when she is five but NOT when she is fifteen </li>
<li>Do not let a four year old watch the Wizard of Oz because the wicked witch of the west is really quite scary </li>
<li>Indulge your children in their fantasies when they’re young, even if they fall out of a tree pretending they were Queen of the Fairies and sprain their arm. </li>
<li>Read to your children every day </li>
<li>Let your daughter buy that old orange Mini that stops dead whenever it runs through a puddle because she WILL learn that buying a crappy cheap car is NEVER a good idea </li>
<li>If you barack for a team that is NOT the Sydney Swans, you will be disowned</li>
<li>Sometimes mummies need to lock themselves in their bedroom with a packet of scorched peanuts and a trashy magazine. And that’s okay. </li>
</ul>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZm15dBHOqz4psrdDDQFZz6CU4I0FgrTg2I5jMY9TGLkVrtPs_TnImkl8rFQuQkC6GBlYd7sJH77FofPfSHAbsSIZlybpsnaAmhF8Z3w3MNzWx974_3qhARNIlerMmCgDWJH9TpcoPamU/s1600/Mum+1969.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZm15dBHOqz4psrdDDQFZz6CU4I0FgrTg2I5jMY9TGLkVrtPs_TnImkl8rFQuQkC6GBlYd7sJH77FofPfSHAbsSIZlybpsnaAmhF8Z3w3MNzWx974_3qhARNIlerMmCgDWJH9TpcoPamU/s400/Mum+1969.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mum in 1969 - a natural mama, despite only being 19. Don't you love the 60s glamour?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But most importantly, my mum has taught me the importance of support. Of always being there, even if it’s just at the other end of a phone, to get excited about a work promotion, or a new pregnancy, and to tell you you’re beautiful and amazing even when you’re feeling old, ugly and washed up. A mum who will get drunk with you in a margarita bar in Hong Kong is also a gal you want to keep by your side as long as possible.<br />
<br />
There have been so many other women in my life who have taught me how to be a mother. My darling mother-in-law, who passed away last year, taught me the importance of listening with interest to everything your children say, of engaging with them and asking questions. She also taught me how to sew a neat French seam when she helped me with the ridiculously ambitious task of sewing my three bridesmaid’s dresses. <br />
<br />
Some of the most precious lessons have been gifts from other mothers. The girls in my mother's groups, school mums, neighbours - I have soaked little bits of you all up! How else do we learn about the best sleeping bags, the benefits of screen-free time, how to sneak vegies into dinners and the tooth fairy's going rate?<br />
<br />
My dear friend Elizabeth, another beautiful, inspiring mother, whose heartfelt words made me realise just how strong the desire to be a mother can be, urged me to try everything in order to have another baby. That conversation led me to an IVF clinic. Without that <a href="http://bumparella.blogspot.com.au/2010/10/ivf-story-part-1-pity-party-that-set.html" target="_blank">single conversation</a>, little Francesca Barraclough would never have been born. Francesca's middle name is Elizabeth, after the woman who inspired her into life. <br />
<br />
From my friends who are adoptive mothers I have learned how the power of motherly love can transcend blood ties, as they welcome a child into their homes and hearts with a love that is immediately and wholly unconditional. Where does that instinct come from? The power of mother-love blows me away.<br />
<br />
And from friends who had to grow up without their mothers, I’ve learned about courage and strength. These women are among the most warm, nurturing mothers I know. They're doing something that comes naturally – being a mother is more than just what they've learned. It's been passed down to them in their genes by mothers who loved them so fiercely they fought their illnesses like crazy to stay on this earth and watch their daughters become mothers themselves. To lose the right to watch your children grow must have been scarier than death itself. Witnessing my friends turn their grief to love and pour it into their own children brings me undone. <br />
<br />
Of course, I have learned the most about being a mother, not just from being a stepmum to three young people who were half grown, but from the two I had the privilege to know from birth - Jack and Francesca. From these five children, I have learned how the joy of motherhood is mostly in the little moments. <br />
<ul>
<li>Watching the intent focus on the perfect, soft, unlined face of a young boy building a Millennium Falcon out of forty thousand small pieces of Lego, using a brain whose synapses are firing faster and more intelligently every day </li>
<li>Singing along to the Sound of Music or having suddenly-strong limbs leap upon you as boy becomes Spiderman</li>
<li>Lying on our backs on the trampoline in the afternoon watching the clouds change shape and discussing the finer points of goal kicking or whether teddy should wear a purple or green elastic on his ears</li>
<li>Getting man-sized hugs from boy-cubs grown into strong bears and stubbly kisses from once smooth faces</li>
<li>Out-of-the-blue text messages of love and appreciation from a gushy, gorgeous teenager grown into a warm, wonderful young woman.</li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJzTjcR4jx6WB1w10X8iEJaK434jSqGwxdr1-Aia3oaPb5NgzEmMmHNyjo87GCm4gW1ZH0iUYjZ1wT1x81vgMxpePZKX2QuA3KMtqq8Yja15MXTH34ljns5DDZLoCddQbYlnO7wQWBd4I/s1600/Kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJzTjcR4jx6WB1w10X8iEJaK434jSqGwxdr1-Aia3oaPb5NgzEmMmHNyjo87GCm4gW1ZH0iUYjZ1wT1x81vgMxpePZKX2QuA3KMtqq8Yja15MXTH34ljns5DDZLoCddQbYlnO7wQWBd4I/s400/Kids.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The five people who have taught me most about being a mum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I’ve also learned, from being a mother, that the garbage truck will always, without fail, come around and empty the bins exactly ten minutes after you’ve just gotten the baby down for a sleep. <br />
<br />
And where would a mother be without the father who contributed a special little something that helped produce the children and made being a mother possible. My husband John makes me a better mother by being my wing-man in this parenting business. I know for sure that I would be a more tired, grumpy, possibly hysterical mother if I didn’t have him to take the kids off for a hot chocolate on a Saturday morning so I can have a sleep in, or to consult with about that funny rash that appeared on a child’s arm and decide it’s nothing to worry about, or to pile us all in the car for a cheap and cheerful dinner down at the Dee Why sushi joint when he knows I can’t face another night of cooking three separate meals. <br />
<br />
If it’s true that you never stop being a mother, it’s also true that you never stop learning HOW to be a mother. <br />
<br />
So if you see me staring at you in the playground or on the beach or at the cafe, don’t worry I’m not stalking you. I’m probably just taking notes.Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-88948683243206574662013-04-15T10:56:00.000+10:002013-04-29T09:32:01.293+10:00To Wee Or Not To Wee<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlNlRUTDb0pJhjv5jnNvxQioc1tnXJzNog1bMwjczF5lVPtIi1XKhv46PG6fBG4u9iQi-uUMVCEVE8KMjF0rRuGh05xxsMY_9O2T4gl3sO8KwaCtIn_9eCCl7GPoJHOAT3-X6gSJEWmOE/s1600/Cesca+Wedgie+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlNlRUTDb0pJhjv5jnNvxQioc1tnXJzNog1bMwjczF5lVPtIi1XKhv46PG6fBG4u9iQi-uUMVCEVE8KMjF0rRuGh05xxsMY_9O2T4gl3sO8KwaCtIn_9eCCl7GPoJHOAT3-X6gSJEWmOE/s1600/Cesca+Wedgie+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only problem with all this undie-wearing business is the wedgies . . .</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And so we come to the most interesting of toddler milestones (if your definition of 'interesting' includes potential disaster, frequent embarrassment and involves poo in places other than a loo) . . . . toilet training.<br />
<br />
Once again, because of the seven year age gap between my children, I have <strike>blocked out</strike> forgotten what we did when it came to toilet training Jack. I seem to remember there was <b>The Day Of The Ten Wet Underpants</b> which led to the <b>The Month Of Pretending It Will Go Away</b>. But inevitably, he got toilet trained and, at nearly ten years of age, seems to be managing quite well (apart from the apparently hilarious pastime of farting in confined spaces).<br />
<br />
Francesca was very keen to start sitting on the toilet last year before her second birthday because she wanted to copy her little friend Piper who is six months older. There was plenty of enthusiastic toilet-sitting but zero actual wee action. Nevertheless, we set up a potty in the corner and, because it was summer and her preferred outfit was a pair of gumboots only, she would take herself off to the potty periodically without the complication of, y'know, clothing to unbutton, unclasp, unzip, pull down.<br />
<br />
Her first actual wee on the potty was met by thunderous applause from the whole family and of course, standing ovations were compulsory for every wee on the potty for quite some time thereafter.<br />
<br />
However, in the manner of many busy working women who barely have the energy for rotating the cap off a wine bottle (how on earth did we cope with the whole corkscrew business!?), taking a toddler out with only a thin layer of cotton between her unpredictable bottom and the many flooring surfaces of the outside world was all too hard. I decided we would go commando at home and wear nappies whilst out and about.<br />
<br />
This is what I like to call the Magical Toilet Training Breakthrough Formula (as opposed to the Lazy Parent Hit & Miss Approach). When the number of times the toddler successfully does a wee on the toilet, exceeds the number of accidents, they are ready to face the outside world.<br />
<br />
And so it came to pass. Toilet training - tick. And thank God for that.<br />
<br />
Francesca has been in Big Girl Undies for two months. I feel it's now safe to block out the memory of another milestone and continue coping with day to day life, including the unscrewing of wine caps which will now be deserving of my full focus. <br />
<br />
Next stop? Big Girl Bed. But that bus won't be coming along for quite some time. I'm not ready to allow a 2 year old full access to the entire house at all hours. That would require more wine than I am currently capable of unscrewing.<br />
<br />
I'd love to hear your 'wee' stories. Are you in the middle of toilet training? Been there done that? Or just in the process of screwing up the courage? Share!<br />
<br />
<b>Postscript 29 April:</b><br />
Now I need some advice too. Number ones on the toilet? No problems. But doing number twos is apparently very very scary and the one time we did it, we cried the whole way through. One could be forgiven for thinking that releasing that poo into the toilet was the equivalent of handing over one's first born son to King Herod! I've heard this is common but I've also heard of four year olds who 'hang on' till they get a nappy on and, oh Lord, save me from a constipated child who can build an entire virtual city in Minecraft but can't take a crap on a toilet. Tips and tricks required please.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYRd00HGoMjaZU-3mxSSB3qu-vnqyqjCxly1qXUauahGj6-jZ1bLevUuIELCmozQ73bjWPYnIbeHkdhp5LGYICNpPfQEfFMHTDanlCKMQpU26JiDmX2zdrxN7D9gFp9vD85Vfkj9VZYwg/s1600/cesca+hand+on+hip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYRd00HGoMjaZU-3mxSSB3qu-vnqyqjCxly1qXUauahGj6-jZ1bLevUuIELCmozQ73bjWPYnIbeHkdhp5LGYICNpPfQEfFMHTDanlCKMQpU26JiDmX2zdrxN7D9gFp9vD85Vfkj9VZYwg/s400/cesca+hand+on+hip.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Wedgie - it's all about wearing it with attitude. There's a lesson in that for all of us I think . . .</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-53393490221693327872013-04-12T15:36:00.002+10:002013-04-12T15:37:02.567+10:00These are the days my friendThank you daylight savings for your lovely six month stay. We were sorry to see you go with your balmy evenings and late sunsets and toddlers that slept till 7am.<br />
<br />
How absolutely bonkers is it that putting the clocks back ONE MEASLY HOUR can turn your whole world upside down? For the first week, I feel like I had a daylight savings hangover. Morning wake-ups at 6am instead of 7am and afternoons that dragged on like a Logies telecast.<br />
<br />
"Can it really only be 6.30pm?" I moaned every day last week when my body was expecting to have already eaten dinner and would have been anticipating the <strike>joy</strike> <strike>relief</strike> tender moment when I lay Francesca in her cot to sleep. At 6.30, she was still demanding to eat 'gwapes in the barf'!<br />
<br />
My body clock caught up with itself this week. John and I decided we would take advantage of the early starts and Indian summer weather by taking the kids to the beach this morning at 6.30am, followed by brekkie at our local cafe.<br />
<br />
I'm so glad we did.<br />
<br />
The water was warm and calm. While the kids played on the beach, John and I struck out with long strokes across the bay - him shearing through the water with strong freestyle, me setting a more languid pace on my back. We duck-dived to the ripply sand on the bottom and shot like arrows through hazy green and blue back to the surface. Such a beautiful start to the morning.<br />
<br />
These are the days my friends. You know . . . the days. The ones we'll look back on and think "Life was bloody good."<br />
<br />
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<br />Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-14658247948994565622013-03-22T07:10:00.000+11:002013-03-22T07:19:44.268+11:00Grand Dames & End Games<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
A year ago today, the Barraclough clan gathered at the home of my splendid mother-in-law Dorothy. We sat around her antique mahogany dining room table, spread out the place mats and coasters like she always showed us, and ate Shepherd's Pie. We talked and told stories and even laughed a little while down the hall, Dorothy lay in her bed (her <i>own</i> bed, mind you) dying.<br />
<br />
And it was beautiful. Sad, of course, but also beautiful. Being together as a family, surrounding her with love, going as far as we could on the next part of her journey with her. It felt like the highest honour.<br />
<br />
While we ate dinner, a carer sat with the sleeping Dorothy. Her jobs done, her patient comfortable, she sat there holding Dorothy's hand, stroking her hair, talking to her softly, crying occasionally. Why was she so devoted to this dying elderly woman, lavishing so much love and care on her? She had barely known her patient and the Dorothy she had known was not healthy, vibrant, golf-playing Dorothy, champion roast dinner cooker and witty raconteur. She was at the end of her life, fearful of leaving, tired of staying - a combination that will make anyone a tad cranky.<br />
<br />
But something always shone through. Even when things were at their most grim, Dorothy had a light inside her that still burned brightly and an elegance about her that never left. She was a Grand Dame in the full trouser-wearing, razor-witted, glamourous Katherine Hepburn-esque meaning of the word.<br />
<br />
The formidable Ms Hepburn once said "<i>If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun</i>" and that was so true of my spririted MIL. Her grandchildren adored her because she had such an enormous sense of fun, setting up games of indoor bowls and encouraging them to raid the biscuit jar when parents weren't looking. She told me only a few years ago that she still felt like her 21 year old self in her mind. I'll remember that when my own body starts to fail me.<br />
<br />
Kate Hepburn also said <i>"Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get, only with what you are expecting to give, which is everything"</i>. Truer words were never spoken. Dorothy gave and gave, with never any expectation of return, a quality that I admire and strive to emulate. It's hard to do (try it!), but she made it a way of life. Giving - love, money, food, golf tips, an ear to listen - was her modus operandi. Even at her sickest in hospital, she would learn all about her favourite nurses lives, asking them questions and taking an interest in them. I suspect this may also have been one of her wily ways of detracting attention from herself. The nurses and carers were all devoted to her.<br />
<br />
She could also be tough, especially in a debate. But so damn classy with it. A velvet sledgehammer sipping Irish whiskey. <br />
<br />
Tonight, I'll be thinking of that final dinner in her home, the night she breathed in and out for the last time and drifted off to meet her badly missed husband on the other side of this life.<br />
<br />
She's with us though. We like to keep her around, not just in our hearts and minds, but in the photograph that sits on top of the piano where, in her wedding dress made of pure white parachute silk, she keeps an eye on Jack's fingers skipping across the keys. In the quilt that rests on the back of a chair in Francesca's room. In her favourite crystal tumbler from which John drinks his nightly whiskey. And she is brilliant about finding me car parking spots when I most need them.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I wrote this poem (actually that seems too posh a term for what is just a few rhyming sentences) and read it at her funeral. For it is the minutiae that can sometimes offer an insight into a person.<br />
<br />
<b>Dorothy’s Pearls Of Wisdom </b><br />
<br />
Bridge is wonderful, you must learn how to play<br />
<br />
Don’t ever call in during Home and Away<br />
<br />
The best bananas are Lady Finger<br />
<br />
After one’s putt, one mustn’t linger<br />
<br />
In arguments or debates, you must be a ninja<br />
<br />
Every dish is improved by the addition of ginger<br />
<br />
Skim milk is awful, you must drink full cream<br />
<br />
When sewing one must do a neat French seam<br />
<br />
Religion is suspect, have you considered Buddha?<br />
<br />
Some of those priests and ministers shoulda<br />
<br />
Embrace golf and bridge but give bowls the flick<br />
<br />
And Richard may be Rich, but not Rick or Dick<br />
<br />
Those new fangled tech investments are far too risky<br />
<br />
Whatever you do, don’t drown the whiskey<br />
<br />
The only dog worth having is a golden retriever<br />
<br />
Behave like a lady, never a diva<br />
<br />
When on the tee, just breathe and swing<br />
<br />
On the car? It’s a scratch, never a ding<br />
<br />
A book must have a decent plot<br />
<br />
And the name is Dorothy, NEVER Dot!<br />
<br />
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<br />
Vale dear Dorothy. We miss you every day xxx<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-83221450270717890622013-03-16T15:03:00.000+11:002013-03-22T06:07:24.047+11:00Genea wins Masterchef with new soup<span style="color: #444444;">As if it wasn't enough that <a href="http://www.genea.com.au/" target="_blank">Genea</a> has a <a href="http://www.genea.com.au/Success-Rates/IVF-Success-Rates" target="_blank">30% higher success rate</a> than the average of all other IVF clinics in Australia, the good doctors and scientists there have had another amazing breakthrough, increasing your chance of getting pregnant by a further 26% per embryo transferred.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">Talk about a bunch of show-offs! But seriously, if you're thinking of trying IVF, you want this bunch of clever show-offs in your corner. In fact, I would go so far to say in the manner of loud television infomercial host "why go anywhere else?!" </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">A few weeks ago, Genea received TGA approval to use their new and improved 'culture medium' (the solution that the egg, sperm and embryo grow in) for all IVF patients going forward.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">If it were Masterchef, Matt Preston would be declaring that the cook's clever inclusion of lemongrass and chilli have made the soup literally POP with flavour to create an absolute winner!</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">I think my favourite IVF doctor <a href="http://drmarkbowman.com/" target="_blank">Prof Mark Bowman</a> summed it up beautifully (you can read the <a href="http://www.news.com.au/lifestyle/parenting/ivf-breakthrough-hope-for-older-women/story-fnet085v-1226573884167" target="_blank">full article here</a>):</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>"We are very happy with this. I am a big believer in minimising the
randomness of IVF. We can give patients a better chance to have a
successful pregnancy in a shorter time. It saves money and heartache." </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;">Saving money and heartache. Isn't that what it's all about? Ask any couple embarking on IVF what their two biggest fears are and they will be (a) fear of failure and (b) how much it's all going to cost. This new development in the land of IVF minimises both of those things and in my opinion, that's not just a scientific coup but another warm blanket for IVF couples to wrap around themselves on a journey that can sometimes feel long and lonely.</span></div>
Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-52189495551471618842013-03-08T16:27:00.001+11:002013-03-16T15:04:12.916+11:00Letting Go<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Letting go . . . </td></tr>
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<br />
I've been thinking a lot lately about the concept of 'letting go' and conversely, why we become so attached to things and people in the first place. Buddha is good on this. Do you know Buddha? He's that laid back guy sitting under the tree in the park with a smile on his face.<br />
<br />
Of course there's the cruel attachment one forms with one's favourite TV shows and the agonising wrench of having to let go of Don Draper or the good folk at Downton Abbey at the end of every season. It's difficult but achievable, especially as there are always reruns of Modern Family to fill the gaping hole with lovable humour.<br />
<br />
Harder to let go of are people. And not just the horrible-nasty-no-good-very-bad-just-plain-mean people who pop up in everyone's life at one stage or another. They should be let go, and rightly so. <br />
But sometimes it's important to let the people you love go too.<br />
<br />
Let me explain . . .<br />
<br />
We've just moved to a house high on a hill overlooking the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. Every morning at dawn I stand in the still, cool air on the deck of our house, high above the world. From this vantage, the sky also seems bigger - I can see banks of clouds running towards us through the blue overhead and big bashing storms forming out to sea. And perhaps because I feel so small in the universe amongst all of that, I suddenly feel more 'me' than I do at any other time of the day.<br />
<br />
Not a mother.<br />
<br />
Not a wife.<br />
<br />
Not a daughter.<br />
<br />
Not a business owner. <br />
<br />
Not a friend.<br />
<br />
Just. Me.<br />
<br />
All alone, with my childhood dreams, my sense of wonder, my knowledge of all that I am. A happy introvert. A sentimentalist. A believer in love and forgiveness. Too emotional at times and sometimes not emotional enough. A former fairy-believer. A tryer who is sometimes trying. A girl who wants to be everything all at once and fails to be <i>any</i>thing often. A dreamer who would rather write a cool novel than make a cold call. A shower-singer. A total dag.<br />
<br />
And it's such a gorgeous, liberating feeling to have those few minutes just being grateful and accepting where I am right now. My place in the universe.<br />
<br />
But to get to that place, it's necessary to let everything go. Fear and anxiety are inherently linked to the things and people in our lives. Worrying about something happening to the children, anxiety about jobs, money, the future. It's all too much. Modern life is overwhelming. It wakes us up at 3am and gnaws at us. No wonder we're all so tired all the time. It's fricking exhausting being a human being on this earth, being harrassed at 3am by an internal harridan about the cupcakes for the school fete and the screechy brakes on the car and the mean kid who's telling your child they're not allowed to play.<br />
<br />
But up on my deck, my eyrie, for those few minutes, I bring the people I love in close to me and I thank the universe for them, their health, and everything we have in our lives. Then one by one, I let them drift away from me. My husband, my parents, my children. I send them floating off into the sky on their own journeys, knowing that they will back with me momentarily, after I've had my fill of solitude. Of getting back to me.<br />
<br />
It's like picking up a beloved book from long ago and rediscovering a gorgeous, warm story. One you can come back to again and again.<br />
<br />
Happy Friday xx<br />
<br />
<i>Image author's own doodle. Note the excellent big hair and absence of tuckshop arms. </i>Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-81598889130903509272013-02-21T15:48:00.000+11:002013-02-22T15:39:10.456+11:00Empathy Trumps Ego . . . (sometimes)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Last Tuesday morning as I was emerging from the crazy, nonsensical land of the 5am dreamscape (you know the kind of dream I mean . . . where you're the curiously ugly ten year old love child of Don & Megan Draper living in a cave in the middle of Manhattan and eating pistachios through a straw), when I heard a muffled expletive. At first I thought I had dreamed it (perhaps Don ran out of whiskey & cigarettes) but then I heard the kitchen door open and realised it must be Ryan.<br />
<br />
Ryan is our 22 year old rower and is often up at dawn's crack to scull the waterways of Sydney's harbour, so the fact he was awake at that time wasn't unusual. But something was amiss. I entered the kitchen to find him bleeding from the knee and shoulder. He'd missed a step in the dark on his way to the car, taken a tumble and shoulder-charged the tyre of the car whilst his knee made love to the pebble-crete path.<br />
<br />
Later in the day, Francesca became fascinated with Ryan's injuries, with the following exchange occurring at least twenty seven times before bed time:<br />
<br />
Francesca: "Ryry?"<br />
Ryan: "Yes Francesca?"<br />
F: "What happened?"<br />
R: "I fell over"<br />
F: "Hurt your knee?"<br />
R: "Yes I hurt my knee" <br />
F: "On tyre?"<br />
R: "Yes on the tyre of the car"<br />
F: "In dark?"<br />
R: "Yes, in the dark"<br />
F: "Oh"<br />
Pause<br />
F: "Okay?" as she pats Ryan on the leg<br />
R: "Yes, I'm okay"<br />
<br />
Pause for ten seconds. <br />
<br />
F: "Ryry, what happened?"<br />
R: "I fell over"<br />
F: "Hurt knee?"<br />
etc., and so on and so forth.<br />
<br />
This exchange continued on for days, in almost exactly the same order. The most fascinating part of the whole affair seemed to be the bit about it happening in the dark. Sometimes we'd turn the tables and ask Francesca "What happened to Ryan?" and she would answer "Fell over", then add melodramatically "In the dark!!"<br />
<br />
Oh it seems so boring written down like this but honestly it provided hours of amusement for us last week. What can I say, we are thrill seekers who love to live on the edge. And none of the good TV shows have started yet. We take our entertainment where we can get it. We're also cheap. No fancy Foxtel for us. We'd rather spend our money on booze and pills and pokies.<br />
<br />
JOKING! We only spend big on booze.<br />
<br />
The thing I really loved about the whole Ryan-falling-in-dark episode, however, was that it showed how much our little girl is growing up. The ego in a two year old is always firmly present - the self-absorbed pop princess diva is still in residence, ordering room service, leaving lipstick stains on the pillows and yelling at housekeeping - but the empathy gene is getting a look in.<br />
<br />
Suddenly the plastic newborn doll whose head she was previously using as a step ladder to reach inside the cutlery drawer, is her special baby. She takes Baby to bed, cuddles her, feeds her and washes her. Baby often does a poo and needs her nappy changed with the assistance of MANY wet wipes. Baby also seems to be rather grizzly and in need of cuddles with her mama cooing "It's okay, it's okay" over and over. It's such a joy to watch.<br />
<br />
Just don't try to separate the girl from her biscuit or you will discover that the toddler version of Nicky Minaj is alive and well and dishing out death stares in Collaroy.Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-78543471513708741352013-02-11T16:31:00.000+11:002013-02-12T15:45:42.446+11:00The Other Byron<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You know how sometimes you get back from holidays and you need a holiday after the holiday? Usually because the original holiday involved small children and having sand flung in your face and in your ear and in other places that sand should never normally go (except when you're seventeen and the dunes behind the caravan park at Torquay are the only place you and your boyfriend can . . . oh wait . . . my mum reads this. Hi Mum! I drank two West Coast Coolers there too. Phew! Okay, that's THAT off my chest!)<br />
<br />
I love those holidays, I really do (even the sand, because you can wash it off in the ocean and who doesn't love to wash sand off themselves forty seven times in a two hour beach session?!), but they can be exhausting.<br />
<br />
And then there are the holidays that, for whatever reason, just feel easier. The days amble along slowly, full of long book reading sessions, delicious food, easy choices and simple pleasures. Even with kids. They seem to just fall into line with your holiday rhythm and put their best barefoot forward.<br />
<br />
Our spontaneous January jaunt to the Byron region was just such a holiday. Notice how I said 'region'? That's because we did something we've never done in fourteen years of visiting Byron and booked three days at a cottage in the Byron hinterland.<br />
<br />
The lush green chequerboard of verdant farm lands, avenues of macadamia crops and pockets of rainforest that stretches west of Byron Bay has always appealed to me since we attended a wedding there several years ago. So I convinced my surfer husband to spend a few days soaking up some mountain air before heading back down to the briny blue and hairy armpits of Byron Bay.<br />
<br />
We're so glad we did. We all fell in love with it. From the <a href="http://www.nightcapcottage.com.au/www.nightcapcottage.com.au/" target="_blank">adorable cottage</a> we rented, to the roadside stalls where we picked up a tub of macadamia honey for $2 and bunches of flowers for $1, to the sneaky secret local's swimming hole where we whiled away hot hinterland afternoons under shady gums, we felt like we could stay forever.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">Don't you just want to eat a scone piled with cream under this tree?</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">On our first afternoon, the clouds rolled in and<span style="font-size: small;"> it was magnificent!</span> </span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">One of the many avenues winding through the hinterland. I was hooked on
the tree canopies overhead and the dappled sunlight . . .</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzo0qiGq6cExyxsz9qc9KXZb5Lvl2DI2DBSzJ0x8sYOwS_dnbqd3YilVDGod_92Qb5Ti696OWkXgGwJNkZCfgJMcWOA96LUGLQ7n9jVP7BBg_uzaaKa2-_-PA3GNHnNY8FwCj5RAVhOs/s1600/Avenue+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzo0qiGq6cExyxsz9qc9KXZb5Lvl2DI2DBSzJ0x8sYOwS_dnbqd3YilVDGod_92Qb5Ti696OWkXgGwJNkZCfgJMcWOA96LUGLQ7n9jVP7BBg_uzaaKa2-_-PA3GNHnNY8FwCj5RAVhOs/s1600/Avenue+2.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">Another avenue. More dappling . . . </span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFN0t0A-nwAZjB4KMYpItv2jTp8EvJNIidH3whMHtokmfBuGpTzeKrBFZeQNUjccoMKBgdRLbX8YRVExJin1qATTMpnP4c_dgq0SmYFhks2MM_LAIWu938auCNSEZ6gOLjjMv9gR4Qo0/s1600/Avenue+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFN0t0A-nwAZjB4KMYpItv2jTp8EvJNIidH3whMHtokmfBuGpTzeKrBFZeQNUjccoMKBgdRLbX8YRVExJin1qATTMpnP4c_dgq0SmYFhks2MM_LAIWu938auCNSEZ6gOLjjMv9gR4Qo0/s1600/Avenue+1.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">Ah . . . a dappled avenue. Dappled, dappled, dappled!</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">Whoever invented the squatter's chair deserves a scone and a cuppa!</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">Daddy adoration</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-BwM0TmktpP3gu1PDM-MdKzTlgl11rS_beDqCc95A50-VSdELH0RACkaPL8VweCCKKsMKTbAyCn3V2WJKmlAbO1jqS5RGK1Hk8HT_n87zGGybd9MJsISrrpVnjzYLyy9alX2xbHYpI0/s400/Cesca+ducks.jpg" height="400" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">Because rustic French doors need fat patchwork chickens hanging from them . . .</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjunvuxt7gm4D6AXWE6gnPoNA2GJC5XqNai8qK50pzKo97abeDhFSKhi_trSfe6Dwv5kA_Fa3qgKf7zynufhcyFRwKeq1UzUCYKmbbN-bTIc4DaRyUMsWxCAANwQoLeIZizs8xGtfJEp9w/s400/Creek.jpg" height="400" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our swimming hole. I could tell you where it is, but the locals would kill me and throw me in it. Which wouldn't <span style="font-size: small;">be pleasant for anyone.</span> </span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSFai9y9INXDshg98shZSob8K98eey97bAYJqgDaWRm2LPzWQRmNyhw3vIcUeDb3nPcfG49cNyJBz9gNQTU8Ao7_0w4rxa7IIeIVZ4dD9COQb3_fE17B-Jz0BQVLU12o2rL8Kzvrjsxs4/s400/Jack+Creek.jpg" height="400" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span style="font-size: small;">A little apprehensive about the whole 'swimming in a river' thing . . . </span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj66R_qR_CDTEepwPQGWwKK-vTcYk-gUmsUNpx6mNN-SWA-R-3S8XvZv7-d87CtvPVcTaCPPFmg33R25smGOq0BlhhMeJzFEV-yifvb3EV9MbNjrdRD-CYG84hpaTmdaaMIsUcRxuP6ggE/s400/Jack+Jumping.jpg" height="400" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">. . . but soon got the hang of it!</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPidj1PE5QopsjI04Ik-n7npBaR2iIcaEwRf6bNqC_-q9-VdHlEnKiSPtnl5szcRZsrUNxSqgw4wdNnDSJdoovzgaiRAWQjgJ_FVzraXl8Kb32Mr3hxCY8jgMN0rP0iyIgfkCl2To2x_8/s1600/Harvest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPidj1PE5QopsjI04Ik-n7npBaR2iIcaEwRf6bNqC_-q9-VdHlEnKiSPtnl5szcRZsrUNxSqgw4wdNnDSJdoovzgaiRAWQjgJ_FVzraXl8Kb32Mr3hxCY8jgMN0rP0iyIgfkCl2To2x_8/s1600/Harvest.jpg" height="358" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">Lunch at Harvest in Newrybar with our good mates, the divine Susie & Taffy. They were the ones whose wedding inspired me to explore the Byron hinterland. Did I say wedding? It was more like a fabulous three day love<span style="font-size: small;">-</span>fest and eating frenzy.</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin26qZAzx3nzZFQCSREOT5Y36fGjxJivbWZI4vJmZZAYPT-tuWUHcvjI0JlT57KMkW50S3eTTlqxSm9RWMJyzDIxjuqxPl1Ytp87KJxLSx-BlTTA8qqGTQvqF6YW6SEJJhnLIFFJUu1Mk/s400/Chickens.jpg" height="400" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Ladies who lunch' - there were adorable, irresistible photographic tableaux all over the cottage</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRYmYdqE5OublTB8WFSJe6lYUqYc2H53LSi4ITmo7RCLRaoobhCmqLLrp3UJ9FpH0-IpMlmeAbf6YAeslgvfKhKjdJwN9yhgLlU4FOLz51k4G38_VIbDVckKx_lXNYu9wHiIvEFJbevIY/s1600/Jug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRYmYdqE5OublTB8WFSJe6lYUqYc2H53LSi4ITmo7RCLRaoobhCmqLLrp3UJ9FpH0-IpMlmeAbf6YAeslgvfKhKjdJwN9yhgLlU4FOLz51k4G38_VIbDVckKx_lXNYu9wHiIvEFJbevIY/s400/Jug.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span style="font-size: small;">My 95 year old grandma Elaine still uses one of these pretty weighted covers over her water glass. An underrated & sorely missed domestic apparatus!</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4_JaPJaGOK8M9TslPVpIz0WomodLfX689bp2GFNZjZICGuo0lyiq5rY3JFjli2pEfWfQZwCiKLYQwFvKUjJ2bm6wse_zCG3_BRK3AbMOZng5tMtOYdbovx0H-QXFISe8vh5J3akbObs/s1600/Roadside+stall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4_JaPJaGOK8M9TslPVpIz0WomodLfX689bp2GFNZjZICGuo0lyiq5rY3JFjli2pEfWfQZwCiKLYQwFvKUjJ2bm6wse_zCG3_BRK3AbMOZng5tMtOYdbovx0H-QXFISe8vh5J3akbObs/s400/Roadside+stall.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span style="font-size: small;">There are roadside stalls like this dotted all over the lanes and byways of the hinterland and they are nigh on impossible to resist! They operate on an honesty system. I'm thinking of putting one out the front of our house selling single socks and textas without lids but I'm not sure it'll take off . . . </span></span></td></tr>
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After leading a dappled mountain lifestyle for three days, we headed 25
minutes down the highway to Byron Bay for our beach fix, leaving behind the shady glades (dappled as they were) and quaint shopfronts of Bangalow. </div>
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We stayed at one of those good ol' fashioned resorts where the married couple owner/operators can be seen doing everything from greeting guests at reception to skimming leaves from the pool. It had two tennis courts, a few barbeques and even a games room with a table tennis table which took me right back to family holidays at the army barracks in freezing winter-time Queenscliff when I was a kid, my cousins and I inventing ever more complicated rules for long drawn out battles over the table tennis table.</div>
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We drank coffee and ate giant bacon and egg rolls at Top Shop, brought the tone down at fancy-schmancy Wategos with our anatomically correct sand men sculptures, sat in the long rippling shallows at The Pass, and dobbed on The Rudest Waitress In The World who refused to ask the barman to make me a Cosmopolitan, even though it said on the menu "Ask our barman to whip up your favourite cocktail"!</div>
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When Byron
insisted on getting all tropical on us and raining one morning, we
dropped into the local bead shop for some serious hippy time, making groovy bracelets man, and giving our skin a breather from all that zinc cream!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">Flying baby - her favourite game, when the muscly fellas in the family are up to it</span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT-ggtocDqbQZpDxjEu37FSRrWUH1daBue6314vlQBThJWygUFIjqlZF2xeiXwnU08n8lQhrSZvXhx81Fi0i7rMnYfRO3ZFoEmG9pqEvlHAob3OWNDB_wqsA471kEXK-vs36e0c32TWaM/s400/Beads+2.jpg" height="400" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">So many beads, so little arm space!</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDaTNXAI_qOL79Zt0CnIX4sFLuxMatteg8whxabLgPSF9qNm9syYy5KHvJWJFV-h1db3YAqZCw7dHPGotQ-1pDnEwqcl1ozF033BMEDcWWlm2Qop8vnbVDsodnamTVceiQSD4kIAeOZeA/s400/Beads+1.jpg" height="400" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">Jack spent nearly 2 hours making the most elaborate bracelet. Which broke. Luckily we were still in the shop and the friendly staff at Bongo Beads helped us put it all back together again in no time.</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDMpGchG_aH6YQZChuP0Qi96LkE6FHGz7fp9PyEjxL29ytd0i4ml41cheh4R0iAUCsCItPUBFVSLe2WuDKsyamVjGkpMYWSnMGv0NH_Kjb7xTl5-l_rS9fyE6EAprMknM3-yWA5mZ3634/s1600/Cesca+at+Pass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDMpGchG_aH6YQZChuP0Qi96LkE6FHGz7fp9PyEjxL29ytd0i4ml41cheh4R0iAUCsCItPUBFVSLe2WuDKsyamVjGkpMYWSnMGv0NH_Kjb7xTl5-l_rS9fyE6EAprMknM3-yWA5mZ3634/s400/Cesca+at+Pass.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">Wategos - the classy Byron beach</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">Our anatomically correct sand man - and so the Barras bring a little less class to Wategos!</span></span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7NqrTznYDIlklk6U2EhoK1iIiTf55H9-sqVTqnTb0nNulGhF30eZnkD_dw3jcRMsNkoPd6Kq3ClwgGt1jPbXsxL5neJf-15gOU63fr0g05CJnj0-c4Z3qd-zTf0S7xW9tCPQouDxk9lc/s1600/Jack+pizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7NqrTznYDIlklk6U2EhoK1iIiTf55H9-sqVTqnTb0nNulGhF30eZnkD_dw3jcRMsNkoPd6Kq3ClwgGt1jPbXsxL5neJf-15gOU63fr0g05CJnj0-c4Z3qd-zTf0S7xW9tCPQouDxk9lc/s400/Jack+pizza.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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What did you get up to over the holidays? Catch some rays? Delve into a good novel or two? Dob in a rude waiter? Do share! <br />
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Holiday hugs xo<br />
<br />Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-88240811619339378222013-01-28T10:56:00.001+11:002013-01-28T10:58:25.915+11:00Through The Golden Door<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting for the Golden Door Glow . . . (head in the clouds already on Day One though)</td></tr>
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When John asked me what I wanted for Christmas last year, I couldn’t really think of a single material thing I needed, apart from some new moisturizer (and a villa in Tuscany, but that goes without saying!)<br />
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But when he pressed me to think of an idea of something I might really like, it suddenly came to me. The thing I really wanted was time. Time to think, time to write, time to be alone. To go to bed when I felt like it (which still seems to be 9pm despite physically holding my eyelids open and telling my brain to channel its inner naughty, midnight-feast-eating Enid Blyton schoolgirl) and get up when I felt like it (which happens to still be the crack of dawn, despite scrunching my eyes closed and telling my brain to channel a 16 year old and sleep till noon!)<br />
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With a house full of people, including two adult kids living at home, there is rarely a shortage of someone to chat to, someone to help with the kidlets and a totem tennis partner is always at hand. However, getting extended periods of bona fide, toddler-free time alone is hard to come by. As much as I adore my little Cesca-Belle, she is, like most 2 year olds, a high maintenance rock star diva who believes the people surrounding her have been provided simply to entertain her and cater to her every demand. Mostly John and I. But of course she is non-discriminatory; if you enter her orbit for more than five minutes, you too will be put to work in the manner of court jester, lady-in-waiting or lackey.<br />
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To be honest, I would have been happy to jump on the bus and head into town for a weekend of gallery hopping, scribbling blog notes over a latte in some trendy cafe and lolling about in a giant hotel bed with a bag of Maltesers and a good novel.<br />
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But my husband took my request for a little me-time and super-sized it into a 3 day retreat at the Golden Door Elysia in the Hunter Valley. Cue happy dance.<br />
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It was booked for January 6th and of course I spent some of the time between Christmas and January 6th worrying about leaving Francesca overnight for the first time in her life. And by ‘some of the time’ I mean AT LEAST thirty seconds. I am in the fortunate position of having a husband who is both willing and able to share the parenting load with me, as well as the two grown-up siblings, so separation anxiety is something Francesca has rarely experienced. She is surrounded by brainwashed adults falling over themselves to create a big love net for her to safely fall on.<br />
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So with kisses and squeezy hugs to all, I hopped in the Golf and set out for my big adventure in the Hunter Valley.<br />
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Two hours and a loud, long overdue reunion with Shania Twain later (let's go girls), I entered The Golden Door through . . . you’ll never guess what . . . . a GOLDEN DOOR!<br />
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The door itself, apart from being gold, is tall and thick and heavy. As it closes with a sigh behind you and you step into a cool stone atrium, you really do feel that you’re entering a sanctuary, encouraged, as you are at the gate, to leave your real life behind for a few days.<br />
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I don’t mind admitting that the first thing I did upon entering my villa was to check for a mini bar. Purely out of curiosity. I thought it might be full of cardboard tasting kale bars and cardboard crisps. And there is a mini bar. Sort of. It contains two kinds of loose leaf herbal tea and a tea pot. Perfect, if the only kind of party you’re after is a tea party, and a healthy one at that. Not a scone or sugar cube in sight.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My post-exercise spot in the villa - on the couch with Kindle & a cuppa</td></tr>
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The good folk at Elysia tell you what to eat and when. Real tea, coffee, chocolate, sugar and alcohol are all banned, and mobile phone use is restricted to your villa only. But that’s where their preachiness ends. Everything else is optional and very un-preachy. The staff are beautiful, nurturing and funny and, while they encourage you to try new things and go outside your comfort zone, they also tell you to listen to your body; that this is your time and to do what you feel like. <br />
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There are a staggering number of activities available, from tai chi, yoga and pilates, to deep water running, bush walking and indoor hockey. If exercise doesn't float your boat, you can go get your eye bags attended to in the day spa with algae, minerals and all manner of goop. There are seminars on everything from nutrition to habit-breaking to art therapy. Or if you feel like lying by the pool wearing dark glasses and staggering from meal to villa in a fluffy robe you are more than welcome. But why would you want to do that when you can sweat, swim and spin and really feel that you’ve earned a bit of pool lounging.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The outdoor pool at Elysia</td></tr>
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There is a risk of becoming what is known at the Door as a FOMO – Fear Of Missing Out. That was me on the first day. I did everything on the list. The poor white child from the boondocks wanted to get her money’s worth dammit. And if I wanted to workshop that with the Life Guidance Counsellor, then that was on the list too. And no, it wasn’t at all surprising that I fell into an established acronym category on Day One. I’m FOMO and proud!</div>
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But that was Day One. Day One is when you’re body is still operating on all that residual coffee, tea and sugar. Everything is just dandy on Day One. Then you wake up and it’s Day Two. Day Two is bad. Very, very bad. <br />
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You think because you only have one coffee, one tea and a smidge of sugar in your diet each day that you can easily live without them. Fine, you think. I don’t need any of those things, you proclaim. But then you spend 24 hours without those daily stimulants in your body and BAM, it’s like a hangover, only foggier. A real pea-souper. I spent Monday in a fug of sugar withdrawal. I felt like I was moving in slow motion, a headache thudding dully at the base of my skull. <br />
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This was it. Detox. They warned us it would come and come it did. In spades. But if you’re going to spontaneously detox, this is the place to do it, surrounded by fifty other poor sods in equal or worse degrees of pain. They also told us that by the end of our stay we would have come through detox and achieved the Golden Door Glow. That seemed about as likely as Lindsay Lohan keeping her driver's licence. <br />
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Part of me was standing outside of myself that day, simply observing what was happening to my body, shaking my head incredulously. I don’t consider myself to be a sugar, alcohol or caffeine addict. However, my intake of those substances, whilst moderate, is regular. Without them in my diet for 24 hours, the effect on my body was truly interesting. Apart from the headache, lack of energy and inability to string a sentence together, I looked like a kid who’d got a hold of mum’s mascara with enormous black rings under my eyes, and when I closed my eyes for 5 minutes after the 9am stretch class, I woke up two hours later. (A nana nap! During the day!! Unheard of. Do pigs now fly? Are John and George back with the Beatles?!?) <br />
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It made me realise how much of a starring role sugar actually plays in my diet, mainly all that incidental sugar one isn’t aware one is ingesting. I have half a sugar in my tea and one sugar in my coffee each day. Doesn’t sound like much. But then, reading a few labels since I’ve been back reveals that so many of the other ‘healthy’ things in my diet actually contain sugar too. Muesli, yoghurt, even the humble lunch time cracker upon which I pile avocado and tomato. <br />
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Since I’ve returned from Elysia, l am flirting with the idea of quitting sugar for awhile. But flirting is one thing. I'm not sure if I'm ready to put a ring on it! Stay tuned.<br />
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By Tuesday I was back to feeling less like old, dying, wrinkly Episode 6 Yoda (“sugar addict you are”) and more like myself. I realized that in my delirium I had been confining myself to sleeping on “my” side of the bed. That night I threw off all the pillows and covers and made like a starfish across the full luxurious king size width! I also took full advantage of all the wonderful activities and treatments on offer, as well as spending lots of lovely quiet time in my villa reading, writing, watching movies and catching up on Richard Fiedler Conversations podcasts. It was heaven.<br />
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Elysia sits high on a hill with valleys and mountains surrounding it on all sides. It has been designed along curvy feng shui lines, with the main buildings and villas creating a skirt for Meditation Hill, a circular mount in the centre of the complex, covered in lavender with a stone plateau and running water feature at the top for meditation, tai chi or perfect, as I discovered, for sunset watching and daydreaming.<br />
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Every evening at around 8.30pm just as the sun was setting, I wandered up Meditation Hill to watch the twilight deepen and the stars blink on one by one.<br />
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I thought I would go into my cave a little and not feel like interacting with other people, but actually, come meal times, I looked forward to sitting down with the others and comparing notes. Some had been to Elysia before, others were newbies like me, but everyone was lovely and I had some stimulating, amusing conversations with people who’d come from all over Australia to be a part of the program.<br />
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Apart from the buckwheat pancakes served on Day Two for breakfast (I challenge the chefs of Australia to make buckwheat taste like anything other than tree bark) the food was, on the whole, very good. I also learned that the addition of beetroot to many dishes & drinks equals more regularity than one might normally be used to.<br />
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But it was always so bloody lovely to get back to my villa after dinner, to find the bed turned down, a candle lit next to the bath and the teapot set out with a calming herbal tea. There were so many little touches like this that made the experience a little bit spesh.<br />
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Was three days enough? At this time in my life, probably. I could easily have pushed it to five days, although I think I would have missed the family too much if I stayed for the seven day program. Did I leave with the Golden Door Glow? Definitely. I felt refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to start the year and hit 2013 with everything I’ve got.<br />
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My take-aways from the experience? Eat less sugar. Meditate. Kiss my husband in gratitude more often. Be grateful for my family's health every day. Belt out a Shania Twain number at least once every ten years. And never eat another buckwheat pancake.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Golden Door Glow - I got there in the end (with thanks to the sunset on top of Meditation Hill!)</td></tr>
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<br />Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7543744375462184028.post-26049668801553394072012-12-30T10:03:00.003+11:002012-12-30T10:03:59.083+11:00I'm dreaming of a Wet Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Am I the only person this side of the equator who rugged up in a big woolly cardigan and ugg boots on Christmas day?<br />
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I had imagined we would spend Christmas afternoon on the beach, as we usually do, running quickly on tippy toes across hot sand to the cool spot where the waves fizz out on the shoreline and snoozing sporadically under the shade of our beach umbrella, a few ham sandwiches chilling in the esky and the kids digging holes to China in the wet sand.<br />
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Instead, we put Francesca to bed, snuggled up on the sofa with a cup of tea and some fruitcake, and watched movies while the rain pelted down outside. Did I say pelted? I mean pelted, bucketed and poured from the sky. Rain, rain and more rain. Flowing like tequila at a hen's night.<br />
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And it was lovely.<br />
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This Christmas was always going to be different, our first without John's mum, our beloved matriarch who passed away in March. The rest of the extended family were scattered around the country, hunkering down in their own family units. We were happy to hunker. The weather was perfect for hunkering.<br />
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We had a big dinner on Christmas Eve with family and a few friends, our giant timber dining table groaning on it's railway sleeper legs under turkey, ham and all the other usual gastronomic suspects. I made a coconut and brown sugar pavlova and our friend Susie made a batch of wicked chocolate ice cream and some white chocolate champagne sponge cakes. We were sitting out on the deck when the rain started drumming on the tin roof overhead; it was going to be a wet old night for Santa and the reindeer to be going about their business.<br />
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Our mornings always start with a 6 on the clock due to early rising offspring and Christmas morning was no different. We let the kids open one present each and an early morning bike ride in search of a swing, a surf and a coffee seemed in order. We are fortunate in that the local bakery is owned by some friendly neighbourhood Cambodians whose religion doesn't include an immaculate conception and a home birth attended by shepherds, and therefore have no problem making we Christian folk a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant on Christmas morning.<br />
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But because I actually do think that it's important to acknowledge and celebrate the real reason for Christmas, off to 8am mass we went. I love the Christmas Day service, not least of all because one gets to sing Christmas hymns unabashedly at the top of one's voice. But it's also a beautiful time to reflect on the year ahead. Christmas, the birth of Jesus Christ, celebrates a new life.<br />
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New life.<br />
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To me that means we all get another chance. To live gracefully. To love fully. To forgive wholeheartedly, including ourselves. To be the best possible person we can be. That's what I reflected on as I belted out Silent Night and tried to stop Francesca from licking the coins for the collection plate.<br />
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I usually get a little bah-humbug and nervy around Christmas. I think it's the general sense of being overwhelmed - trying to choose the perfect gifts for everybody, making sure I remember everyone and stashing away a few extra generic gifts to reciprocate unexpected gifts from someone else, negotiating menus and grocery lists for the big day, and the night before and the day after when all the supermarkets will be closed - it all leaves me feeling a bit short of breath and jittery. I blame the mall. I once got stuck in the car park at the local shopping mall for 45 minutes, unable to find a free space and unable to leave. In my nightmares I'm the fourth wise man who can't find a spot to park my camel in crowded Bethlehem and baby Jesus leaves town without my gift of tinned shortbread.<br />
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I'm kidding. Sort of. I do get overwhelmed and nervous though. By December 24th I'm desperately seeking Christmas, determinedly humming carols while wrapping presents and trying to find the Christmas spirit in the faces of Lisa Wilkinson and Karl Stefanovic as they host Carols by Candlelight on the TV. Every year I feel I have to hunt Christmas down and wrestle it to the ground, pinning it down and sucking the spirit out of it by force.<br />
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It always come to me eventually though, the spirit. Usually when the TV and all the lights are off, except those of the slowly blinking Christmas tree, and I'm writing messages of love and hope on the cards for my children and husband. The stillness, the specialness, of Christmas creeps up on me then and wraps itself around me and I realise I didn't need to chase it down after all.<br />
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This year, with all of its strange difference to Christmases past - no big trip to the family heartland in Melbourne, no Dorothy, no massive lunch to prepare - was certainly calmer in the lead up, but I still had to wait for the spirit to come to me. This year, however, I decided to let it in without the mad chase.<br />
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How was your Christmas? Do you feel the same as me or are you simply bursting with Christmas spirit from the moment those chocolate coins appear in Coles? If the latter, tell me your secret. I'll pay you. In chocolate coins.<br />
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Here's our Christmas in pictures:<br />
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Michelle Barracloughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06726779288885352235noreply@blogger.com0