All The Little Effers

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.

Our other business 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.*

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 "The CSV file needs to be sorted by Column B!" and "Stop! Don't enter pre-1 July orders!!"

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.

But then, those little people do keep us entertained do they not? Francesca, for example, is at the perfect age for linguistic faux pas.

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 your F', upon which I correct her and say 'No darling, that's my letter, 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.

As if the alphabet wasn't hard enough to master, there's all that tricky alliteration to get your tongue around.

The offending chicken with the salty skin

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?'

'I don't like skulky sin!'

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!




*Business Catalyst for the website and Xero for the accounting in case, like me, you have a nerdy interest in these things.

Alone Not Lonely

I've been taking part in Fat Mum Slim's Photo A Day 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 don't like chicken anymore!", "I POUR DA MILK!" So much fun.)

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:

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.

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.

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!

Earlier in the year I wrote about the intense desire I still have to spend time alone, a desire that was indulged by three days at the Golden Door. Alone.

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 could never leave my children for three days" or "I wouldn't know what to do with myself" or "My husband would never cope." 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.

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.

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.

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.

Me aged 3. Resemblance to anyone?

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.

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.

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.

"There is no friend as loyal as a book" Ernest Hemingway (shame old Hemmers didn't take the same view regarding wives!)

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.

Thanks to the magic clock, 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.

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. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." A tired old cliche, sure. But an accurate tired old cliche.

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.

As Audrey Hepburn said "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." And Audrey Hepburn was a goddess. You want to listen to a goddess, don't you?

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.

I'm outta here. Ciao!

You can follow my Photo A Day challenge over on Instagram . . . (join me!)

Glass Half Full

Lemons at the ready! That's if the Very Hungry Caterpillar or that mean looking Transformer doesn't get them first*

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. 

"Hey ho sad little lady, let's make lemonade!" says the universe.

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?

Well okay then. I'll do it!

Why?
Because if I do, at least I'm doing something to take my mind off my shitty day.
Because if I do, I might enjoy it.
Because if I do, I'll be rewarded with a sugary, lemony drink somewhat resembling lemonade for my efforts.
Because if I don't, I'll feel shittier.

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.

Your blogger at a 1984 Christmas party with attempted Farrah Flick. Oh dear.

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?)

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.

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.

Lemons.

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!!!

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.

* Note to self: Clean sorry looking fruit bowl. Remove alien robots. Populate with more actual fruit.

The Sympathy Gene

"Honey, talk to the hand . . ."

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.

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 calm birth mode but without the, y'know, HIDEOUSLY PAINFUL ACT OF GIVING BIRTH.

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."

What?!

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)

But my poor beleaguered husband is a different matter. Let's just say I am sympathetic to a point. The point 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."

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 Like A Prayer at MAXIMUM VOLUME on the Walkman, appears to have stored those phrases for later use.

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 Oh Darling by the Beatles on rotation by way of a lullaby last month. The dog!

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:


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.*


* 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.

The Mother's Group

My mother's group 2011. What a beautiful bunch of cleavages babies.

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 scary daunting prospect.

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.

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.

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.

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.

So for me, the thought of joining another mother's group after I had Francesca made me feel . . . y'know . . . a bit tired.

Although I have to admit I was tempted by all the cake.

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.

So off I went to my new mother's group meeting and like Mr Bingley, once I got to the ball, I found that all the ladies were entirely agreeable and very much to my taste.

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.

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).

It also helped that the women in my new mother's group were simply lovely. Are 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.

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.

Our beautiful K fell pregnant with her second baby at around the same time as nearly every other mum in the group. 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.

On the 30th May last year, K's baby Jamie was stillborn at 32 weeks. He was perfect. A handsome, soft-skinned, beautiful boy.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

 

 

Brave mama

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.

This mother's group - a posse, cleaved together for better or worse.

If you have experienced a stillbirth or know someone who has, you're not alone.
The Stillbirth Foundation - http://www.stillbirthfoundation.org.au/
SANDS has excellent fact sheets for friends and families as well as parents - http://www.sands.org.au/resources/

Sydney's Public Transport - I Thank You

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.

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!!

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 look good, but they ARE NOT GOOD. Subject closed.

Anyhoo . . .

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.

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!

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?

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!

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).

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.

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.

Thank you Sydney Transport for painting your boats yellow

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.

The 'outside' bit

The 'inside' bit

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.

After inspecting the vault, we decided to go for coffee and cake.

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.

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.

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 . . .

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

Waiting for the ferry, Wharf 3, Circular Quay

Looking up again, this time at Circular Quay, where these seahorses live under the roof

The giant gnarled fig tree in Macquarie Place takes my breath away, flourishing next to its concrete & stone neighbours

Strolling . . .

Back in Manly. Melt down? What melt down?

The Mama Mix

Four generations of Bumparella women

So, let me tell you a modern day fairy tale.

Once upon a time there was a little girl who dreamed of one day meeting a handsome prince. (No, not that 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 . . .?)

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 little bit of a princess too, but we all know you don't need a crown to be a princess huh?)

So by now, clever reader, you've figured out the princess-ish stepmother is me.

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?!"

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.

Well, those kids taught me a lot of things. I learned how to:

• Put on a band aid, and take it off with only minimal screaming
• Iron hair
• Listen to a girl with a broken heart
• 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
• Have three-way conversations with a teddy bear named Paddington 
• Bake birthday cakes in the shape of a football
• Read every Harry Potter book out loud and do a pretty good Voldemort voice that’s not too scary
• Cheer along at every sports event every weekend (on only one occasion to the point of embarrassment)

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".

Lessons about how to be a mum also came from my grandmothers.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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:

• When making a cake, let your children lick the bowl
• Let your daughter wear a crocheted bikini when she is five but NOT when she is fifteen
• Do not let a four year old watch the Wizard of Oz because the wicked witch of the west is really quite scary
• 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.
• Read to your children every day
• 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
• If you barack for a team that is NOT the Sydney Swans, you will be disowned
• Sometimes mummies need to lock themselves in their bedroom with a packet of scorched peanuts and a trashy magazine. And that’s okay.

Mum in 1969 - a natural mama, despite only being 19. Don't you love the 60s glamour?

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.

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.

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?

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 single conversation, little Francesca Barraclough would never have been born. Francesca's middle name is Elizabeth, after the woman who inspired her into life.

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.

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.

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.

• 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
• Singing along to the Sound of Music or having suddenly-strong limbs leap upon you as boy becomes Spiderman
• 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
• Getting man-sized hugs from boy-cubs grown into strong bears and stubbly kisses from once smooth faces
• Out-of-the-blue text messages of love and appreciation from a gushy, gorgeous teenager grown into a warm, wonderful young woman.

The five people who have taught me most about being a mum

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.

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.

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.

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.

To Wee Or Not To Wee

The only problem with all this undie-wearing business is the wedgies . . .

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.

Once again, because of the seven year age gap between my children, I have blocked out forgotten what we did when it came to toilet training Jack. I seem to remember there was The Day Of The Ten Wet Underpants which led to the The Month Of Pretending It Will Go Away. 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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

And so it came to pass. Toilet training - tick. And thank God for that.

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.

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.

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!

Postscript 29 April:
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.

The Wedgie - it's all about wearing it with attitude. There's a lesson in that for all of us I think . . .

The Other Byron

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!)

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.

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.

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.

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.

We're so glad we did. We all fell in love with it. From the adorable cottage 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.

Don't you just want to eat a scone piled with cream under this tree?

On our first afternoon, the clouds rolled in and it was magnificent!

One of the many avenues winding through the hinterland. I was hooked on the tree canopies overhead and the dappled sunlight . . .

Another avenue. More dappling . . .

Ah . . . a dappled avenue. Dappled, dappled, dappled!

Whoever invented the squatter's chair deserves a scone and a cuppa!

Daddy adoration

Because rustic French doors need fat patchwork chickens hanging from them . . .

Our swimming hole. I could tell you where it is, but the locals would kill me and throw me in it. Which wouldn't be pleasant for anyone.

A little apprehensive about the whole 'swimming in a river' thing . . .

. . . but soon got the hang of it!

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-fest and eating frenzy.

'Ladies who lunch' - there were adorable, irresistible photographic tableaux all over the cottage

My 95 year old grandma Elaine still uses one of these pretty weighted covers over her water glass. An underrated & sorely missed domestic apparatus!

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 . . .

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. 

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.

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"!

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!

Flying baby - her favourite game, when the muscly fellas in the family are up to it

So many beads, so little arm space!

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.

Wategos - the classy Byron beach

Our anatomically correct sand man - and so the Barras bring a little less class to Wategos!

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!

Holiday hugs xo