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/

Plaits, Ponytails & Plenty of Posing

Oh dear, there I go with the alliterative title again. That Mauz has a lot to answer for!

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.

"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 Instagram)

Well, lone reader, I'm glad you asked.

Style Dares are run by the gorgeous and very foxy Andrea over at Fox In Flats and I have to say it was the most fun I've had with an iPhone, various fashion accessories and a tube of lipstick.

There were three things I loved about doing it:

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.)

2. I went way 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.

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.

Fun times!

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, MORE THAN CEREAL, is for some of my buddies to get on board with me.

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!

Also, the first dare is Big Hair! A chance to release your inner Working-Girl-Melanie-Griffith. Or perhaps, Austin-Powers-Elizabeth-Hurley is more your style. How can you possibly pass that up?!

You can find this month's line-up, including tips and ideas for each style dare, here.

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 Idol Journey Style Dare Journey

Day 1: Arm Party

Day 2: Sparkles

Day 3: Scarf

Day 4: Slick

Day 5: Pink Lips

Day 6: Boots

Day 7: Dress

Day 8: Braid

Day 9: Necklace Stack

Day 10: Red Nails

Day 11: Denim

Day 12: Animal Print

Day 14: All Black

Day 15: Curls

Day 16: Stripes

Day 17: Studded

Day 18: Pattern

Day 19: Brooch

Day 20: Black Eyeliner

Day 21: Multicoloured Mani

Day 23: Ponytail

Day 24: Red Lips

Day 25: Australian

Day 26: Collared

Day 27: White

Day 28: Pigtails

Day 29: Flower

Day 30: Hat

So come on chicks! Don't be chicken. Come on in - the water's fine xx                                       

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?