 The other day I posted a picture on my facebook page of my
two-and-a-half-year-old daughter sporting her favourite tutu. A friend commented that she must get her love of tutus from me. After all, where else would it come from? I thought about this and I wondered how I may have influenced her tutu obsession. I mean, I don't wear tutus. I don't even wear skirts. Occasionally I'll wear a dress, but mostly I'm a jeans or shorts type of Mum. I don't even own any pink clothing, except an old rain jacket that I've pulled out of the closet once in the last five years due to my daughter's insistence that I wear it when she saw it hanging there. (See picture, left.) The majority of the time I hover in the
beige, gray, black, navy and neutral area of clothing. It's a bit boring actually.
I have a son, too, and when he was two he loved pink also. I remember buying him some pink sneakers because they were the ones he wanted and he rocked them like Japanese teenager wearing legwarmers and a hello kitty beret. Thinking back, he was quite obstinate about his clothing. He liked t-shirts with Diego or Thomas the Tank on them, and if he had his way (which he often did), he wore his pyjamas everywhere (I admit, he gets that from me). Once my mother sent him two pairs of GAP pjs and he loved them so much he had to wear both at the same time. For his fourth birthday party we made a cape from an old sheet and he wore it over a pair of pyjamas and called himself "Super Dougie." (Below, left.) It was around this time that he started dressing up pretty regularly in Batman, Spiderman, Bumble Bee or Optimus Prime costumes. He, however, rarely wore his costumes outside the house as he didn't like the attention from random passersby on the street. Now, at age six, he still dresses up in a Harry Potter cape with a tie and a wand on a regular basis. Or, he'll wear a suit jacket and hat when he wants to be a spy. He comes up with imaginary scenarios and stories in his head - lord knows what, but I guess it's good for his creative gene, even if it means stomping around the apartment like madman. (Below, right.)
My daughter's passion for all things girly crept up on us. It wasn't a sudden onslaught, but a slow drip from the fountain of pink. It started by her occasionally commenting on other little girls dresses that she'd see around town. Then, I noticed she started calling the pharmacy the "fairy shop" because it had a rack of pink jewellery and hair accessories hanging out the front. She would say "oooo" and "ahhhh" when she saw a friend wearing a fairy dress (not mentioning any names, a-hem...Lulu). And then one day, when we visited Toys R Us she just about exploded when we entered the "pink" section. I bought her a purple fairy dress (seen below, left, on top of another dress) and it became a wardrobe staple, just like any woman's LBD.
For my aunt's 60th birthday, my mother bought my daughter a lovely yellow dress (seen below, mostly right and a little left) from Junior Bardot - it was on sale for about $20 and it was worth every cent. It has a soft, tutu-like skirt that flows out when you spin, which is why the Pea likes it. She has worn this dress at least once, more likely twice a week since purchase (and that was about five months ago). Then, a few weeks ago my sister-in-law came over with a pink fairy dress that her own daughter never wore much. The Pea put it on immediately and didn't take it off for about three days, except to sleep (and that was a struggle). It had been a few weeks and the Pea was pretty much exclusively wearing one of three dresses - the yellow dress, the pink fairy dress or the purple fairy dress each day. I needed more in the rotation for the sake of my washer and dryer. Then, I passed a stall at the farmers' market selling two tutus for $10 so I decided to buy up big! Ok, so I bought two. I chose a hot pink one a green one. The green one hasn't even seen the light of day, while the pink one is worn on top of everything - she puts it on top of other dresses, her leggings, her pjs, whatever. Apparently every outfit is only made better by the addition of a tutu.
Case in point: Last week we went to a dancing class and the Pea decided to wear the pink fairy dress from her aunty with her hot-pink tutu on top. Before we walked into the class, I somehow managed to convince her to remove the tutu and just stick with the dress. I stuffed the tutu in the bottom of our stroller. In the class there was a little girl wearing a big purple skirt with enough volume to wipe out anyone within a five metre radius. It was a killer tutu. When the teacher asked us to dance in a circle, we did. But every time the Pea lay eyes on the purple tutu she would throw herself to the ground and cry. I couldn't figure it out - what was the problem? I would coax her up and we'd start dancing again...but then again she'd lay eyes on the purple tutu, and throw herself to the ground, whining about lord-knows-what. After this happened a few times, it finally dawned on me. My daughter had tutu-envy. She felt inadequate in her less-than-voluminous fairy dress. So, I reached over to the stroller, grabbed her pink tutu and asked her if she'd like to put it back on. Of course she did. And suddenly, she was ready to dance. Her skirt was now ample and so was her self-image. Phew, dance class was saved. (Below is a picture of the Pea much happier once her pink tutu is back on top of her fairy dress. If you look closely, you can see the purple tutu in the background.) I'm not saying I didn't cause this love of tutus - I certainly haven't discouraged it. But both my children know what they like and I just go along with it. I love having a girly-girl, even if it means daily battles over what to wear or whether or not silver ballet flats are an appropriate choice of footwear for rainy days at daycare. I know the Pea's love of all things sparkly, pink and flowery won't last forever. One day, sooner than I can imagine, I'll probably be trying to encourage her to wear something bright and colourful and ditch the doc martins. So for now, I'm loving it, along with her.
 It was 4:30 in the afternoon on a dull and wet Sunday. I'd just unpacked and repacked the dishwasher. The frozen chicken was slowly defrosting in the sink and the dryer hummed in the background. Sure, there was dust everywhere and piles of mail that needed sorting as well as toys strewn all over the place, but my domestic self felt exhausted. There's only so much home-making I can do in a day until my sanity laughs at my existence and makes me stop. (This is why my life is only ever half organised, I just physically can't do too much cleaning without losing my mind.)
My husband was watching football and building block towers with our two-year-old daughter and our six-year-old son was busy in his room playing his Nintendo DS. I looked around and realised...holy moley...I had some spare time. So
for the first time since December 7, 2009 (I remember the date because I was in labour with my daughter), I decided to have a bath. It wasn't a big decision, it just popped into my mind and I thought - well, wouldn't that be nice?
We have a nice big bath with jets that don't work and I knew it would pair nicely with the dusty old bath salts I found stored neatly away in the back of the drawer under a mouldy QANTAS business class toiletry bag that must have been given to us by someone who can afford fancy travel. To top it off, I decided an adult beverage was in order. As you already know, I don't have baths often, but when I do, I like to mark the occasion. It's something people do in the movies and although their adult beverage is usually something French and bubbly to draw a parallel between the bath and drink, I prefer the juxtaposition that is created by the hot bath and a cold VB. It's a realists' bath. I'm the realist.
It must of been, oh, twenty or thirty minutes (read: seconds) later when I was fully relaxed (or not qutie) that my son came into the bathroom and said "Can I get in?". As he's not a prude about nudity, I thought it best that I wasn't, so I said "sure" just as I did more than two years earlier when he ended up bathing in the broken waters from my uterus as I squirmed around in pain. But this time I knew that wasn't possible and clearly he didn't remember.
Although the bath salts (or dust, who's to say?), had created slightly murky water, my nudity was fairly apparent. Case-in-point, the first question asked by my son:
"Mum, why are your boobies kind of droopy?"
"Compared to what?" I decided to ask.
"Pictures in magazines I've seen," he replied. My first thought was to wonder if my husband had a secret porn stash that I didn't know about, but then I realised my son wouldn't have kept that a secret. He is, after all, only six and secrets are not his strong suit. He probably would have dragged it out in front of my grandmother and asked what it was. My second thought was to be impressed that my son noticed said-up boobs, as he's not exactly what I'd call sharp-eyed.
"What magazines?" I asked.
"The magazines you sometimes buy with ladies in dresses and swimsuits. Their boobies are always much more up," he went on.
"Well, as you get older and after you've had babies and breast feed two children for months on end, a woman's boobs do tend to droop a bit," I said.
"Who do you know that has boobs that are still up?" he asked. I really had to think about this, as I don't know that many 20-something-year-olds anymore. The babysitter was an option, as was his teacher, but these are two people I didn't want him talking to about boobs. So I opted for Delta Goodrem (he knows her from the Voice) and the girl that works at the coffee shop we sometimes frequent.
"What do you think? Droopy boobs are better right?"
"Yes," he said. Good child.
We sat a little while longer while I washed my hair and shaved my legs. He talked about Harry Potter and movies and what was for dinner. It was then that I was prompted back into the real world remembering I had to cook something.
"Out I get then," I said.
"Me too," he said.
And although the bath hadn't quite been the child-free relaxed moment I had imagined, it was surely a moment that I would remember.
When was the last time you had a bath? Who was it with? (Keep it clean, people!)
 I often keep my mouth shut to avoid confrontation. I usually do this for one of two reasons. The first, I'm not that persuaded by my own point of view and I'm not sure if I could argue the point, or more than likely, the second - I just can't be bothered disagreeing as it would create tension.
This applies to facebook status updates, too. Some of my friends post updates and I think "are they serious?" but I prefer to keep to myself rather than get into a public cyber-fight. After all, it's hard to appear grey when putting things in writing (most often black and white dominate), and I, as a rule, tend to fall in the shaded grey area on pretty much
every topic.
I guess that's part of the problem - my opinions are not very black and white. They're grey. I can see pluses and minus
to both sides. I can't declare one person to be right, when I know the other side has some very valid points. Does this make me a coward? Maybe I'm not stepping up enough.
I have a friend who is constantly getting into cyber-fights and arguments. Sometimes they get quite heated and other times they remain jovial, yet opinions are clearly stated. I never weigh-in, but I read them and tut-tut to myself about who I agree with, and then change my mind a second later.
So today, I'm standing up. I'm picking a side (for now), and I'm declaring my position on a few polarising topics. Here
goes:
1) I like Kyle Sandilands. There. I said it. I know he's a jerk and he's insulting and I admit that he went too far when he insulted journalist Alison Stephenson, and I wouldn't want to hang out with him at a party. But for morning radio entertainment, I think he's funny and says what's on his mind. Yes, it can be awkward, but that's his job. I've tried other morning shows, but they're all too boring. What do you listen to?
2) I don't think Angelina Jolie is hot and I think Brad Pitt is gross and looks a bit stinky. George Clooney reminds me of an older non-married uncle who is a bit too overly-familiar. Ryan Gosling on the other hand...(and let's face it, who's
going to argue with that?).
3) I didn't vote in the last election. Whoops. I know it's mandatory and I'll probably get a fine, but I wasn't registered (although I am now) and I was going through a hard time with lots of cancer involved. (Yes, that's my out.) I don't like Kevin Rudd purely because of the way he talks - it's condescending. I don't like Julia Gillard purely based on her tone of voice - it's condescending. And I don't like Tony Abbott because he's a nay-sayer and it's dreary. It's like someone has said to them "this is how you have to dumb-it-down to get your point across to the people of Australia." Seriously - they are an embarrassment.
4) I wish I could send a handful of almonds in my kids' lunch box to school. I know it's not allowed and I would never do
it, but I wish I could. Nuts are a protein-filled healthy snack that my son loves - I think they'd be perfect for recess.
5) I don't care if you breastfed, didn't breastfeed, used IVF, didn't use IVF, have kids, have no kids, want kids, don't
want kids, have circumcised your son, haven't circumcised your son - it's your choice, I really don't care. But I do kind of care if you don't immunise. I think it's one thing we can do for the good of each other -and wouldn't it be nice if we started putting each other first for a change?
6) I think weekly columnists are often forced to be opinionated and can't back up their arguments because they've just
thrown it together quickly to meet deadline. So, this is where I'll stop.
What's your opinion? It's ok, I can take it.
x
Jillian
 Probably some explanation is in order, but the truth is I fell out of the habit
of writing and I let it slip away. I've taken on some paid work (shock!) and I
had a long summer looking after the kids with very little time to write. Today,
in fact, is the first day that I've had a few hours to myself since...well,
since Halloween. So here I am...attempting again, to put together a few hundred
words that may interest you, or not. Here's an update:
A tumour update: I had a 18-month post-surgery scan in mid-February. It was all clear. It sounds like a relief, doesn't it? But the funny thing about having had a brain tumour in your head, is that the fear of recurrence isn't dimmed by a clear scan. Brain tumours come back and that worries me. Of course, every milestone is a relief and I'm grateful to make it this far without a recurrence. But I know I will continue to worry about headaches, eye twitches and dizzy spells for the rest of my life, but mostly I will hope beyond hope that my scans continue to be good news.
A son update: My six-year-old son is in year one at the local public school. He's been put in a composite class with a mix of year one and year two students. The outrage that this initially caused amongst the parents now appears to have
settled. My approach was to give it some time to see how it all worked out, and so far it seems to be fine. Granted, I don't get much feedback from my son, so I'm probably not a good judge of what goes on in the classroom. If I ask him
what he did today, he's likely to respond with "I used my pencil as a wand and I yelled expelliarmus when I pointed it at [insert name] and then I got sent to the principal's office, so I don't know what happened in the classroom." Should I press him for some truth, I'll get something rather uninteresting like "[Insert name] was talking too much so he
lost a point - but I swear it wasn't me." My hunt for the truth fruitlessly continues...
A daughter update: My little girl is 2 years and almost 4 months old. She has no interest in toilet training, although I'm convinced she could do it, it's just that she chooses not to. I know some kind of sticker chart and bribery involving chocolate will have to be involved down the line, but to be honest, I just can't be bothered dealing with it right now. Is there a rush that I don't know about? Will I lose good mummy points?
A husband update:This weekend my parents are babysitting the kids for a night, so I'll actually be able to go out
with my husband and have a chat while looking at his face and not wiping snot off a kids' nose or picking up toys. I'll have to get back to you on this one, but rest assured, I'm sure he's fine.
A life update: This iota of free time that has happened into my lap will hopefully inspire me to find more pockets of time to write again. I enjoy it...oh, and ps - I got glasses.
 For half of my childhood I grew up in America. Halloween is one of the best memories I have at any age. When I was young, I would hold my Mum or Dad's hand and tentatively knock on doors with a shy "trick or treat" gaining confidence as my pile of loot grew. As a teenager I would run amok in the neighbourhood with friends and get all hyped up on cool October air and autumnal leaves. As a twenty-something Halloween was a buzz - bars would host parties and the streets would fill with parades and all types of wacky weirdos, myself included.
One year, when I was about five-years-old, and we were living back in Sydney, Halloween rolled around and my brother and sister and I wanted to go trick or treating. My mum couldn't dissuade us, although she did warn us that Halloween wasn't "big" in Australia. Next door lived a very friendly Pakistani woman and her husband. They had older children who had moved out.
"Trick or treat!" We yelled in excitement as she opened the door.
"What is this?" she asked.
My seven-year-old sister explained that it's a custom where kids knock and ask for a trick or treat - if you don't have a treat, you get a trick. Our neighbour scuttled inside grabbed three five cent coins and threw one into each of our bags. We looked at each other somewhat disappointed - where was the candy? We went home feeling blue. Mum, smartly, had stocked up on lollies and we proceeded to knock on our own door repeatedly, receiving lolly after lolly until our basket was full and Halloween was saved.
Nowadays, it seemsthat Halloween in Australia is gaining momentum - maybe not entirely, but there are pockets of society where it's picking up speed. For instance, there's a street in my suburb where each house is decorated spookily and kids from all over the neighbourhood are welcome to trick-or-treat. A friend of mine lives in an apartment building that hosts a Halloween party and kids can trick-or-treat on the doors of those who choose to participate.
For kids, there's nothing better than dressing up and getting lollies. It's plain fun. I know there are many people who resent this American holiday being adopted by our society. I'm not that black and white, and while I would never begrudge one person some fun just because I didn't agree, I understand that having a stranger knock on your door and ask for lollies is intrusive, especially when you're settling down for a quiet night in. An organised party, however, I think is fine - you can choose to partake or not.
What's your view?
Ps - In case you're wondering, the picture is of my son dressed up as a Secret Agent and my daughter as a crazy nut job bumble bee fairy.
 It's birthday week in our house. Mr Boo (left) is turning six. It's a date we have all been looking forward to for many reasons.
My son has no qualms about being nude in front of people. He'll happily undress in front of whoever, then stroll around naked in the public change room with no thought of covering up. Whatever for, he wonders? He's also a boy that likes things being done for him. I'm not sure if this comes with being a boy or being a first child or a mix of the two, but he would still happily let me spoon food into his mouth and allow me to dress and undress him every day. I do neither of these things, but the torturously long time it takes him to do both causes me to contemplate poking my eye with a fork.
Another thing he doesn't do for himself is wipe his own bum. Obviously, it's time he does. About six months ago we had a conversation. It went like this:
"Mr Boo, I think it's time you start wiping your own bum. I can't do it forever," I said.
"I'll make you a deal," he said. "I'll start wiping my own bum if I get a Nintendo DSi for my birthday." Fortunately, we were already planning on getting him a Nintendo DSi for his birthday, so I went along with it.
"Hmm, let me see - so, if you get a Nintendo DSi on your birthday, I can stop wiping your bum forever? I might be able to agree to that..." He thought he was onto winner.
"But, what if you don't get a DSi until you're 13?" I questioned.
"Well, you'll have to wipe my bum until I'm 13," he said matter-of -factly, under no assumption that one day he may not want his mother in the bathroom with him.
"I wouldn't like that," I said.
"I guess you'll have to get me a DSi for my sixth birthday, then!" He said proud of his own little fool-proof manipulation.
I'm always using what I'll call "incentive" (others might call it bribery) to get him to do things. The sticker chart is a prime example - if he earns 20 stickers he gets $5.00. I can give and take away stickers based on his behaviour. I'm also constantly making him do something I want, before he does something he wants (ie, homework first, then playing; or tidy your room, then watch TV)...and frankly, I think it's probably annoying for him. He's a savvy kid - he knows he's being manipulated into doing stuff I want him to do in lieu of what he wants to do, and it annoys him. So, I thought I'd let him think he's getting away with this one - like he'd really pulled the wool over my eyes. I guess I was kind of taking one for the good of the team.
Between then and now we've had almost daily conversations about bum-wiping. He reminds me that he still doesn't have a DSi and therefore he can't be expected to wipe his own bum.
Well, today is the day before his birthday.
"Mum - can you wipe my bottom? It might be the last time?!" he screamed from the bathroom. "My birthday is tomorrow and I think I'm getting a DSi so I'll have to start wiping my own bum," he said.
"Gosh, I hope so!" I said.
We shall see....!
 My five-year-old, Mr Boo, started getting sick last week with a high temperature. I kept him home from school on Friday and over the weekend we lay-low hoping he'd recover. By Monday he was still wasn't well, so I kept him home for another day.
My daughter, the Pea (almost 2-years-old) had a 39 approaching 40 degree temperature Sunday night. I was pedalling Neurophen, backed up by Panadol and it still didn't come down to the normal range. She's had these relentlessly high temperatures before and I've been known to rush her to the ER when things get hairy, but nowadays I'm getting used to it and learning not to freak out quite so much.
When Mr Boo is healthy he's a good sleeper. And when he's sick he's an awesome sleeper. His body knows how to rest and he can hit out 13 hours at night when fighting a virus - I admit, it's bliss. The Pea, on the other hand, is a crappy sleeper when she's sick. She wakes every couple of hours, she can't nap, she can't put herself to sleep and if she's congested there's no hope - she'll be up all night. And on Sunday she was. UP. ALL. NIGHT.
Monday morning arrived and my lucky husband (albeit sleep deprived), wandered off for his bus-train-walk commute to work. I was stuck in sickville. My daughter lolled about on my bed until I realised her temperature was getting higher and higher. She wasn't due for any medicine, but it was up at 39.5 degrees. I ran a cool bath and let her eat a lemonade icy pole for breakfast. It kept her distracted and stopped her temperature from getting any higher until the clock clicked 10am and I could dose her up with some more Panadol. She turned a corner for thirty minutes and ate some toast and drank some water. By 11:30am she was exhausted and ready for a nap.
Mr Boo, meanwhile, was taking ownership of the best TV-viewing-spot on the couch. He was flicking between channel 22 and a recorded Kids WB. He sipped a little water every now and then, but still wasn't eating much. Around 12:20 I noticed he really didn't look well and his temperature was up at 38.5. I was just about give him Panadol when I heard a cry from the Pea's room. (Did I mention she doesn't sleep well when she's sick?) I tried to coax her back to sleep, but it was no use. Her temperature was up and she wasn't due for any medicine yet. I had to wait until 1pm for Neurophen and 2pm for Panadol. (In case you're wondering, I write it down to keep track of when and how much I've drugged each child.)
I brought her onto the couch and gave her an icy cold water. She cried nonstop while I managed to give Mr Boo some Panadol. I suggested to him that he close his eyes and have a nap - but I may as well have told him to throw out all his toys and give up computer games for life. There's no chance he'll sleep during the day.
I sat down between my two sick kids and looked out the window at the tiny corner of ocean that we can see from our living room. The waves were crashing against the rocks and the sky was cloudless. I'd been stuck inside covered in snot and drool for four days. My empathy well had been drained and my patience was waning. There was nowhere I could go and nothing I could do except exactly what I was doing. I was in mothering hell. I wished I had a job and a nanny so I could escape. But as it was, I couldn't call on anyone else to help and I couldn't drag my poor sick kids out of the house. I took a deep breath and picked up my iPad hoping to start a book I downloaded the other day. But the Pea started demanding Play School and Mr Boo wanted to watch Power Rangers. I sighed remembering that I chose this mothering gig and that the good days were good - they just weren't today and they probably weren't going to be tomorrow. I flicked the TV to Banana's in Pyjama's - the one show they both enjoy. Taking one final glance out at the blue sky, I went back to my book. Like it or not, this is where I was.
 My mother came over a while ago with two new chopping knives (just little ones) and two small pairs of serving tongs with rubber ends (pictured left). Suddenly I'm not at a loss for a good knife to cut fruit - when I reach, there is always one in the draw. And I now have the tool I need to dish out the salad easily or serve warm sausages at a party. They are only small additions to my kitchen utensils, but they have changed my life. A bit dramatic, you think? I went from being always at-a-loss, always needing a knife, to feeling like I am well stocked and have an abundance. I went from frantically trying to find a fork my guests could use to serve themselves a sausage or chicken kebab, to having the perfect tool, right at my disposal - two of them, in fact! I'm not kidding when I say, these things completed my kitchen. Thank you Mum for noticing I needed them, even when I had no idea. (She's good like that.)
And last week, as the builder was outside doing some maintenance on the fleshing-weep-holes-whats-it-called, I asked if he wouldn't mind fixing a screw for me.
"Sure," was the response. We have a window that opens outwards with the twist of a handle. The handle has gradually loosened and even though I've tried to tighten the screw and replace it, it keeps getting lose and I'm unable to securely lock the window. While he was at it, he fixed the clothes rod in my daughter's bedroom that has been falling down for two years , and he banged my son's bedroom door into place so it can actually close. All up the three jobs probably took him 20 minutes. I offered to pay for his time (the outside work is covered by body corporate), but he said no.
"I'm happy to do it, it's easy," was all he said. And yet all three jobs have made my life a million times better. Now, I can lock the window with peace of mind. I can hang my daughter's clothes up in her wardrobe without them falling down onto her shoes, and my son can close his bedroom door completely, allowing him to lock his sister out whenever he desires. (A big-brother's prerogative I think, and one he has missed out on until now). It's amazing how the little things really can make difference. I suddenly feel like my home is more enjoyable and liveable. Thank you builder for taking some time to help.
I was thinking about these small gestures and I wondered what I could do to for someone else. I guess a bit of a pay-it-forward-guilt cropped up. So the other day I took the excess garlic, chilli, kiwis and lemons from my organic box delivery and placed them in my apartment building foyer with a sign that said "help yourself - fresh, organic, produce!" Within the hour my neighbours had emptied the box and I received a few thankful text messages. I was pleased the food was used. And last week I finished a really good book by Irish author Emma Donoghue called Room. I thoroughly enjoyed its originality and I wanted to hand it onto someone else who would appreciate it. The person that sprung to mind is a mother in my son's class who I know is an avid reader and happens to be Irish. We've only exchanged a couple of sentences in the playground, but I thought she would like it. When I offered her the book it was clear she was genuinely appreciative - her face lit up with the thought of a good book that she didn't have to purchase, download or borrow from the library. It was such an easy small gesture.
Small gestures are like little gifts with a huge impact. What small gestures have made your day lately?
 My husband and I were talking about momentum the other day. We know someone whose life doesn't seem to have any. From the outside it seems he's been stuck in the same spot for years. I started wondering about my life and whether I have momentum. By definition the word means "force or speed of movement". But in the context of one's life, I define it as personal growth.
A child's life is constantly moving forwards. Children are propelled by the innate desire to learn and see and touch and do. Their minds are constantly exploring new things and working to piece the world together. School is the perfect example of a place that offers constant momentum - not only are they moving forward from year to year, but each year they're presented with new learning opportunities to expand their minds and learn about the world. Kids also have to navigate the social mind field that is the playground on a daily basis. It is filled with forever changing attitudes, hormones and expectations of one another. Personal growth in the extreme!
As we get older, once university and dating are behind us (if we ever get there), I think it's easy to fall into the routine of life and lose momentum. For me, having momentum is different than being busy. Everyone is busy. There are the regular tasks of day-to-day life that require a written schedule if you're dropping more than one child here or there and keeping up a job. But even if you have no kids at home, being busy isn't necessarily offering momentum (or personal growth) - it's just keeping busy.
The more I think about it, the more I think momentum is an individualised concept - different for everyone. For people who work (for money!), I imagine the ideal is to have a job that offers momentum and that is personally rewarding. For me, watching my kids grow and keeping our home running and doing laundry is fun (except the last part), but it's not offering me any personal growth or momentum. Last year when I decided to give up work for the joy of being a stay-at-home- mum, I discovered how little time I have to myself. I have just seven hours in the entire week when I don't have a child hanging off me whose nose need's wiping or who is asking me for food. It is constant challenge for me to keep these seven hours free - sometimes I have to grocery shop, buy a birthday present, get a haircut, see a doctor - stuff I can't do when the kids are around. And sometimes the kids are sick and they have to stay home, wiping out those hours in one swoop.
Being a stay-at-home-mum can mean losing yourself to your kids' needs or putting your own necessities on the back-burner a lot of the time. When I do find the hours to myself and I can ignore the pile of bills that need to paid or the passport and school applications that need to be filled out, I write. Depending what's on the forefront of my mind - either a blog idea or another project - I sit and type. Writing is how I give my life momentum - even if only manage it for seven hours a week. What's yours?
 My husband and I went out to a pub to watch football on Saturday night. Let me say that again: A pub. To watch football. It wasn't my choice for date night, but apparently this tri-nations rugby is a big deal and he wanted to go. I decided not to object and fortunately found a friend whose husband also loves rugby and convinced them to come with us. After all, I'd need someone's eyes to gaze into.
In the days leading up to the match it was clear my husband was a little stressed about our viewing plans for the match.
"What time is the babysitter coming?" He asked.
"6:30pm," I said.
"We'll be lucky to get a table," he said.
"We'll be there at 7, surely we'll find something. I can't get the sitter any earlier," I replied.
"You don't understand how competitive it is," he said, only slightly joking. "Men plan their whole weekend around going to a bar to watch rugby. They'll arrive for lunch and stay all night," he said. "We'll be laughed at walking in at 7pm and thinking we can get a table," he ranted, again, only half joking.
When 6:30pm arrived on Saturday I gladly handed over the kids to the babysitter and my husband and I walked down the street to find a taxi. We headed to The Dolphin in Surry Hills. We arrived at the pub around 7:15pm. It was packed. We looked upstairs and downstairs, but there was no table to be found.
"See? What did I tell you? It's like showing up five minutes after the movie starts and thinking you're going to get prime position," said anxious husband.
"Clearly," I said. "Maybe we can go somewhere else?"
"No way. I'm not missing the game. We're here now. It will be the same everywhere else anyway," he said.
"Why is this state of the union game so important anyway?" I asked.
"It's not state of the union - that's the presidential speech in America - it's state of origin. And that's not what we're watching, we're watching the tri-nations between New Zealand, Australia and South Africa. Tonight is New Zealand versus Australia." He rolled his eyes.
"Oh yeah," I said and gave him a nudge so he'd know I was only joking. (Kind of.)
"Let's get a drink and stand right there. It's between those four tables and if anyone looks like they're moving, we'll jump on it," said my strategic husband. "The key to this night is going to be flexibility - we may have to eat later, after the game ends," he said. He was like a coach, planning a winning strategy. For the next ten minutes he surveyed the scene.
"Those blokes won't be moving," he said nodding towards a table of about eight guys who had sorted themselves out for the evening with jugs of beer and bowls of chips.
"Neither will they - they haven't even ordered," he said, looking at a table of three who were waiting for a fourth.
"They're a chance, but we'd have to be lucky," said my husband about a couple who were finishing up dinner. But then two more people sat down with them. "Not now..." he said.
When our friends arrived we were still standing in the middle of the dining area clutching our drinks. The game was about to start and it was clear no one was moving. We ordered another round and kept up hope. My girlfriend, who is pregnant, and I began to get hungry.
When my fanatic husband was about to order a third drink, it became clear we'd need food. Like most parents we don't get out much and it was obvious said husband was excited about two things: 1) Being in a pub and 2) Watching football.
At this point everyone in the pub was getting a little loose and people were chatting and mingling with other people at the tables next to them. I eyed two guys sitting at table for four. They weren't eating so my friend and I joined them while our husbands did the same at another table with two other guys. It didn't matter anyway - the men were all ensconced in the game (apparently it was a good one), and my friend and I were happy chatting about her pregnancy, possible names, old high school flames, and the logistics of travelling with a toddler overseas (something we'll both be doing shortly - oh joy).
At the end of the night, we joined our husbands and sat around one table. I learned that "we" won! Hooray! I also enjoyed the novelty of ordering a drink from a crowded bar - something I haven't done in years. Most of our date nights are at restaurants not bars. We were home in bed by 11pm.
Turns out going to a pub to watch football on a date with your husband is fun. As long as you have a friend there to keep you company and you don't mind not talking to your husband at all.
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