Pram in the City

There’s something enchanting about the city that attracts me to it. Maybe it’s the hype and spirit that comes with the bustle of city life, perhaps it’s the glistening chrome and mirror that declare an exciting store has recently opened, my credit card threatening to escape my purse with a life of it’s own, or possibly it is the curious combination of skyscraper against a backdrop of beautiful harbour.

Whatever the attraction is for me, the city chewed me up and spat me out last month, leaving me jaded, disillusioned and worse for wear.

Reflecting upon my corporate days, an era bygone, I spent my time hurrying from one Mimco store to the next, and as five of my biggest turnover stores were city based, that meant much of my day was spent traipsing the city streets, on a mission to complete as much work as I could fit into nine or ten hours.

I would be dressed in my finest outfits. My patent heels would always match my designer handbag, leather laptop bag slung over one shoulder and an assortment of folders and notebooks clutched in my arms.

Since becoming a mum, I’ve ventured into the city by myself on three occasions, a trip very different to those of the past. No longer adorned in Mimco or Fleur Wood, my comfy flats and well-worn jeans are now thrown together with a baggy tee. These days it’s all about effortless speed.

Inspection of my bag post baby reveals a very different assortment of contents. Gone are the highlighters, USB sticks, calculator and budget sheets. Take a peek and you’ll see nappies and wet ones, teething rusks, toy cars, sun hats, sunscreen, a jumper (just in case) and plenty of food to keep growling tummies at bay. There is no longer room for that anticipated novel to read during lunch or a newly acquired purchase for me. No. It’s not about me anymore.

My biggest gripe however, is not my attire, nor is it the bag I have to lug around. It is the fact that as a mum with a pram, I feel I am viewed as an obstruction, a dawdling, meandering annoyance. Suit wearing city workers hustle by, bumping into us as though we have no right to be here. Even my long awaited introduction to the first Zara store in Australia brought with it a dark cloud. Excited women with bundles of clothing roll their eyes at me as they try and reach across the pram to grab at more apparel.

Don’t even think about going for a wee. Where can we go that accommodates a pram? Unless you have a friend to stand guard or you leave your pram outside, you’re holding on girl!

So what used to be an empowering occasion is now viewed by me as a venture cloaked in anxiety.

Lucky for me my last trip was to the Sydney Aquarium, where they have loads of parents rooms, space to crawl around on one’s knees (not mine), and sauntering tourists who are in no hurry whatsoever to get from point A to point B.

I think for now my ventures to the city have been boxed up and placed on the shelf. 

And that’s OK.

6 secrets your husband doesn’t want you to know

I thought I would share some sneaky things my husband tries to keep from me. I don’t think he realizes just how finely tuned our female intuition is when it comes to hiding things from us.

Do you recognize any of these “secrets”?

• No, that was not the dog’s bottom that just emitted the foulest, eye watering, deathly wind. It was your husband.

• He knows where that so and so is. He just asked you where it was in the hope that you would go and get it for him.

• That silent pause, just before his answer to your question, was his way of coming up with an answer you’d like to hear. It’s not really what he was first thinking.

• Those two beers he’s having with his mate down at the local pub, is really four beers, plus maybe a couple more. But who’s counting?

• The reason why you have a dwindling supply of cutlery is because he’s taking the forks and spoons to work with lunch, and forgetting to bring them home.

• On a serious note- he is actually scared out of his mind of failing his family. As has been for thousands of years, his “Hunter” instincts add fire to his fear of financial insecurity. He wants to provide for his family but is so worried that he will let us down. (This is one of the reasons I'm so in love with my husband)

What secrets does YOUR husband think he's keeping from you?

Dear Friends, THANK YOU

Yesterday I wrote a post about my lack of self-confidence at the moment, when it comes to writing my blog (Dear Seed of Self-Doubt). Are people reading me? Am I a good enough writer? What if I don’t have what it takes?

One of my greatest fears is that what I am writing is disappearing down an infinite black hole, as if I’m sitting in complete darkness and there’s no one around me.

Well all my fears were dispelled when I woke up this morning to find that not only did I receive some beautiful comments and messages, but also more people read my post than ever before.

Now the last thing I want to get hung up on is how many people are reading, so just to know that YOU are reading this makes me smile.

However the BEST part of my day, which had been lousy until about midday, (among other things the lady at NIB spoke to me like I was an idiot, and then I cried), was the most beautiful message written by a wonderful friend of mine from my mothers group.

I hope she doesn’t mind, but I’d love to share it with you.

Oh Melissa, unfortunately this is how I have spent most of my life! Always doubting and looking for validation from everyone...anyone! You are one very talented lady, you've found your passion and a way to express your soul. I on the other hand, since leaving my world of corporate career success, am still searching, yearning to find 'my place' now that I'm a mother. Self doubt can be debilitating, I know this from years of experience. Your self-doubt just means to me that you are human, but please don't give in to it, don't let it take hold; it is very hard to break the habit. I don’t know if I’ve told you but you inspire me, you are someone I look up to as a mother and a beautiful expressive soul. And now if you as a person, who I see as motivated, passionate and with purpose, can have self doubt then that just gives me hope. Even though blogging may not be ‘my thing’ you make me confident that soon I will discover what ‘my thing’ is even amongst the chaos in my mind.

With friends like this wonderful woman, who cares if my blog fails miserably and winds up covered in cobwebs in the furthest recesses of the blogosphere? I am so blessed to know someone as beautiful as her, let alone have her as a new friend in my life.

Thank you to everyone who reads me. It means so much.

Dear Seed of Self-Doubt,

source

Dear Seed of Self-Doubt,

When did you take root in my mind and flourish with such velocity? You caught me off guard.

Do you remember when I worked for Mimco? It was my first week on the job and I had to present to over one hundred people? You threatened to dig your roots into my self-confidence, but alas I won, keeping you at bay whilst I convinced myself I was made for this role.

Then there was the birth of my first baby. I’d never really been around babies before, had never been interested, and my friends and family feared you would play chicken in my head, worried I would second guess myself as a mother. But again, you failed; I took to my new role as mother like a duck to water.

But now, as I start my newly self-assigned role, as author of my blog, you have firmly taken root and flourished. Initially just a small seed of self-doubt, you have now threatened to invade the furthest recesses of my self-confidence. You have me backing away timidly, as though I may be stung by a poisonous thorn. 

I’m not good enough to be in this league of fabulous writers. I don’t belong here.

When in my life have I ever felt this way? Why have you decided to plant yourself now, of all times, when I have finally found something that I am passionate about? Is that why? Because I love what I do? Please remove your firmly entrenched roots from my psyche and 

GO AWAY!

I know I can do this. Don’t let me get the weed kill out!

I can do this, can't I?

An old lady? When did this happen?

Can you see the lady at her desk? Usually reserved for books and paperwork, tonight she is sitting on the wicker chair, sewing pieces of fabric together on her sewing machine, with a level of detail reserved for professional seamstresses.

There she sits, her feet enveloped within her fluffy bed socks, warm against the cool chill of the wooden floor boards. Her foot ever so gently presses down on the foot pedal, making sure she gets the stitches just right.

You see the project she is working on is a very important one. A beautiful pink and red patchwork quilt for a new baby in the family.

This is not the first quilt she has made. No. This will be number four. A newfound craft that she takes pleasure in, that helps fill her evenings with interest and delight, rather than watch the television.

Are you imagining an elderly lady? Perhaps she is wrapped in a robe, hair ten shades of grey?

NO! IT'S ME!

Why is it then, that when I take a look at myself of an evening, sitting at my sewing machine, trying to create something beautiful and personal for my sisters baby, do I feel as though all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I’ve turned into an old woman?

I have not exaggerated my description. Yes I wear fluffy bed socks. Hey, my feet get really cold! But have I really turned into an old woman?

My last quilt, "Field of Flowers" is my favourite!

My new love of making patchwork quilts is one I don’t tell many people. And if I do, I reiterate, as I will to you now, that I like to make the modern style ones, shabby “French Chic” and Flossie Teacake's beautiful baby quilts. I am very proud of them, and I’m proud to say that my husband supports me in my new hobby (even though he also likes to make fun). He sometimes ask's if I’d like to take a drive to Berry, “you know, to go to that shop you like, and buy some fabric”. God love him.

So this is me. Getting older. (oh, and happy to take orders!)

All of a sudden, have you found you've become an older version of yourself?

My fearful worrier, a.k.a Cling-On

In the sci-fi movie Star Trek, there lives an alien race of villains known as Klingon’s.  

Now I must admit, I’ve not seen any of the movies, they’re not really my thing. However I can’t help but draw comparison to my own little villain, my son Max.

Where the Klingon’s are fearsome warriors, my son is a fearful worrier, or shall we say, a Cling-on?

I am not someone you’d call an expert on children and their behaviours. In actual fact, I had never really been around small children before, other than my own, for any considerable length of time. But at fifteen months I would have thought that the “separation anxiety” stage would have surely passed by now?

I am constantly prizing my clingon’s fingers from around my legs. He pulls at my pants with eyes that are pleading, “pick me up mummy!” Simple tasks such as brushing my teeth, putting on a bra or going to the toilet have become mission impossible's with my little cling-on “clinging on” for dear life.

Now excuse me, but after the undignified experience of childbirth, I do believe I’ve earned the right to wee in private, without a small fascinated face peering into the bowl.


I've no doubt, that there will come a time, when I will wish those days hadn't passed, when I lovingly remember being needed, wanted and adored by my little one. 


But for now, can I PLEASE just have one moment to myself? 

The loss of a beautiful baby boy

After twenty hours of labour, through natural birth, a beautiful baby boy was born.

Imagine it. Have you been there? The birthing suite with the soft pastel walls, dim lighting, the soft hushed tones of the midwives, and the posters depicting tiny babies in their mothers arms, promoting "breast is best".

That final push before your baby will be in your arms at last!

Only there is no sound.

Only silence.

Silence broken by the hushed voice of the doctor, “I’m so sorry for your loss”.

I still cry when I think about it. 

I remember it like it was yesterday. My husband and I were out shopping. Our son Max, just three weeks old, lay sleeping in his pram, wrapped in layers of muslin, the labour still fresh in our memory.

My husband received the call. Our friend’s baby had died.

After twelve hours of excruciating labour, the baby’s heartbeat had stopped. It was unexplainable. The doctors declared that her baby had died “in-utero”.

Can you imagine how that must have felt? There was no time to process it. The contractions were still coming thick and fast. A baby needed to be born.

It was eight heart-wrenching hours after the shattering revelation, through harrowing contractions, when their son was finally born. He was gently wrapped in a hospital blanket, and placed upon her chest.

They never tell you how the feather light weight of a tiny newborn baby can crush your heart and soul.

What happens now?

Isn’t it every parents dream to take that first trip in the car with their baby, a trip home from hospital to their beautifully decorated nursery, where furniture, linen and toys have been chosen with thoughtful love and care.

What happens now?

A drive home in silence? A closed door at the end of the hall where dreams lay shattered behind it?

And then like a twisting knife in the chest, a cruel reminder that mother nature lays upon you, the milk that was intended for your baby arrives.

The sadness and grief my husband and I felt for our devastated friends poured over us like acid rain. We stood in David Jones, the sobs erupting from us both, causing shoppers to stop and stare. We didn’t care. At that moment we were overwhelmed with gratitude that our son had arrived safely and was alive and healthy.

As friends' of someone who has devastatingly dealt with the death of her baby, here are some reminders that may help to lessen the inevitable sadness that follows such a tragedy.

• Cry, as often and as long as you need to.
• Denial, isolation, anger and depression are all normal steps in the grieving process
• Fathers grieve too.
• We don’t have to face the world alone.
• Know that no one who hasn’t lost a baby can understand what it feels like.

The wonderful book What to Expect When You're Expecting has a really helpful chapter dedicated to the loss of a baby.

Like a gift from the angels, our friend is pregnant again with her second child. We know that this baby can never take the place of the one that was lost, but it will be just as loved and just as adored. By all.

Your comments below are always gratefully received.

Please vote for me!

Like taking those first steps through the gate at your new school, it feels strange to be the new kid on the block again.

I have been nominated for the Sydney Writers' Centre "New Blog" division of the Peoples Choice awards!

I have absolute certainty that I will not win, however It would be so wonderful just to get a few votes!

Could you please take two minutes out and VOTE FOR ME HERE. 

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!

My wedding speech

My Wedding Day

It's been six months since I married the man of my dreams, and I often reflect on the day and how amazing it was for both of us.


I will never forget my speech for as long as I live. It was predominantly directed to my husband and it left him wiping away a tear or two (I'm sure he won't mind me sharing that!).


Wedding speeches can be very personal, but I will always want to shout from the rooftops just how much I love him. 


So please, read on...


Four years ago I met you, and although we were only friends for the first two years, when we decided to go on an official date, it didn’t take long for me to fall in love with you.

And I will always love you.

I fall in love with you a little more every day. Not because you buy me beautiful flowers, or Lorna Jane outfits, but because of the little things that you do.

(and just so you all know, I’m going to cry!)

I fall in love with you a little more every day because of the care you take when you change our son’s nappy, and the way you put your clothes for the next morning on the spare bed so you won’t wake me up.

You’re my best friend and you will be forever.

Some people ask me where I’m from, and that’s a very difficult question to answer. I was born in Wollongong, we moved to north Queensland, I went to school in Campbelltown, lived in Dublin for a while, then I moved to Melbourne and bought my own place, and now I’m back in Wollongong again.

So where’s home? Home is wherever you are. With you I am home.

In 1985 a singer named Robbie Hart sang a song called “I want to grow old with you”.

Grow old with me, and I will love you for the rest of our lives.

What was the favourite part of your speech, 
or a wedding speech you have heard?

Money, money, money.

I’m despondent, but I know I shouldn’t be.

It’s reprehensible to have these feelings.

There my gorgeous son sits, with the sun beaming down upon his shoulders, on the floor of his toy-filled room, in a house where love, happiness and laughter fill every square, renovated inch.

He is as healthy as an ox. He snacks on a ripe banana, enjoying the feeling as he squishes it between his fingers. He eats everything we put in front of him and is never short on nutritious food.

I have an amazing, thoughtful husband and we live in a modest house where the rosemary-scented meal cooking in our fabulous kitchen fills my lungs with desire.

So why am I despondent? It’s money. Or lack of.

During my "life before kids", I worked full time and earned a great income.  As a risk adverse generation X’er I saved as much as I could and spent little. But when I did spend, it was when I wanted to spend and on what. The latest fashion! Soft leather boots that feel like you're not wearing them, tailored jackets to slim my waistline, and maxi-dresses with exotic prints to die for. I looked fabulous!

Living on one wage means we can no longer afford to flitter away our income on those “luxury” purchases that I once made. For the first twelve months I resigned myself to the fact that the purse strings would tighten, as my wardrobe would be constantly “re-invented”.

Sixteen months after leaving paid work, like two hands around a choked throat, the purse strings are leaving their mark on my freedom. I can no longer spend a day in town “window shopping” without leaving miserable, wishing I could just buy that …...   

This sentiment goes against my experiences whilst volunteering in Africa and whilst writing my post how much really IS enough? But despite my internal agreement to live frugally for a while, the lack of disposable income leaves me melancholy.

Somehow, whilst at a friends BBQ the other day, a full glass of red wine decided to leave the comfort of my glass and land with resolve down the front of my top. I jokingly remarked to my friend, “Well this gives me a good excuse to go and buy another top!” but I knew deep in my heart that buying a new top was a treat I was destined to only dream about.

The choice to go back to full time work or stay at home and bring up my child is an extremely difficult one, with many pro’s and cons. A decision that many of my friends have agonized long and hard over.

But for now, I am resigned to pull out that glorious dress from 2001 and make it look brand new, just so I can devote my days to my little man.

 

How have you overcome these feelings?

Please share your story with us.

New friends!

Ah, the anticipation when you open a new book. Just like the smell of a new car, the clean, crisp pages invite you to experience a new and exciting journey.

I too have set off on a new journey. Earlier this year I announced to my husband that I was starting a blog. My husband works evenings which means I'm home alone, so unless I wanted to sit by myself in front of the television, like a lifeless blob, watching mind-numbing reality shows, I needed to start a hobby.

So akin to starting a new book, I eagerly threw myself into a world that I really knew little about.

In my previous posts, Mothers Group, A social necessity? and When friendships end, I recounted the difficulties of developing new friendships and the devastation of losing some.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would gain the friendships I have formed in just a short few weeks over the wonderful World Wide Web.

Do you find the difficulties with real life friendships are that obstacles get in the way? Your friends have children too. There's soccer practice. Kids fall sick. You only have one car. They live far away.  If you can overcome the obstacles, you might get lucky and catch up with your friend once every couple of months.

I have discovered that the most wonderful thing about the internet and blogging is that no matter when you have spare time, when you sit yourself down in front of that computer, your friends are there waiting for you. They may have left you a message, you can read about their latest experiences, or you could even meet that new friend just waiting around the corner!

Take for example Tork from torkona.blogspot.com. This kind new dad has decided to “unofficially” become my mentor. I Googled “dad blog” one day and came across his site. Like an awestruck school kid I emailed him asking for some simple advice and feedback.  What I received in return was like a virtual embrace!

Torkona

Then there is Mandy from A Little Space Like Home.  I don’t think she realizes but she was one of the first people to read my blog and comment on my posts. As a new kid on the block that’s like winning the Easter Egg raffle!

The very well known Eden from Edenland and the slightly lesser known Caroline from Park Confessional (who is about to give birth to her second child!) are the writers I aspire to. They are my industry standard. But both have taken the time to say hi and reciprocate my "LIKE"s and "TWEETS"which I believe is unwritten social media etiquette.

I'm someone who doesn't like to blow their own trumpet, so Zanni from Mother Ink grabbed one of my posts with both hands and shared it with her readers. Thanks Zanni!


And to all the readers who have taken the time to comment and make me realise I'm not just talking to myself here, THANK YOU!

Feeling like the new kid on the block is not much fun, but with the courtesy and kindness that these people have shown me, this new chapter of my life is set to be amazing!

Thank you so much to my new friends.

Nairobi to Arusha. The dusty track less travelled.

In October 2009 I was a single 34 year old woman determined to experience a grand adventure. I saved up my money and climbed Mt Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, worked in an orphanage in Mombasa, Kenya, and visited my World Vision sponsor child in Ethiopia.

This is my account of my experience travelling from Nairobi to Arusha, one of the scariest moments of my life!

The silver bullet smashed through the glass window at lightening speed. It ricocheted off the wall and lay spent, on the well-worn carpet of my hotel room.

The view outside my hotel, through the bullet hole.

“What the hell am I doing here?” my inner voice screamed inside my head? Why on earth did I chose to come to Nairobi, on my own, to stay in a budget hotel in one of the most dangerous cities in Africa?

What the f**k was I thinking?

Thankfully, the bullet had made its visit to my room prior to my stay, however the management’s choice to leave the window in its frame along with its splintered reminder did not make me feel any less safe.

(This was intentionally left out during the “I’ve arrived safely” call to my mother)

The roar of the traffic below was deafening. The muffled beat of African rap found its way into my bones from the pavement below as the horn blaring drivers fought their way across streets littered with rushing pedestrians. The toxic smell of petrol fumes made me light-headed, even from up here.

The hustle and bustle of Nairobi

That evening, I decided to forget the obligatory “cultural experience” of my first ever meal in Africa and I sprinted, as fast as I could, across the road to the Hilton for dinner.

Shame on me.

That evening, as I lay in the suffocating darkness, exhausted from my thirty hour trip, upon the concave bed that had seen much better times, had I mistakenly heard someone enter my room?

Oh my god. There was someone in my room!

Was it room service? The hotel didn’t have any. Were they here to steal from me? Or something much more sinister? As the primal scream left my lungs, whoever it was made their escape. (There's a reason they call it Nairobbery)

With a chair safely tucked underneath the door handle, I finally fell fast asleep.

As I gingerly stepped onto the mini bus the next morning, I couldn’t help but feel a wonderful sense of excitement. I was in for quite a journey. A nine-hour bus ride across some of the driest, most inhospitable countryside that Kenya had to offer.

The trip from Nairobi to Arusha (at the foothills of Mt Kilimanjaro) was the most teeth clenching, nail biting, knuckle whitening transportation experience of my life! Ninety percent of the roads we traveled were dirt or rock, and on many occasions I was sure the driver was about to roll the bus. There were more than a few fishtails and skids, and I’m sure we lost contact with the ground numerous times.

The terrain gradually changed from scattered scrubland to grey dust, a lone tree visible from miles away stood like a beacon for sundrenched animals.

The changing terrain of Kenya

I could feel the grey dust entering my lungs, coating my hair and finding refuge in the lines of my skin. I was caked in the arid land of Africa. People live here. Zebras ate at the small tufts of grass that inexplicably found root in the dust. Masai people walked barefoot alongside our bus, brightly coloured mirages in an otherwise colourless world.

After crossing over the Kenya/Tanzania border, it wasn’t long before the dry and dusty air gave way to humid, fertile land.

After eight hours of travel, when we rounded a bend and glimpsed a new mountain, larger than the last, I was sure I was staring up at Mt Kilimanjaro, but on we drove. When my eyes finally landed on the largest mountain in Africa, my stomach dropped to the floor. In an instant I realized all the others I had mistaken for Mt Kili were hills, compared to this indescribable monstrosity.

I’m climbing that tomorrow. Bloody hell.

Mt Kilimanjaro

Experience my time as a volunteer at New Hope Orphanage in Mombasa here.

Have you travelled to a place that took your breath away? 

Tell us about it below.

When friendship ends

Close your eyes and think for a minute about your best friend. 

They are someone you share your deepest secrets with. A confidante. A person with whom you ride the crests and falls of the rollercoaster that we know as life.  When you’re feeling sad or lonely, it’s comforting to know that just a phone call away is someone who will lift you up and offer you hope.


Great friends are hard to come by, so if you're lucky enough to find one, you grab a tight hold and don't let go.

Until tragedy strikes. 
They die.

That’s it. They’re just not there anymore.


Like a thousand tiny shards of broken glass, the devastation threatens to scar you to the core.

Six months on and I still think of her.

You dial her number out of habit until you realise, you can’t speak to her anymore.

Then it hits you. 

It’s the rawness of the feelings that is the toughest. Storms of emotion threaten to knock you down like a pin in a bowling alley. 

First comes mourning. The sadness covers you like a thick, heavy blanket.  How will you ever be the same again? 

Then anger strikes like a snake. It squeezes you so tight that all hopes of happiness fade along with the stars behind your eyes. Anger leaves no room for other thoughts.

These are the feelings that curse through you when a close friend dies. 

Only in my story, our relationship died through disagreement.

"Why? How did this happen? Why?" It’s on repeat inside my head.

We were like a close-knit family. I was part of hers. I remember sitting in the warmth of the kitchen in our holiday house, frantically taking down the recipe of her mums delectable sausage rolls whilst our other halves reclined on the couch, their snores threatening to wake the neighbours.

A favourite writer of mine, Eden Riley, once wrote that there are seventeen sides to every story and that very accurately describes this tale. It’s a Rubik cube of "should have's". I should have said this. I should have called more to explain my side. I should have climbed to the roof top and screamed until she had to listen. But how many should have's are enough?

Whichever way you view it, I’m still mourning. I miss her. We were ten years.

But enough. Enough now. Life must go on.


We all need to be reminded of how much other people treasure us. If you're lucky enough to have a best friend, call her/him NOW and tell them how you feel about them. Before it's too late.

You are not alone. Leave your message below.