7 reasons why you’re a BRILLIANT mum!

ONE

Your little angel loves giving you kisses, and you love receiving them, but he kisses open mouthed, with lots of slobber, but you just smile and let it dry on your face rather than wipe it off and hurt his feelings.

Kissing Mum XXX

TWO

You know that gorgeous cashmere knit top you’ve had your eye on for the last five or six weeks? The one you’ve been trying to save for by secretly squirriling away $10 a week from the grocery money? Well you’ve just walked past it in the store to spend your stealthly saved cash on a new pair of tracksuit pants and shoes for your son because he’s outgrown his. And the kids always come before you these days. So you miss out. Again. Oh well.

THREE

Your socialite girlfriends invited you out for a rare night on the town, but you sombrely decline, so you can spend your Friday morning, afternoon, and evening, well into the evening, baking and icing a delicious birthday cake worthy of a Women’s Weekly award for your little angel’s birthday tomorrow.

My Banana in his PJ's for Max

My sister's fire truck for Joel

FOUR

You feel like shit today. You’re tired, your hair needs a wash, your legs need waxing, and you’d give anything to sit on the couch and watch a movie. But instead, you build a cubbyhouse under the dining table, using all the clean linen in the cupboard, and you spend the day trying unsuccessfully not to knock your head as you play “let’s pull Thomas and James along the railway track” for the one millionth time, pretending it’s the most exciting game in the world! Every time.

FIVE

You get three hours to yourself each Wednesday morning. That’s it. And instead of putting your feet up and watching that rom-com movie you’ve been dying to see, you get out the vacuum cleaner and cleaning products and give the house a frenzied scrub, because you’d feel like a bad mum if you cleaned the house instead of spending “quality time” with your little angel.

SIX

Ellen is your favourite show. It’s makes you laugh, it’s entertaining and it’s YOUR time. But “little angel” isn’t tired yet and won’t quit whining unless he can watch Banana’s in Pyjamas for the upteenth time today. You give in, because you adore the smile on his angelic face and the happiness it brings him as he laughs along with B1 and B2’s silly antics.

SEVEN

You go without, you put them first, you smile when you want to cry, your heart melts when they look at you, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Why are YOU a brilliant mum? 

Career woman. One step forward, two steps back?

The other night I watched Working Girl on TV, the 1988 movie about a secretary who uses the absence of her female boss to put forward her own ideas and in the process realise her own career aspirations. 

This movie came with all the dazzling glitz and glamour of 1988. Big hair, big shoulder pads and make up that would be the envy of a circus clown.

It was a wonderful reminder to me that as a woman, I can do anything. I loved my career. I believe I was great at what I did. I did it with integrity and passion. It didn’t matter that I was a woman. I did the best job that any PERSON could do.

Then I came across this book at the library.

I’m sorry, but can someone please explain to me, why does a woman need a book on computing skills that a man doesn’t need to learn as well? Don’t men need to use computers in the workplace too?

I thought we had come so far in terms of breaking through the glass ceiling of women in corporate roles, but stumbling across this book made my blood boil!

Then, on second glance, perhaps the choice of hair accessory, the popular 80’s scrunchie, is a giveaway to the age of this book. Perhaps the library are the one’s who need to update their books!

The first goodbye.

The tears are pricking behind my eyes, threatening to roll their salty drops down my face.

I slowly, thoroughly pack my sons belongings into a canvas bag.

For months now I’ve been sharing my desires of solitude, of some time to myself.

My time is here. Now I’m not sure I want it.

What will he do when he realises I am leaving him? Will he cry? Will I?

What if he’s upset and I’m not there to console him, to draw him into my loving embrace, the place he knows where everything will be OK?

I don’t want to cry.

Will it be obvious, that tears are teetering on the edge of my lashes, when I place his bag into the cubbyhole, full of his belongings all labeled with his name?

Will he sense my hesitation and cling ever more tightly around my neck?

So many questions, so many emotions, but so many great things can come from this.

Day care. The first day. The first time I have been away from him.

Sure, it’s only for three hours, but guaranteed, it will be the longest three hours of my life, and I will be staring at the clock until it’s time for me to pick him up.

Did YOU cry?

Mojo, Mojo, wherefore art thou Mojo?

Dear avid readers, I sincerely apologise.

My mojo has not only departed the building, it’s run out the back door, jumped the fence, and was last seen sprinting across the soccer field. 

Over the last two weeks I have been suffering from an abominable case of lethargy (perhaps comatose would be a more accurate description)

I’ve been left scratching my head. My quilting fabric squares lay on the bed in neat little piles, quietly mumbling away that they’d like to be sewn together please. The crumbs on my hardwood floors crunch away with every step I take, pleading to be sucked away into the lovely warm confines of the vacuum cleaner, and the bathroom? Don’t go in there unless an entire bottle of Domestos is used.

I haven’t been able to sit at my computer and focus for at least a week. I miss reading about the latest adventures of my friends on Facebook. I feel terrible about not following my blogging community more closely. I feel guilty that I’ve not responded to friends’ emails and messages, not because I’m unorganized, but because I haven’t even logged on to look at them.

I’m so tired.

Yes I only have one child, but he is into EVERYTHING. I used to smile in pleasant “understanding” at friends who would tell me that their kids were into everything, but now, I actually get it. If I’ve picked up the contents of the kitchen cupboard from the floor once, I’ve picked them up a hundred times. (Note to self- get a cupboard and fridge door lock, ASAP). I seriously don’t know how women with a gaggle of children do it.

It’s not just Max who has worn me down but I’m hoping it’s just a phase. 

So please forgive me. I just need a little more time.

LOST

My Mojo.

Handsome reward if found!

I don't want to be a mum, today...

I have almost reached breaking point. Please tell me you’ve been here before.

I love my son, dearly. I’m excited to wake up in the morning so I can gaze adoringly into his beautiful face, and to smell his sweet sleepy breath as he kisses me good morning.

However recently, I find myself feeling irritable. What has happened to me? Why aren’t I glowing with maternal love? Why don’t I think everything my son does is cute? Yesterday some good friends came over for lunch. They asked, “don’t you find it cute when your toddler follows you around the house?” and I retorted in an instant, “NO!”

Slightly negative perhaps?

Well I am human! Spending EVERY day with my son is starting to take its toll.

He spent nine months attached to me (well it was actually only eight, he arrived early), and for the last sixteen months I have not had a day away from him. Yes, my wonderful husband (and I must say wonderful, because he is still a little put out by my Six Secrets Your Husband Doesn't Want You To Know post), often looks after Max while I have a break, but these are hour long moments, possibly two or even three, but how I would KILL for a whole day where I don’t have to be a mum.

I often daydream about what it would be like to have a whole day off to myself, and what glorious things I would do.

I would wake up when I damn well wanted to, not when a little voice murmured from across a darkened hallway (mum, mum, mum, mum!). I would lazily slide out of bed and take pleasure in cooking breakfast, perhaps scrambled eggs on toast. Usually I have a small boy pulling at my pyjama bottoms so handling a hot frying pan is a tad hazardous.

I would go for a long run, take a refreshing shower, and then meander through town for a spot of shopping. I could try on clothes by myself! (Normally a whingeing toddler pulls open the curtain, revealing a mortified self in knickers and bra!)

Then the most anticipated moment; I would meet up with my girlfriends for some afternoon drinks in the sun. There would be no “witching hour(s)”; there would be no crying because dinner wasn’t cooking fast enough. It would be all about me, and no one else!

I realise when my husband and I decided to have kids we signed up for a lifetime of putting them first, but for just ONE DAY I would love to “call in sick” from my job as mum.

Alas, my wish has been granted! 

This Friday I am finally getting a ME day and I am SO EXCITED! I’m having lunch in town with my friend, then getting dressed up and watching Prince, my all time favourite artist, from the eleventh row! Then the next morning, my darling husband has booked me in for a hair appointment before I head home.

I'm sure I'll miss my little man though.

Do YOU need a day off too?

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.

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!

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.

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.