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A Baby Changes Everything, Including Your Clothes

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What do salad dressing and baby spew have in common? They are both liquids. They are both related to the act of eating. They both also have a scientifically unproven talent for projecting themselves onto white silk shorts.

In my previous life as one half of a double-income-no-kids partnership, I freely purchased items of clothing as they appealed to me. The restrictions I placed on such items were few and flexible. Fit, budget and style factor were at the top of my list.

As if having a child hasn’t changed my life in enough ways already, I now realise that my clothes buying habits will also have to be altered. Last month’s shopping trip in Melbourne was the first one since the birth of my son, so naturally I was keen to try on anything that accentuated my waistline. Elastic-topped maternity jeans be gone! Since I had been living in stretchy yoga pants and any t-shirt old enough to be able to stretch over my baby belly, some high waisted white silk shorts presented themselves as the perfect candidate.

Looking back now, it must have been because my husband was looking after our son on said shopping trip, that I forgot that I am currently spending most of my days feeding, changing and bathing a spewy, dribbly, pooey infant. So I bought the shorts.

The first time I wore these magnificent, sumptuous shorts I was also hosting a BBQ at my house. I made all kinds of wonderful salads. And dressed them. With olive oil and soy sauce. And my shorts got in the way.

It could happen to anyone, I hear you laugh, if they are stupid enough to wear WHITE SILK shorts at a BBQ.

But hey, the occasions to wear such precious items are significantly fewer these days. So, yes, I was wearing the shorts.

Next stop: dry cleaners. A week or so later, having paid for my shorts to be fresh and white again, I lovingly brought them home and set them in the wardrobe, still in their plastic bag. The very next day I received a surprise phone call from my best friend, saying she’s flying up from Sydney for the day and wants to meet me for lunch.

It was perfect shorts-wearing weather, around 28° and sunny, and I donned my special shorts for only the second time as my son lay playing happily on his mat. Looking smashing, keys in hand, I scooped him up off the floor and onto my hip. As I headed for the door, his mouth opened and a cascade of vomit spilled over his lip and all over the two of us. Unobstructed by his denim overalls or my top, like a tiny white water rapid, the vomit tumbled down all the way to my shorts.

I was so naive. Blinded and selfish, even. Now I have one who cares nought for fine clothes and special occasions, but makes me smile more than those things ever could. Glamour is nothing. Practicality is everything.

If only the care label had read, “Do not wear in the company of small children”.

Crossing Over

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I’ve crossed over. Not in the creepy John Edwards TV show psychic sense, but in the child-becoming-adult sense. I know, I know. Didn’t I pass puberty about 15 years ago? But it seems there was one last bastion of childhood still remaining. Now I am even an adult when it comes to Christmas.

My first Christmas with my son officially marks the end of me as one of the children on Christmas Day, having gifts and food lovingly showered upon me by my parents and grandparents, with not much needed from me in return. I always gave presents too, of course, but I belonged to the youngest generation, the one at the end of the line. Now I am a parent, and my son has taken my place, in fact the place of all my siblings, in receiving the fun, joy and deliciousness that we have prepared for him.

This year we hosted Christmas at our house, which further cemented the transition of my husband and I from beneficiary to benefactor. We had a huge shopping list, we decorated the table, we organised the drinks esky, we even cooked the meat. The MEAT! Talk about responsibility. It was wonderful! Perfectly crackled pork with juicy flesh and sweet apricot stuffing… Oh, yes, and the feeling of our new found responsibility was awesome too.

We give and receive presents every year like normal people; choosing, wrapping, stacking them under the tree. But this year was different. The only presents that mattered were the ones marked “to Seth”, which outnumbered all other relatives at a ratio of about 5 to 1. It didn’t matter what the present was, we all leaned forward eagerly awaiting the look of wonder and fascination to cross his face when he ripped into the paper to find what lay inside. Then he would hit it (his current exploration technique), and we would all laugh and feel happy and declare it to be the best Christmas ever!

As a kid you are completely oblivious to the machinations behind putting on a such big celebration. The planning, budgeting, shopping and cooking. But I’ve just realised that that’s what makes it special. How many times have we said that giving is better than receiving? Well, I think giving the event, the production of Christmas, is even more rewarding than giving actual gifts. A gift will be opened and admired, and you will be thanked. You will probably even receive one in return.

On the other hand, the experience of a beautiful day will be shared and remembered, and there is no need to repay you in kind because it’s impossible to do. Just a face full of smiles, and you will happily do it again and again because you can. And because adults get to do whatever they want.

When Your Newborn Isn’t New Anymore

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I feel fine. My skin has stopped glowing and my boobs have almost shrunk back down to their usual size. I don’t have bags under my eyes and my nails are starting to fall apart for no reason again. My pregnancy hormones seem to have now fully retreated whence they came.

The truth is, I’ve been feeling this way for about a month now, but sort of wishing I wasn’t. I know this sounds like I’m trying to have my cake and eat it too, but it’s a sobering thought to realise that my life has stopped being consumed by my new baby, and, like a gyroscope that always rights itself, I have now absorbed my son into my life so much so that I can’t remember what it was like before he was here.

While this is clearly a wonderful feeling, and I am relieved to have got to this stage, I’m also a bit sad that the daze of pregnancy and new-bornness is over. It affords you special status, where you can be excused for forgetting to do things or bursting into tears at any moment, because everyone knows you aren’t supposed to be able to cope. But now I’m past all that, and I’m back to just being myself. And I have to readjust to being myself again, because for 9 months I was two people, then when my son was born I became even less than one person, and now it’s just me again. With him. Still following?

I feel I am sliding quickly down the slope from the anticipated, media-hyped status as ‘new mum’ to the much more serious but less glamourous title of ‘parent’. Having been treading water happily in the roles of independent young woman, and then (still independent) wife for quite some time, this new transition seems to have happened way too fast. Because my son’s life is so short so far compared to mine, the ratio of change to days spent on earth is so much bigger. Instead of waking up and realising I’ve been in the same job for three years and only my hair colour has changed, I now wake up realising that Junior has gained three new skills that he didn’t have last week!

The key, of course, is to appreciate each stage as it happens. But clichés are easier said than done. Changes happen so quickly you can hardly keep up. At mothers’ groups around the world we lovingly compare each others rolling, crawling, walking and talking babies, wishing our own would start doing this or that, while at the same time nostalgically hanging on to those first few weeks when they were so fresh and dependent. The cure for this madness? Take one great night’s sleep and count your blessings in the morning.

A Mother Of A Decision

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I don’t often receive nasty comments about the direction of my life. Not being in jail or on drugs or having a suitcase full of hateful ex-boyfriends, I’d have to say my life is pretty good. Sure, I’m not going to win the Nobel Prize for Chemistry tomorrow and I haven’t written a bestseller (yet), but I think I’m doing OK at this thing called life. Not so! I found out this week, when two women from my past just couldn’t help but share their disdain at my latest endeavour, if you can call it that: the birth of my first child.

“What a waste [me] having a baby.” Pow! If that doesn’t knock you sideways you must be built like an Olympic weightlifter. I didn’t know that putting my reproductive organs to good use would actually cause the rest of my mind, body and soul to wither away into nothingness. Not to mention render invisible any great feats achieved during my first 29 years of life. I guess if I had read more of those pregnancy guides before I even got knocked up I would have found this out and maybe reconsidered my options.

But, not to worry, I had a few days to push this drivel to the back of my mind before the next gold nugget of unsolicited insults came my way. “You were such a smart girl.” Double pow! Did you know that giving birth diminishes long term brain function? Yeah, me neither. The nurse in the antenatal class must have forgotten to mention it.

Yes folks, like all humans, I’m not getting any younger. And yes, like many women, I was thrilled at the idea of starting a family of my own. So thrilled that I didn’t think about it for more than one second, didn’t consult my husband, didn’t mull over my possible career trajectory should I choose to remain sans bébé. I mean, who has time to think about all that stuff!

I know I’m not the first woman to come face to face with the dilemma of having a career and a family, but there’s nothing like being slapped in the face with it to make you suddenly take notice of what the female sex has been grappling with for over half a century now. I guess I am shocked that there are still those who somehow believe that you are a failure as an intelligent woman if you choose family over a career at some point in life.

In the dictionary, a career is defined as “an occupation or profession, especially one requiring special training”. Let’s stop right there. Not too many men I know have two of these going at the same time! So why should women be forced to feel inadequate just because they focus their attention on the occupation of motherhood whilst leaving paid work by the wayside? Of course, everyone knows that once you select your occupation, you can never change it. You’re stuck for life. Nobody ever decides to change direction or pursue a different career path… Hang on, sorry, just had to push the ghost of my grandmother off the keyboard.

It’s A New…Person!

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Since last time I posted I have welcomed a beautiful new baby boy into the world! He takes up most of my time and energy, as any mum would know. He has also given me new ideas and a fresh outlook on life, so in my few spare moments I have tried to jot down some of my thoughts. You will see these posts coming in the next few weeks.

In other news, on Wednesday 12 October, the Sydney Morning Herald published my article in Heckler. The link is no longer active, so I’ve posted it here for you.

Midwives Deliver a Feast of Options

So, apparently, giving birth to a tiny new life doesn’t automatically instil in you a telepathic, sixth sense, women’s intuition-kind-of-ability to look after it’s needs as well. It would be logical, don’t you think, that a person you have spent nine months incubating could somehow communicate with you on a deep, psychic level, so that you knew instinctively what they needed and wanted at any given moment. Unfortunately, it just isn’t so.

Women, being women and all, just want to help each other and offer advice to those of us naive enough to think we will be able to know what to do when our battered bodies first deliver another human being into this world. Well, I can tell you first hand, you won’t. Even if you do, you don’t.

Enter the midwife. For a few short days she is your best friend, your personal medical encyclopaedia, your number one ally against the gorgeous new crying, pooing, miniature family member you just created. But too much of a good thing is rarely a good thing. Like a flock of hungry vultures the midwives will circle your hospital bed until you are at your most vulnerable, and then slowly, one by one, they will pick away at what’s left of your sense of self determination while you try to stay afloat under all the advice and instruction.

Our health system is a marvellous thing. But, grateful as I am that I live in a country where I can receive great (and free) health care, everyone has their limit as to the amount of differing opinions they can handle.

By the time I left the hospital with my new baby boy, I already had an overstuffed nappy bag full of conflicting advice from medical staff on topics such as when I should change a nappy (after a feed / halfway through a feed), how long to feed him (as long as I want / about 20 minutes / or the best one: “not too long because you’re going to need those nipples to last you a long time and you don’t want to wear them out this early in the picture”), how to fix nipple damage (air dry with breast milk / sit topless in the sun / use lanolin cream), and whether I should drink stout to improve my milk, or avoid alcohol altogether.

It’s a wonder how any first born children have managed to survive to adulthood at all. After all, how can you be sure you’ve picked the right advice from the child-rearing smorgasbord? You can’t, so best to go for the degustation menu just in case.

Bluejuice & The Philly Jays @ the Hoey Moey

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It’s already about 90% humidity inside the small Hoey Moey gig room when the openers, Philadelphia Grand Jury take to the stage. The two-man garage rock combo (with new drummer Susie Dreamboat of Brisbane band I Heart Hiroshima) don’t need long before the crowd is wrapped around their little fingers, with their twangy guitar riffs and thumping beats.

As much theatre performance as a music gig, we’re entertained by MC Bad Genius (the bearded one – bass player) striking a statue-pose for minutes on end during the middle of their recent hit “Save Our Town”, while Berkfinger (the blonde one – vocals/guitar) jumps into the mosh pit, guitar in hand, getting down and dirty with the crowd. The Philly Jays, as they are also known, put on a great live show, with all the energy and rawness of your older brother’s band playing at a 21st birthday party. Their brand of lovable geek rock won’t appeal to everyone, but if you’re open to new experiences and a good time they’re the men for the job.

Giant fluoro letters appear across a blacked-out stage as the room swells to capacity in anticipation of the second act on the bill. Bluejuice are a five-piece Sydney outfit who first gained success on Triple J with their 2007 single, Vitriol – an unashamedly catchy dance pop gem. Opening the show with a few lesser known tracks, the party really gets started with the title track off the band’s 2009 album, Head of the Hawk.

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The trademark 80s sitcom synthesizer and heavily distorted bass brings out the dancer in all of us. Front men Jake and Stav’s tight harmonies sit nicely inside well-crafted melodies, almost at odds with their mischievous on stage antics and obvious penchant for partial nudity. The air conditioning is still missing in action, but the infectious ska-tinged beats won’t let anyone stand still, as the crowd jumps and drips in time with the band. If you want to lose weight, come to a Bluejuice show.

Chaos and calm in Vietnam

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Saigon has charmed us by the time we travel from the airport to our hotel. Absolutely buzzing with activity, people and scooters everywhere, the footpaths struggle to contain the masses of people eating, chatting and cooking, as close as they can get to the middle of the road without being run over. The three and four storey terrace-style housing means everyone is living on top of each other, so groups congregate out in the hot air under the street lights, perched on parked motorbikes and impossibly small plastic stools, forcing the traffic into single file. 

Our hotel, the Duc Vuong, in the bustling District 1, is like a tiny, cool oasis in which to recover from the heat and sensory overload of the street. Ironically, I have succumbed to the “holiday flu”, the one that you manage to avoid during the stressful planning, booking and packing stages but that finally gets you once you are airborne and relaxed. Upon checking in, the manager mentions a “free dinner” to be held at 7pm for anyone in the hotel who wants to join. Too tired to think about other options at the time, we give in to his charm and agree. 10 guests are there that evening, seated together at a perfectly laid out table, and we’re welcomed by the manager, grinning from ear to ear. As if reading our minds, he begins to speak,

“You may be wondering why we offer you free dinner. Well, because at Duc Vuong Hotel we are a family.”

The speech goes on for a few minutes, the manager obviously ecstatic that we have accepted his generous offer. And the food which follows is delicious beyond our expectations. Succulent fried tofu with pineapple and tomato, delicate clear soups, chicken and vegetables all part of the banquet.  

Far from being just another grotty, overcrowded city, Saigon has an energy in which nothing seems to stand still long enough to let the dust, sweat and soot settle and weigh it down. At the time of our visit, a four-day national holiday celebrating the end of the Vietnam War (or “American War” as it is known in Vietnam) has everyone in vacation mode.

Of course, in Saigon, like elsewhere in Vietnam, everyone rides a scooter. There are whole families of five balanced casually atop a single bike: the father at the front, mother and two children holding on behind, with the toddler standing in between its father’s legs. It’s clearly the most effective method of zipping around the narrow streets, nudging through 4 lanes of oncoming traffic and squeezing past tourist buses with arms held out to ensure you don’t scrape as you go past.

To get around on foot you literally have to walk in the road, dodging the traffic as it dodges you. The busy, steaming pace of it all somehow manages to accommodate all forms of human activity without discrimination. Parents push prams, ladies carry boxes full of undecipherable nicknacks, young men smoke and chat, grandmothers sell noodle soup made on bicycle kitchens. Despite the chaos and constant horn-honking, the atmosphere is immediately relaxing. We feel as though we could happily disappear into this disarray and emerge completely unwound several days later.

Our next destination, Mui Ne, is a complete contrast to the city. A small seaside town around four hours north east of Saigon by bus, it is a sleepy stretch of resorts and houses along the South China Sea. Here food vendors amble down the main road on bicycles, Vietnamese pop tunes pumping from tiny stereos attached to their tiny awnings. They always smile and say hello, but it’s far too hot to purchase the dried, salted fish most of them are selling.

For our evening meal we sit at small tiled tables at a beachside shack, feasting on the catches of the day. As we drink Vietnamese beer and watch the day settle into night, hardworking fishermen continue to replenish the restaurant’s tanks with crayfish, clams and fish brought up fresh from the beach below. We have entrees of gigantic prawns, and scallops slathered in garlic, shallots and pepper cooked to perfection on a 44-gallon drum. The waitress, with her limited English (our Vietnamese is worse!), entices us with a suggestion of “fish soup”. It is one of the best dishes we have ever eaten! A small terracotta pot comes set over a bed of flaming coals, filled with a sweet pineapple, tomato and onion broth and stocked full of chunks of shark meat. It’s accompanied by a plate piled high with okra, bok choi, and other strange vegetables we’ve never seen before. The moon is bright red as it rises up through the clouds above the tin roof, and happy, Vietnamese synthesizer-pop blares over the speakers.

Poll Position

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In China there are elections, but all the candidates are from the same party.

In Afghanistan, voters face physical intimidation and bribery before they even get to the polls, and corruption and electoral fraud once their votes are cast.

In Fiji the military leader cancels and postpones elections according to his own will.

In Australia last weekend, voters were asked to attend a polling station of their choice, at the time of their choice, select the candidate of their choice, and cast their ballot for the federal election.

Unfortunately, the mere privilege of having free elections appears lost on many voters as they are forced to give up half an hour of their Saturday to perform this duty once every 3 years or so. The contempt which is shown towards our electoral process only serves to highlight a self-centredness we rarely acknowledge.

“Let’s get this shit over with”, one wife said to her husband as they walked in through the school gates. Disgruntled constituents arrived to see moderately lengthy queues, scrunched up their faces and turned on their heels, muttering about how there’s no way they’re waiting that long, they’ve got better things to do.

“And who do you think is paying for all this?”, sulked another woman, observing the polling attendants, cardboard queue markers and ballot papers set out inside the hall. Heaven help us if there were no kind AEC staff to answer our ignorant questions, and no orderly queues so instead voters were forced to jostle for position to even get a ballot paper at all, knocking down pensioners and obliterating 18 year old voting virgins in the quest for the nearest booth.

I admit, the candidates on offer may not delight you with inspiration or vision, they may not even seem to stand for what you believe in. We all have a whinge about candidates’ ineptitude at least once during every campaign, give us ten minutes in the PM’s shoes and we’d have this country fixed quicker than you can say “vote 1, me!”

But, at least at the end of the day your vote will be counted and your voice, however small, will carry the same weight as everyone else’s. The vote counters and scrutineers will do their job long into the night (and sometimes for days afterward). Still, if this is too much democracy to handle, just go ahead and cast a donkey vote, and stick it to all of them. What better way to get your money’s worth.

Happy Snaps

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I’m going on an overseas holiday. I lose count of how many times I have explained my itinerary, which day I’m leaving and when I’ll be back.

“Sounds great, make sure you take lots of photos!”, they all say.

Why should I? Are they really going to want to look at them when I get back?

Holiday snaps pose a timeless dilemma, one that has haunted travellers, be they backpackers, gap-yearers or newly retired empty nesters, for generations. It’s actually quite a challenge to enjoy the moment if you are continually yelling, “take one of me in front of the statue!” You know you’re in trouble when you find yourself assessing the scenery not in terms of how magnificent it is, or how it makes you feel, but rather which angle or camera setting will give the best shot when it’s printed in 6 x 4 matte.

There’s nothing like walking for hours to the top of a mountain, only to take a few photos and walk back down again. Something to show the folks back home. To prove that you really were there. You can already hear the sweet oohs and aahs of your workmates marvelling at your glossy pictures in the lunch room (that’s if they ever make it off the memory card and into cold hard prints).

Perhaps we underestimate the ability of our mind and emotions to help us remember the amazing sites and fabulous experiences we encountered on our journey. Or maybe the thought of having show and tell with our friends is stronger than the desire to soak in the moment and really appreciate the experiences we travel so far to enjoy.
After all that, do my friends really care what my hotel looked like, or how big that cave was? Should we bother with the slightly awkward slide show where everyone politely feigns interest all the way to the end, when all they want is to hear some crazy story and be done with it?

Surely the satisfaction lies with the actual accomplishment of having that adventure, expanding your knowledge of the big wide world, and living to tell the tale, whether there are photos to prove it or not. I think my friends would be happy with that.

And perhaps one photo of me on top of a mountain.

Bus Vs Car

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I feel sorry for the busses driving around on their route with no-one in them. Unwanted & lonely, they must feel. Are they resentful of cars? Like a walkman is of an i-pod… People still like music, they just don’t like how you give it to them. People still like going places, they just don’t like using the RSL-carpeted seats and safety bars to get them there.

Me, I quite like going on a bus. You don’t have to think about traffic, directions, where to park when you get there. You are completely free to eavesdrop other peoples’ conversations or cocoon yourself within your musical earplugs. If only the bus went precisely where I wanted to go and when. Aye, there’s the rub.