For those who have wondered where I am (and how I am), life this week has been plagued by, well, life. DH has come home in one piece, I've started back working again (it's nice to afford to eat), the trio are their usual chaotic selves, and supposedly our net provider is upgrading our service. "Upgrading" in this case seems to translate into not working at all for several days now. It's times like these you long for the old fashioned days of a "like-lightening" web connection rather than a "faster than lightening" connection! (ahhh, the good old days...) So rest assured, I am well and a new RAOS recipe is coming your way shortly, as is a more detailed update about how things like me are. At the moment I am sitting in a vegetable risotto balls fugue: I had to cook over 400 of those little fuckers today. Nice to eat, crap to wear. More coming soon.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
When I was a kid I wanted to marry this guy... even though he was much older than I was. Now he's gone and ruined my fantasy because he married someone who is 25 years old. That's right, 5 years YOUNGER than I am. *sigh* Sometimes life is just not fair. Okay, so he's fatter and balder and has had a few trips to rehab...but at the end of the day, he still rocks.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Sometimes kids just say and do things which make you laugh so hard, you pee your pants (an unfortunate side effect of carrying them in the first place). Their latest party trick is reciting lines from movies they've seen, in paticular the movie Robots. In the very last scene, Big Weld is talking into a microphone with an in-built echo. So the conversation goes like this:
BW: Ladies and Gentlebots
BW: I came all ths way
BW: (talking to microphone) Woud you cut that out? It's very distracting!
M: Oh. Sorry...sorry...sorry....
Listening to five year olds do this is hysterical, as they've got the inflection down pat, and they've got the funny voices, and their comedic timing is often funnier than the real thing. Their latest scene stealer is when Fender says, "Tastes like chick-en!" and then lays an egg and says, "Oh. I didn't know I could do that!" So the kids have been running around saying, (in a Rodney/vaguely black American voice), "Tastes like CHICK-EN!" They've started applying this to everything, and I will admit to getting in on the act. This afternoon I gave DD#2 a kiss on the nose and said to her, "Know what? Your nose Tastes Like Chick-En!" This, of course, ensued in five year old humour where absolutely everything Tastes Like Chicken. It was all fun and games until one of them said, "Penis! Tastes Like Chick-En!"
What, exactly, was I supposed to say to that?
Sunday, July 23, 2006
The good news is, only 2 sleeps until DH comes home. The bad news is....well, there really is no bad news! The squids have been amazingly well behaved these past few weeks, which can only mean they are saving up their most irritating behaviour for when DH gets home. That is fine by me, because I can use the "but I was on my own with them and I coped just fine!" excuse that mothers use to make fathers feel inadequate and clueless. This post is short because I have actually gotten off my butt and done some household chores, and I need to keep going while the momentum is there. I figure another 14,572 loads of laundry between now and Tuesday night and I should find DS somewhere.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
9 years ago today, this child bride married what her sister referred to as "some old dude." For the record said sister now adores said old dude more than she likes me, so I don't think she did too bad in the deal! I've already spent an entire entry waxing lyrical about how wonderful, fabulous and all around totally lovable my DH is, so I won't do that here (even though he'd like to hear it.) I will, however, reflect on our 9 years of marriage together. When I met DH, I was a junior in college, and I had set up for myself a very complex future. I was going to be some totally hotshot publishing executive with a super way groovy cool apartment in LA, single, thin (because when you're single you have gym time, right?), cultural (because single people have time for loads of classes in shit like pottery and jewelry making), and I would be the most fantastic auntie on the planet to my sister's kids. You know, the one who lets you sleep over and eat nothing but junk food and stay up late to watch movies your mom won't let you watch, who then lets you sleep in but gets up to make you French Toast and coffee (like a grown up!!) and when you're with amazing auntie , she curses like a sailor and in general is the most fabulous person in the universe. Better than your Mom because there are NO RULES other than the rule of having fun. So this was my plan, no house, no husband, no kids, no responsibility other than turning up to pottery class on time.
Then I met him. You know. DH. Or the person soon to be known as DH.
DH's plan for himself was as follows: house in the Jewish suburbs, nice wife, three adorable kids, good job, holiday once a year. In short, your typical boy-meets-girl suburbia story. He had, however, reached the ripe old age of 36 without having achieved any of these things.
Then he met me. You know. DW. Or the person soon to be known as DW.
He is now:
Married to nice wife. Check.
Living in Jewish suburbia. Check.
Parent to three kids (adorable). Check.
Good job. Check.
Holiday once a year. Check.
Now anybody reading this tale might think, "Wait a minute! He got everything he wanted, but you got nothing you wanted!" Here is where you (and I) are totally, totally wrong. The plan DH had was based on a lifetime of seeing his amazing parents raise their sons, and wanting for himself the same sort of family life they had built. My plan was based in self-doubt and lack of confidence - I'd built this amazing plan for myself on the assumption that nobody would want to marry me. My fantasy world was one where I was so fiercely independent that I just didn't need anybody else. I could be happy without a husband. I could fill my life with that damn pottery class, nieces/nephews, and gym visits and be fulfilled and happy. My only problem would be fending off my well meaning but annoying parents asking me to join some Jewish singles scene. Now I don't know if that would have been true - maybe that's exactly what would have happened. I could, right now, be hosting the opening of my brilliant one-woman pottery show (and the canapes would have been FAB, let me tell you). It didn't happen, though - fate intervened and I met, and fell in love with, DH. I have spent the last 10 years in the company of someone who (while occasionally supremely dorky and irritating) has taught me the importance of family, of togetherness, of facing a difficult world with someone at your side who loves you unconditionally. That last one is something he not only says he does, but he actually does: he loves me when I am the one who is dorky and irritating, when I am not nice to him, when I look like shit, when frankly I don't even like myself very much. DH is always there, quietly loving me. He has been an integral part of my growing up - because that's what I've done since I've been with him. I grew up. The most important lesson of my growing up is this: It's true what they say about the 'best laid plans' ....and I'm so very, very glad.
Dear reader, you'll also be heartened to know that DH & I are, truly, the most cool Auntie and Uncle that ever lived. Just ask Miss H and Master M, who adore us. As an aunt and uncle, we totally rock.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
I've been thinking about this whole blogging thing and I have two ideas for you to ponder. Please leave a comment below or email me and tell me what you think. First, starting a blog just for my RAS recipe and cooking-related stuff. This started life as a supposed foodie blog but ended up as a mommy blog. So should I move the recipes to another location? Secondly, I want to start a group blog (with several contributors, like here and here). Specifically a blog written by people in "mixed marriages" - Australians married to Americans. Something I've noticed over time is that even though we speak the same language...well, we don't. There is a cultural divide between the two countries, Krispy Kreme not withstanding. I thought it would be interesting to have a blog about North Americans living Down Under, and vice versa. Because I didn't grow up here, there is so much I've learned along the way - including how totally horrible the milkshakes are (sorry, Louisa, I had to mention it) and how totally wonderful the people are. I am sure that is also true for the Aussies displaced to the US. So - anyone out there think this is a good idea? I'd have to recruit some people to contribute (and they would have to be witty, entertaining, and generally as fab as moi). So - what do you think? I even have a clever name picked out! Leave comments/opinions/good quotes/rantings below - see that little lit up comment on the bottom right corner? Click on it.
Possession, they say, is 9/10ths of the law. Clearly whoever said that didn't live in a house with triplets, where posession is ALL of the law. It is one of the grossly unfair things in their lives that they have no choice but to share. Everything. They share a room, a closet, a birthday (even a birth minute), clothes, our attention, plates, teachers, toys...everything except of course a car seat but let's not go there again. So it stands to reason that when you share everything in your life, you might sometimes resent that. You might get a little posessive of your stuff, what little stuff you can actually claim as your own. To approaching enemies you might scream very loudly "That's MY TOY and DON'T TOUCH IT!" You might even be forced to, on occassion, yell things like, "MUUUUUUUUMMM!! He's TOUCHING my THINGS and I DON'T LIKE IT!" Those sorts of declarations of independance are often followed by out and out war. As a person who is self-proclaimed selfish and self-centered, I understand the need to have your own things. Make your own mark, play with your own toys, define your uniqueness at every possible opportunity - just once in a while say that this is all about ME. I get it. I really do. These kids did not choose to be born together, after all. Now while I could carry on about the benefits of being born in a group, that's not what this post is about. This post is about me trying to figure out the twisted minds of 5 year olds. All this sharing as made them masters of posessiveness - anything they can claim as their own, they can and DO claim (the purple cup/first bath/smack from Mom is MINE and not YOURS and you can't HAVE it.) The same five year olds who spend so much time guarding, hoarding, secreting away their own stuff....desperately want the stuff of others.
All. The. Time.
So what is it about their sibling's stuff which is so appealing? Is it just a case of the grass always being greener? Is it a way to practice your attention-seeking and dramatic death scenes? Should I be teaching them that "thou shalt not covet your sister's stuff"?
Let me set the scene. One kid is in theplayroom reading a book (and littering books for a 10 mile radius, but the ability of kids to spread stuff all over is another post.) One kid is in the kitchen, "helping" me to do something domestic (and making a mess for a 10 mile radius...) and the third kid is playing with some cards, also in the playroom but nowhere near the book flinging kid. Card playing kid looks up, sees book flinging kid, and simply HAS TO, in that VERY moment, get up and snatch the not-yet-flung book out of book flinging kid's hands. If card kid doesn't have that EXACT book, on the order of RIGHT NOW, then card kid will DIE a sad, lonely, tortured, drawn out, screaming and hitting and crying death on the playroom floor (while checking surreptitiously to see if Mom is watching). While card kid is working on an Oscar performance, domestic kid wanders in to see what the fuss was about. She idly picks up the abandoned cards and starts to play with them....which further enrages dying card playing kid AND book flinging kid (because card kid takes book in question with them to the scene of the card crime). This then leds to Supremely Irritated Mom coming in and asking Stupid Question #1: "Why can't you guys just leave one another alone?!?!?!" (Duh, Stupid Mom, where is the fun in that?) This results in three loud voices describing in full detail the injustice of the crimes committed - and since Supremely Irritated Mom can't hear any of it clearly, she just nods her head and asks Stupid Question #2: "How hard is it to just share? Can't you guys share?" There is of course only one answer to this: "We can't share. We HATE sharing." The title of this post says it all: what's mine is mine, and what's yours is mine, too.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
As DH will tell you, I'm very demanding. In my defense, I'm demanding of him but I am also very demanding of myself. Since I knew he would be away for quite a while (and thus unable to put forth an opinion or 'help') I had a whole list of home projects I intended to finish. You know the ones - things you put off until you have 'free time', things you should be doing regularly but you don't so they build up and then become too time consuming to deal with, things you just plain ignore because they are boring. Closet clean-outs, office paper filing...the boring but important detritus of life. I am taking this post to admit that I have not crossed a single thing off my list. For those who know that I am obsessive compulsive crazy overachiever girl, (COG), you will know that crossing things off a list is, for me, like the world's best orgasm and calorie-free premium chocolate ice cream all rolled into one.
I have become a slacker Mom on so many levels....and...*confession time* I am loving every single minute of it. DH and IL's, feel free to read the following but brace yourselves and try to contain your horror.
Those great meals I was going to cook for the kids each night? Ummm, no. Dinner is a selection of cereals or sandwiches, to which the kids say, "AGAIN?" The closets I was going to clean? Still full of clothes which have not fit since the kids were babies. My girls keep wearing long sleeved shirts which can best be described as cut off tank tops with cap sleeves. My son tried to put on socks that were so small, he could not get them over his toes. The laundry pile is threatening to spill out into another (several) rooms. I don't think we have enough toilet paper to last the week. The fridge is quite, quite bare (as in, even the condiments are running low.) I've been wearing the same clothes for 2-3 days in a row (as are the kids) to reduce the laundry demands. The office still looks as it did on the day DH left - which is to say, a fire hazard of paper and stuff which has no other home. Only difference is the number of dirty tea cups littering the desk. I get the dishes done...eventually...or I just throw everything in the dishwasher and turn it on and pray nothing breaks. Under normal cicumstances, I'm a terrible housekeeper but I maintain minimum standards. My minimum standards have gone to hell in a washing basket. The beauty of it is, I could care less. I cannot remember a time in my (adult) life that I just let everything go. I'm very BAD at relaxing. I'm bad at having nothing to do. I always multi-task, write lists, volunteer for more stuff, and find something which needs doing right this very second. What I've discovered is that there is an enormous amount of freedom to being Slacker Mom. It's BRILLIANT, and I should just let go more often. Sure, my house could probably be condemned - but the kids and I are having loads more fun, and they are behaving like angels. The fact that Child Protection Services might cart them away for neglect...well, we had fun while it lasted. On the weekend DS (Dear Son) made a great spider out of a toilet roll, a bunch of straws and miles upon miles of sticky tape. DD#2 came downstairs today, dressed and ready to go to kinder, with nary a whine or complain or fuss. For her this is nothing short of miraculous. DD#1 has coped beautifully since DH has been gone (she is his #1 fan), and tells me about 600 times a day that she loves me. They get to kinder (mostly) on time, they go to bed with mimimal fuss, and so far nobody has gotten lice or died of starvation - not even the fish! I could definetly get used to this - I figure even our bills are smaller since I can't be bothered food shopping.
Life as a Slacker Mom is great, and I have no intention of changing my ways until the few hours before DH comes home, when I just might be forced to do something about the chaos. This whole slacking thing is new to me. Who would have known that slacking as a lifestyle is such great fun? However, as I said, I'm demanding. If the tables were turned, and it was DH being Slacker Dad - I'd kick his ass to kingdom come. "What do you MEAN you didn't get around to it? I leave for three weeks and you can't even be bothered to have clean underwear? What the hell have you and the kids been living off of, peanut butter sandwiches?" Hell hath no fury like a woman who could have done it all better, by herself, with one hand tied behind her back. In this case, as I know DH is reading this blog while he's away, I know he's going to forgive me for the mess. Actually he's so freakin' fabulous, he'll probably say, "So what? You enjoyed it. You finally took some time off from being crazy over achiever girl? About time!" This, dear readers, is why I love my DH. Those reading this post who know me intimiately will recognise how totally out of character slacking is for me- I am not one for slacking even when I am on vacation. I was telling a girlfriend about my slacker ways and she said, "Did it ever occur to you that you NEED to do this?" She's right. I needed to learn how the other half lives...and now that I know, it just might be hard to get back to my COG self. On the other hand, imagine what a GREAT lists of "stuff which needs doing" I'll be able to make...
Saturday, July 15, 2006
It's freezing outside, raining cats and dogs, I'm parenting without DH (and thus cannot fob kids off onto him), and I've got three kids who desperately need to blow off some steam. Hmmm, what to do, what to do...I know! I'll shlep across town to an indoor play centre we've never been to! That's a great idea! Note to self: great ideas are rarely great. The end result is that the kids did burn off some pent-up energy, stayed dry, and we left with only one pair of eyes in tears (quickly resolved with a promise of real food at home and inane Hi-5 music at full volume for the car ride home) . I've decided that indoor play centres are really just large rooms full of evil, and here's why:
- You have to mortgage your first born child to get in. It cost me, wait for it, $27 to just get in the door. Yes, they charge the ADULTS to go in, not just the kids. Frankly, I'm quite happy to pay them the $8 per kid, and LEAVE the kids in there without me. I can go hang out in the warm car reading the paper and loving the quiet...but guess what, that's not allowed because 'children must be accompanied by an adult.' Okay, there's plenty of adults in there who paid the admission fee. THEY can accompany my kids. Unfortunately it doesn't work like that. So even if you only have one kid, it costs you $11 just to walk in the door. You have not had one iota of fun and you're already in debt. This is the part where you pray to god that more than an hour goes past before your kid starts whining that they want to go home. "I paid 11 bucks, dammit! Now go out there, get run over by a bigger kid, and HAVE FUN."
- There are far too many "if I ignore my kid they will go away" parents in there, all of whom are drinking overpriced coffees (and pretending like they're not eating their kids chips). It's like they take their kids there and forget the kids exist. Now, I myself am guilty of this but only in small bursts. Every couple of minutes I actually LOOK UP from my self-centered world and I scan to find my kids. ALL of them. If I can't find them, I get up off my fat arse and check on them. As in, SEE them or TOUCH them and make sure they are alive and have not been killed by the asshole kamikaze kid who hurls himself into other kids at 85 kmph with nary an 'excuse me'. Every single time I get up, I find a kid crying their eyes out, laying on the brightly-coloured floor or the recent victim of a stampede of six year olds. Is there a parent to be found? Nup. So I hang out with said kid, trying to calm them (and remember I don't do kids so this is an effort for me) until some responsible looking adult comes looking for their kid. Do you KNOW how many times I have picked up kids I don't know (by the hand or whatever) and gone looking for their Mum? Too many to count. People, a slide is not a babysitter. Indoor play centres are not an excuse to dabble in a bit of child neglect.
- The birthday party thing. Ooooh, I get it. Stuff in a small room forty kids, aged between 3 and 5. Let them run totally riot, then sit them down in the small room again and stuff them with fries, cordial, birthday cake, and other high fat and high sugar things, and then send them out there to MOW DOWN my kids. Lovely. While the birthday party kids are out there burning off the 4,000 calories of sugar and hysteria, the parents sit around pretending not to eat the leftover cheezles and party pies. This immediately makes them the parents I describe in #2. The birthday party kids then leave, leaving in their wake the debris of chips, wrapping paper, and a dozen kids with head injuries....and then in another half hour the whole cycle starts again in the Rainbow Room.
- Food in general, since we're on the topic...actually, in their defense I have to say lots of indoor play places have decent menus, with healthy food options available and the price is not too unreasonable. Usually. Today, however, when I went to order DD#1 a cheese sandwich (a bargain at $2), they told me it would be a 30 minute wait. BUT, I could have chips/cookies/candy/fried anything in less than 3 minutes. You can just imagine the look on my face. Actually I have a confession to make. I spent $3 and bought the trio a bowl of fries to share, in order to stop the "I'm hhuuuunnnggggyyy" whines. They ate them, went off to play, and half an hour lady a waitress person brought me another bowl of fries. I did actually tell her we'd already gotten our ordered bowl of fries and sent her away. She spent the next 30 seconds looking around, totally lost, carrying this bowl around. I put her out of her misery and said, "Why don't you just leave them here?" - which she promptly did. So we got two bowls for $3. Hey, I'm nothing if not a) practical and b) opportunistic.
- When you are on your own (as I was), other people think this therefore entitles them to a) take all the chairs at your table away (good thing I was sitting on one otherwise it too would've been snatched), leave dirty dishes on your table (which they cleared from the table they had been stalking for the last 10 minutes), and in general act as though you do not exist. It makes you glad you stole someone else's chips.
Friday, July 14, 2006
I think it's been more than a week since posting a RAS recipe, but forgive me, will you? Here is this week's recipe for super moreish macaroons (and generally I hate macaroons, but these have none of that horrid coconut so it's okay!). This can be made into Passover cookies by substituting the plain flour for super fine matza flour. I know it uses a food processor again, but you already dusted it off last week, so why not keep the trend going? (Confession: I whizz the almonds in a mini chopper.) These are so good you might consider not sharing them - but the whole point of RAS is sharing, so double the quantities so you can indulge and make the world a better place.
Almond Macaroons To Die For
1/2 lb (about 2 cups) lightly toasted almonds
1/4 cup plain flour
3 eggs whites (at room temp)
2/3 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1 tsp vanilla
1 tsp cinnamon
Dash of salt
Note: To toast almonds, spread on a baking tray and bake for about 10 minutes in a 180/350 oven until lightly browned.
Preheat oven to 325/160. Process the almonds until they resemble a coarse meal. Beat the egg whites until stiff. Beat in sugar, vanilla, cinnamon and salt. Gently fold in the ground almonds. Drop by tablespoons onto a bake paper lined cookie sheet. Bake for 15 minutes or until edges are golden. Remove from the sheet carefully as the macaroons will be soft but will firm upon cooling. Store in an airtight container (but put some paper between so they don't stick to one another, these are quite soft macaroons.)
So I've been looking at other blogs (when one has all this free time, one has to use it in some meaningful way, right?). Lots of them seem to have this '100 Things' list, which is just a big ol' boring list of stuff which is supposedly interesting about the people who write the blogs. You know what? I don't really want to know 100 things about ANYONE. Those lists lose me around the #23 mark....when the person writing them kinda lost the plot about it (and got bored themselves) and they resorted to things like "No. 28: In the morning, I always put my left sock on before my right sock. No. 29: After my socks I put my pants on, one leg at a time." Give me a break. Why is this stuff interesting?! However, in the interest of getting to know your friendly neighbourhood blogger, here are some (less than 100) interesting (well, okay, interesting to me, possibly boring to you) facts about emzeegee:
- I nearly never laugh out loud. If I read comics in newspapers, a funny book, see a live comedy show, watch a sitcom on TV...I don't laugh out loud. I might find something funny, but it's funny in my head and nowhere else. The only times I really laugh out loud are when I'm in active conversation with someone and they say something funny. I hate going to comedy shows because there is this expectation that you will laugh out loud. I don't DO out loud laughing, guffawing, chortling, or any other laughing synonym good vocab word you can think of.
- I don't like children. There are a very, very small number of kids who I actually like and can interact with. I'm not a natural mother (actually work hard at being "maternal"), I have never ever felt 'clucky', I don't ooh and aah over babies, and I don't find conversation with a nine year old stimulating. I adore my kids, and with them I get along and interact and blah blah....but overall, kids kinda annoy me. The list of kids I like is pretty well limited to my kids, my sister's kids (because they are frickin' cool) and a child of a friend of mine (who is so scary mature it's like talking to an adult anyway.) I'm nice to other kids, but I don't fawn over them. I just don't do fawning. Strangely when I tell this to people who know me they think I'm kidding. I'm not, so please keep your snot nosed kid away from me. Thanks.
- I harbour feelings of self-doubt and a constant worry that I am not doing enough, achieving enough, earning enough, and in general doubt my skills. Again, this is one of those strange things which people who know me don't believe. Outwardly I am one of the most confident, self-assured, and frankly self-centered, arrogant people you would ever meet. The reality of it is I need constant reassurance that a) I'm not crap at being a Mum, b) not crap at being a pastry chef, c) not crap at being a daughter/DIL/sister/friend/wife d) not crap at giving of my time or skills to worth causes and e) just plain old not crap. Ask DH. He'll tell you how much time he spends telling me I'm not crap.
- I worry that if I keep posting about such serious stuff, all my loyal readers will stop reading this blog. (So I promise to be funny again, truly I do... *grin*)
- I really, really hate wearing bras which are any colour other than white. In a pinch I'll wear 'nude' coloured ones, but it makes me feel kinda wierd all day.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
You meet some seriously strange people on trains. These people are often carrying strange things, too. Case in point, the two people I met today on the Sandringham line. Person one was an Asian lady carrying a Very Large Plant (hereto known as VLP, not to be confused with VPL, which, had she been standing up, I might have also noticed.) Anyway so she's carrying this enormous (about 4 feet high) plant - succulent plant of some kind because it was not only big, but it was UGLY. You know the kind, with sveral long spindly bits which kinda 'explode' into various other small spindly bits at the top. This thing was enormous, and she was lovingly carrying it along with several other bags of shopping. The plant itself was kinda wrapped in a black rubbish bin liner (American translation = black garbage bag). It was quite amazing to see her sit down with all her stuff and then spend about five minutes gently rearranging the bag around the ugly plant so as not to damage any of it's ugly spindly bits. I desperately wanted to lean across the aisle, wrap the bag around the plant, and put the damn thing out of it's misery. It was truly a plant only a mother (a blind mother) could love. I couldn't help myself. After staring at this display of VLP love (and I am an unashamed starer, I don't even pretend to look like I'm not looking) I said, "Nice plant. " To which she smiled and said, "My engrish not ver' good." So much for that conversation. Even my Olympic talker self couldn't get very far with this...which is fine because of....
(S)talker Seatmate. (S)talker seatmate was sitting across from me, which in a Melbourne train means our knees were touching. Seems the people who made these trains with seats facing one another assumed everyone was 5'5'' and under. NOT SO, train makers, NOT SO. This leaves me either with knees squished to one side, or me and the other person doing the whole your knee/my knee/your knee/my knee sitting thing. I don't love mingling knees with strangers. Anyway, so my knee companion sits down, and smiles. A lot. He gives me the "I'd love to chat with you" smile - you know the one, the smile which says, "I'm feeling chipper and chatty so you must be too! Let's talk a lot and be best friends before we both get off this train and you breathe a sigh of relief at having left (s)talker seatmate behind!" The kind of person who will ignore all your body language which screams, "leave me alone!" Note, I had the number one LEAVE ME ALONE sign on: a big, fat, interesting-looking book on my lap. Open. Which I was actively reading, not just pretending to read. So (s)talker seatmate starts talking, and myself being a talker (although never a (s)talker seatmate, trains are for quiet time!), I couldn't really not talk back, now could I? Kinda like when you turn your computer on in the morning, it's almost a physical impossibility to avoid checking your email, even if your deadline for work is in the next 30 seconds. So I talk back, but in short leave-me-alone sentences. It didn't help. So I brought out nuber two LEAVE ME ALONE sign: I mention the DH (just in case this dude gets overly friendly). Doesn't help. Talker seatmate asks me about the weather, my football preferences, the rain, if my book is any good...you can see where this is going. This man puts my talking abilities to shame. I wouldn't have minded (much) except for two things:
1. (S)talker Seatmate had the scariest, ugliest, most feral looking teeth you've ever seen. Nice
man, horrid teeth. He smiled a lot. I should have given him some best friend seatmate advice on this one and said, "Mate, you're great to talk to but you make me cringe when you smile. Keep those choppers hidden!" I didn't, just buried myself in my book further and tried not to throw up. Imagine how HIS Mum must have felt when it came time to pulling out loose teeth...*shudder*
2. I was talking. A lot. I have an accent (well, I don't really, but these crazy Aussies think I do.) (S)talker Seatmate morphed into Stupid People Seatmate land by virtue of saying, "So, you grew up here in Melbourne, obviously..." It took me several seconds to recover from this , so I just stammered, "Ummm, no, I didn't." He didn't care, he just kept talking, and flashing those not-so-pearly blacks at me.
Travelling on trains can be a lot of fun - there is often great people watching, you're helping the environment (by not sitting in a car and belching out car fumes or whatever into the atmosphere), you can have quiet time to read or pick your nose or whatever....but sometimes, I must remember to steer clear of people holding VLP's and people who are (s)talker seatmates.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Have you ever met someone, and somewhere in the back of your mind thought, "I don't know why it's signficant that I'm meeting this person, but I know this person will play some part in my life." This happens to me every few months - I'll meet someone at work, or school, or via my kids...and I'll just kinda know that this person will have a significant impact on me. Sometimes the impact is not really known until much later. For example - I first got into the whole pastry thing when I did an "Intro to Buttercream" night class for fun. The people in the class were nice enough but one in particular seemed really cool - she had a job at a hip patisserie/bakery in a hip part of town and she gave me that wierd brain click thing. We didn't talk much in that class, we didn't stay in contact at all, she really was nothing to me then other than a random lady who gave me a brain click. Two years later that person became my boss and I now count her as one of my very good friends (on this blog she is known as the sicilian). These sorts of things - people hunches, let's call them - happen to me often enough that I wonder if it's my own kind of superpower. Like in the 7th grade there was a exchange student from Perth - her Dad's company moved them to Los Angeles for the year. We were friends, she was nice, but it all ended when she and her family went back to Perth - in the 7th grade long term friendships across the globe were not the done thing. I remember thinking, "Where the HECK is Perth?" Anyway, she is now a member of this group. She was, technically speaking, my first connection to Australia. Someday I will contact her again and tell her that (when she's not touring and selling a gajillion albums that is). She, at the time, was not a brain click person but in retrospect she must have been - a retrospective people hunch. I'm not talking about the people you lose contact with and then think about once in a while, and then you google their name, and then you either forget again about them or email them madly for 3 weeks and then not again until the next time you decide to google them. I'm talking about the people, who, for reasons which cannot be explained, have a real, significant impact on your life and the choices you make. Or people who, merely by virtue of meeting them, will change or at least influence the decisions you make in the future. I have yet to be wrong about my people hunches - maybe some would say I am just very intuitive - but it's interesting, isn't it? I never tell these people that they are my brain click (because they would look at me very strangely, and rightly so) - it's just kinda my secret knowledge about them - so when the whole hunch comes full circle and that thing happens which was attatched to them happens - I secretly, inwardly smile and think, "A-HA! Right again!"
*happy sigh* I love people hunches.
I think I've posted about this topic before - at least in relation to DH - but I think it's worth discussing again. Today I met someone who is 29. Her boyfriend (who moved all the way across the globe to be with her) is 21. Yes, HE is 8 years younger than she is. When she told me about this, she was all embarassed about it - as though it's something to be ashamed of. It's not like I would point and shout, "Cradle Robber!" at her. Sheesh. People take too much notice of the whole 'age difference' thing. In my experience (and the experience of others, since everyone I know feels the need to get my approval if their love interest age difference is greater than 3 years) - age is so relative to the individuals. I've met many a person my own age who is significantly more or less mature than I am. I wonder how much of it has to do with how we are raised, how much of it is gender-based, how much of it is society/culture based. Take, for example, your average 19 year old in a major metropolitan city (Note: I make no apology for broad, sweeping generalisations here.) . In the US, chances are that the 19 year old spent their high school years driving themselves to parties, holding down a part time job and applying to college. At 18, they probably left home to go to a college far away (as in, a plane ride away), took control of their finances (at least in some part), had a job, etc. The average 19 year old Australian child probably didn't have a part-time high school job, definetly didn't drive themselves anywhere (driving age is 18), and the whole college apps thing is done totally differently here (and far easier to do!). At 18 they probably went to university....a tram ride away from home. They probably still don't drive, probably have their parent's names on their mobile phone bill, and will live at home until they graduate. I'm not saying one way is better than the other - but if you were to introduce those 19 year olds to one another, I think you would find one is more mature (more independant?) than the other. If one of those 19 year olds were male, that brings another dimension to it. If they were an only child, if they come from a well-off family, if they are religious - so many factors combined to determine if a person is mature, average, or immature for their age.
For my Master's degree I wrote a thesis arguing that teenagers should be given the right to choose their treatment couse (including a choice to NOT undertake treatment) for life threatening illnesses. In my opinion at that time, teenagers should be given the right to choose for themselves even if their choice differs with that of their parents. I did also argue, however, that this could only happen where the adolescent showed a maturity and understanding of the situation. My Mom read that paper and assured me that once I had kids, my opinion on this topic would change. Well, now I've got kids and my opinion hasn't really changed all that much. It's just that now I would like to think DH & I would have a nuturing, open relationship with our kids so that our decision about treatment would be a mutually acceptable one. I just can't accept that 'legal age' means you are suddenly mature enough to handle things - driving, drinking, whatever. I have no solution as to how one decides what legal age should be, and I understand the need for a formal number to be attached to these rules. Age is such a strange notion to me - it's not like you wake up on the morning of your 18th birthday suddenly mature enough to handle alcohol. In our house we have a saying (which works in DH's favour) - 'You're only as old as the people you feel" ....and I truly believe it kinda is like that. For me, in any case, how I feel (and how I act) can often be day and company dependant. In the company of my uni friends, I often act and dress less mature than I would in, say, the company of my work colleagues.
So, how relevant is one's age? How significant a part should it play in any part of our lives - especially personal lives? Is the person dating someone much younger than her simply "cradle robbing"?
And for what it's worth, today I feel old. Somewhere around 43.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Yesterday I went to visit a friend with these gorgeous 8 month old twins. What was supposed to be a 'flying visit' ended up in three hours of chat fuelled by Arnott's Mint Slice biscuits and of course fun, conversation. Several of the topics we chatted about could have been blog entries...but I'm saving those for a day when I've run out of stuff to crap on about (yeah, like that will happen!). ANYHOOOOO, the thing that struck me about this conversation was how many 'stories' I have. She would say something innocuous like "baby bottle" and that would leave me with an index of funny stories about baby bottles (in my head, not out loud), from which I would often choose one to share. She'd laugh (of course, because I'm damn funny), the conversation would continue, she'd say something...and whammo, into my head leaps another index of stories about whatever phrase she has just uttered. Is my life just one long funny story? Is there some sort of quota of how many funny things happen to a person? If there is then I definetly have had more than my fair share - nearly everything which happens to me is story-worthy. People who know me in real life know that I often say (out loud), "I've got the best/funniest/most ridiculous story about that!" I then proceed to rabbit on for long periods of time. Maybe my stories aren't funny at all, maybe I'm just completely self-centered and therefore I think my stories are funny, but really they're not. Maybe those people laugh at the end of my stories just to be polite. Maybe I like the sound of my voice? Lately several people have commented about how I talk a lot. It's true, I do talk a lot. It's not that I find silence uncomfortable, it's just that I see no point in being quiet if I have something to say, which 99% of the time I DO. If I don't have an opinion to share, then, you guessed it, I have yet another of my myriad of funny stories...and yes, sometimes my mouth hurts after talking so much. It's not unheard of for DH to say, "Can you stop talking now?" especially when it's late at night, he's keen for some action, and my mouth is going 1,000 miles an hour. This post, as rambling as it is, is an example of how much I talk. I could just keep typing and typing and typing, and then mid-type I'd remember something funny which happened to me, and I'd have to share it with all of you, which would lead to more typing....you get the idea.
Speaking of funny stories (!!!) - you know the cheese sandwich? I found it. It was on top of a tissue box (Kleenex with Aloe!), on top of the coffee table, in the middle of the lounge room. I didn't notice it there (even though I walked past it several times that night and the next day) because it was sitting perfectly on top of the (square) box - and the bread and the box are not a dissimilar colour (see above, sandwich coloured kleenex box), and the box was neatly in the corner of the table with some other stuff... and it takes a whole paragraph just to tell you people I found a damn cheese sandwich. Is anyone out there listening?!?! Arrgghhhh....
Sunday, July 9, 2006
I used to say that I wished the kids had come with an almanac - a waterproof one which swam around in their placentas, and when you gave birth, whoosh, out it came. Now the rules about this almanac were that you were only allowed to use it in moments of sheer desperation - moments when the usual tricks weren't working, the bribes are tossed aside by the bribee, the calls to helpful people have left you with nothin', and frankly you have literally NO IDEA what to do next. The Almanac for the "What the hell do we do now?" moments that every parent has (usually in the wee hours of the morning). Then you open the Almanac specific to your kid, specific to the day, you find the answer of what the hell is wrong with the kid, and (here's the best part) you also find out how to fix it! Ahhhh! Now I see! You've been crying hysterically, wailing to beat the band and kicking me madly because teddy's smile is 1/8th of a millimeter more crooked than it was three weeks ago! NOW I get it, I just have to hold him 1/8th of a millimeter in the other direction and you'll stop that incessant screaming! *phew* Saved by the Almanac! So we all know such a thing doesn't exist - and if it did, we'd all break the "only in desperation" rule anyway. I've since decided that it's the children who need the "for dummies" book, and they need it in relation to being parented - a book which teaches them some of the essential truths of childhood. Here are a few entries in that book:
- "Get out of here, I need to poo!" literally means Mum (or Dad) wants you to skedaddle, pronto. We DON'T want you to stand there and tell us every type of dinosaur including the 4 you just made up and what they like to eat best. It means, kid, BEAT IT.
- "What part of, I NEED TO POO are you not getting?" means, if you don't get the heck out of here on the order of right this very second, you're going to find out what a very angry Mumosaurus looks like. (Note: It's very hard to be angry using words like poo, but the other word would not be considered positive parenting by example...)
- Tired Mum has just stepped on a lego in bare feet for the third time today, the laundry has flooded, there is someone at the door, and your sister has a case of head lice which she announces loudly to everyone she meets. Now is NOT the time to say, "Mum, can I have a bowl of cereal? And can you only use the Pooh Bear bowl? With a green spoon? And only use the biodynamic Vitamin D enriched milk. Thanks." Word of advice, kid: Don't even ask. Just get it yourself (and try not to spill) or wait a day or two. Because if you say that while the above is happening, you WILL get your head bitten off.
- Mum or Dad smashing their toe on furniture and being in utter abject pain is not a good time to start laughing hysterically.
- Whatever it is you desperately need, want, or are just plain ol' being obnoxious about (food, drinks, favourite toys, small parts from toys you haven't played with in six months, blankies with holes in them, t-shirts that haven't fit for several weeks, essential scraps of paper from pre-school) we are guaranteed NOT to find in exactly the moment you need it. Get over it. We will only find it several hours/days/weeks later when frankly, you could care less about this previously 'life or death' item.
- Shrill screaming is only allowed in instances where it is warranted, e.g. if your life or your siblings' lives are in immediate danger. It is not allowed in any other circumstances, ever. Shrill screaming is not allowed if you are merely annoyed over the unfairness of life, someone touching you or your stuff, or you think I can't hear you (because I CAN, I'm just ignoring you), or because you like the sound of your loud, high pitched voice. Fact remains, kid, I can scream louder than you can, but I WON'T because I follow the rules about when it is allowed. You should too.
- "Mummy and Daddy are napping, now go away" is not an invitation to open the door and comment on why we are naked in the wintertime, and tell us that we really should be wearing warm jammies otherwise we will 'freeze to death in the night.' Given this is one of the only times we're 'napping', frankly, we don't give a shit if we get frostbite ON OUR you-know-wheres. Now go away.
- World Wars were not started over which DVD the world leaders wanted to watch. Why are you trying to start one that way?
- You had better realise that your whole life, there will always, always, always be someone touching your stuff. Just ask me about the people who keep stealing my knives at work. It sucks, but I can't complain to my boss that "so-and-so is TOUCHING MY STUFF!" You will never be able to complain about this and have anything meaningful done about it, so why bother doing it now? Learn to hide your stuff better.
Saturday, July 8, 2006
So DH is out of town for a few weeks - as in, so far out of town he's on the other side of the globe. He's only been gone about nine hours and already I am sorely missing his presence. I've come to the conclusion that I've got to get the kids bathed, fed, dressed, entertained so that they don't kill one another, clean up those little floor-to-toe direct contact missiles known as toys in the dark, look after this house and the cars and all sorts of sundry household crap - all by myself. Thing is, I rely on DH to do so many different things - he is quite possibly, most helpful Dad in the world (which isn't to say he is perfect, it just means he's a damn decent human being.) For these weeks it's just me - the royal we of me, myself and I - against three five year old hellians. Now these kids are a lot of things - endearing, annoying, hungry, charming, exhausting, ridiculously illogical, funny, irritating, demanding (to name a few) - but they are, at least, not obnoxious. This means I will survive, right? So I was thinking I was going to do just fine without DH until two things happened. The first was the tooth incident. He is a very fine tooth-getter-outterer. I am not. I am a "If I try to push that tooth out I will spew" getter-outerer.The second thing that happened (and frankly, the straw that broke the proverbial) is that I lost my cheese sandwich. DH is also a very good cheese sandwich finderer.I'd gotten the kids dinner done and even consumed by them (in my defense, it was both filling and vaguely nutritious). I'd gotten them to bed, cleaned up the dishes, decorated two cakes, had a long telephone chat...etc etc before I realised I hadn't actually organised my own dinner. So at 10:30 at night I found myself making the ultimate comfort sandwich: imported expensive mayo and a slice of cheese on soft multigrain bread. Bliss! I then wandered around the house with it, nibbling as I went. I was looking for something to do, someone to talk to, some menial task which needed my attention, something which would distract me from the fact that I was all alone. It worked. I got distracted. I put my sandwich down. Then, of course, whatever the distraction was didn't last (and I can't remember what it was, because that was about 8 distractions ago). My stomach was sending my brain "I will starve" messages in an urgent sort of way. I went to get my sandwich, and it was GONE. Seriously. I can't find it. I've searched all the rooms and places I've been in, I went to the scene of the original distraction crime. My sandwich, quite simply, is not to be found. It's like it got sucked into a vortex, or squirelled away by some small animal. I can't find it. I need DH to come back and FIND my cheese sandwich. Otherwise it will look like the one above - ten years old, in a wierd shape, surrounded by cotton wool and with the Virgin Mary's face toasted into it. Although, being a Jewish household, it'll be a picture of Moses instead:
This post is just to say that the old chestnut is true: You don't know how much you need something until it's gone. In this case, I sorely miss DH's ability to be a brilliant Dad and other-person-in-the-house, and I really, really miss his ability to find cheese sandwiches. Stay tuned as I try to survive the next few weeks on my own with the "squids." This is the longest we've been without most-helpful-DH-in-the-universe. If he were here right now, he'd not only have found my sandwich, but he would have cleaned the dinner dishes (because, after all, I'm no good at it), made me a cup of tea, told me I'm gorgeous...wait a minute. Either this man is the world's most amazing DH, or he's trying to get some, ahem, "personal attention." Either way you've got to admire someone who thinks his wife (all demanding, annoying, messy haired 6 feet of her) is gorgeous even when she is demanding, annoying, and messy haired. But I digress. (Ohh, I've always wanted to say that!) I still have 17 days, 21 hours, 54 minutes and 51 seconds in which to a) survive the kids without any need for drugs and b) find my damn cheese sandwich. Otherwise it's a real waste of a schmear of this mayonnaise:
Mayonnaise, which, while expensive and sometimes hard to find in Australia, is SOOO worth it. Australian mayonnaise is just scary! But I'll bitch about wierd Australian foods in another post. In the meantime, if you have any single parenting advice, or any good ideas about just where the @#$%&! my sandwich might be (and no, I didn't eat it, I swear!), please feel free to leave a comment. Or just pray for me, whichever works for you.
Pulling teeth. DD#1 has a very loose tooth which needs to be pulled out - because since it's just kinda hanging there, it's hurting her and annoying her and basically a cause for much whining and carrying on. I need to just push it out. I really do. But I can't. The idea of doing that not only gives me the goose bumps, but it quite literally makes me want to hurl. I tried to do it a few minutes ago and because I'm so freakin' stressed out over it all, I couldn't do it. All I did was succeed in upsetting her further and making myself nauseous. Now I want to go and throw up - literally - and it's going to take a bit of time before I return to normal. Ick.
Thursday, July 6, 2006
Don't be put off by the fact that these biscuits are made in a food processor - when was the last time you dragged that thing out of the dark depths of your cupboards? This recipe is a great excuse to give it an airing. I originally got this recipe from the Super Food Ideas magazine - a great place to get all sorts of good sharing recipes! Anyway, do a winter good deed and bake these for someone - then sit and eat them together with a glass of milk. Yummmmo!!
Spiced Honey Biscuits
2 cups self raising flour
1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda (baking soda)
1 Tablespoon mixed spice
2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 cup caster sugar
125g cold butter, cubed
1/2 cup honey
1 cup demerara sugar
Preheat oven to 200C. Line 3 baking trays with baking paper. Warm the honey in a small pot over a low flame, just to heat warm and make runny. Meanwhile, sift flour, bicarb mixed spice and ginger into the food processor. Process for 30 seconds. Add cater sugar and pulse for 20 seconds. Add butter and pulse until mixture resembles bread crumbs. With food processor running, pour warm honey down the tube and process until a soft dough forms. Place demerara sugar in a bowl. Roll biscuit dough into walnut sized balls and roll in demerara sugar to coat. Place on lined trays, leaving room for spreading. Bake for 10-12 minutes or until biscuits are golden and tops are cracked. Stand on trays for 10 minutes and then cool on a wire rack.
Wednesday, July 5, 2006
There are a number of things I am pretty good at. Being a pastry chef, writing great letters (these days, emails), parenting (well, they're not on the therapist's couch yet), cooking in general, changing tires (as I recently discovered!), laughing, telling jokes, being organised, writing blog entries (ha!)....anyway, lots of stuff I can do and do well. However life has recently reminded me that there are a number of things which I am totally, utterly, completely useless at. Here is a small selection of things which I really suck at doing:
- Sewing. I attempted to sew a large hole in DD#1's most favourite and well abused denim skirt. Ummmm....well, it's hanging together on a hope and a prayer (and lots of crooked, too wide, very messy and not done right stitches.) Seriously, I will be amazed if it lasts the day.
- Ironing. Given my career, there is a reasonable amount of ironing to do. Thank god it's just squares or rectangles, because ironing anything in another shape is just not possible. I iron more wrinkles *in* than I take out, and even that takes in excess of 45 minutes. Per shirt.
- Lying. I can do it when it's not important, like little white likes about 'I LOVE this hideous and inappropriate gift! Thank you SO much!" but when someone asks my opinion about something, well...I can't hide it. I open my mouth and say what I am thinking. Rather often, this gets me in trouble. It's like I either never had a brain filter, or someone turned it off. I also can't lie on paper - like resumes. If I lied on my resume, my non-filtered mouth would probably give it away in the first three seconds of the interview.
- Making small talk while holding a drink in one hand. This is akin to slow torture for me. The only salvation is the waitress with the canapes, who frankly I assault every time she walks past so I have an excuse (full mouth) not to make more pointless, uncomfortable conversation.
- "Forgetting" to eat. Who are these people? The ones who get so busy they forget to eat? This has never happened to me. I could be writing the Great American Novel (in Braille), knitting a jumper with my feet, keeping 10 plates spinning on poles, reciting The Odyssey in French backwards all at the same time and I would STILL not forget to eat.
- Washing Dishes - or at least, DH says I am bad at this. I just say, he thinks I'm bad at it, so he does it himself. Perfect plan in my book! Somehow when he's not around the dishes get washed just fine...hmmm...
- Pretend to like people. You know how you meet someone, and you either instantly click with them or you don't? Well if I mean someone who falls into the "no click" category, I have a hard time hiding that. I suppose I wear my heart on my sleeve in that way - it's obvious how I feel about someone pretty much from minute one. I take the things people say personally. I can't fake a smile or affection. My people skills are very black and white.
If the trend continues, I'm going to be spoiled for choice. Here are the stats, in a MasterCard sort of way:
Interviews: 5 (1 next week)
Offers for trials: 2
Will call back to confirm trials: 2
Job offers rejected by moi: 1
Enjoyment over having some free time to myself: Priceless.
....and in the past 2.5 days of unemployment I've been busier than ever. I even managed to get a hair cut (for the first time in 7 months.) I could get used to this!
Monday, July 3, 2006
My hatred of stupid people started long, long, long before the trio were born. Actually I'd say that my hatred of stupid people started way back when I realised that not only was I was not one of them,but I am in fact pretty damn clever (around age two). This makes me, among other things, more able to spot the stupids. It also means I am infinitely more annoyed by them, and less skilled at hiding my annoyance. Of course just because one is clever doesn't mean one cannot do stupid things, but these are isolated incidents which should be considered mere aberrations rather than declarations of stupidity. (Wow that sentence had a lot of big words, didn't it? Proof I am not a stupid person!) Anyway once the trio were born, it seems that there was a release of extra stupid people in the world, and all of these people made stupid comments by, around, or about the trio. Here are a few examples (and yes, I really did hear all of these, some very often!):
- "Are they identical?" (Ummm, no, he has a penis and they don't.)
- "Are they natural?" (Ummm, no, they are made with MSG.)
- "If I were you I would want to kill myself." (Go right ahead, one less stupid person in the world suits me just fine.)
- "Gee, you have your hands full!" (No shit, Sherlock)
- "Do they all share a car seat?" (Yes, we stack them so they fit in the two-seater Porsche.)
- "How old are your kids?" "They're 5." "All of them?" "Yes, all of them." "WHY?" "Ummm, because they were all born on the same day." Stupid lady: "Oh" (she walked away still looking very confused)
- "I feel sorry for you" (Here's a quarter, go call someone who cares what you think.)
- "Do they all eat the same thing?" (No, I've got one on a diet of worms and one on a starvation diet - we're conducting experiments!)
- "I didn't feed her lunch." This was from a creche teacher who did not feed one girl because the other had said she was not hungry. (Go figure, two humans, one decides if the other is hungry?!)
- (screaming) "Look! It's the triplet lady!" (Yes, and I need you to announce that each and every time I walk into a room, because I have no other identity.)
- "Why is he/she bigger?" (That would be because they are separate people who do not eat, shit, or grow at the same rate.)
At the moment I'm in love with this TV show, "Girls of the Playboy Mansion." Okay, you're thinking, el primo example of stupid people. On the surface of it they're blond bimbos with big boobies and that's all there is too it. I totally disagree. These women get cars, money, chefs at their disposal, clothes, a gorgeous house, fame, and probably lots of other cool perks like meeting famous people and basically living in total luxury. For doing what? NOTHING. That's not stupidity, my friends, that's pure genius.
Sunday, July 2, 2006
Religiously speaking, my beliefs are a little all over the place. I'm not entirely sure if I believe in god or not, I don't know if aliens are out there, I can't explain crop circles or Stonehenge and I don't know if I believe in fate. At the same time, so many wierd 'coincidences' happen in my life (and the lives of others) that it's a bit hard NOT to believe in fate, the predestination of things happening for some higher reason. Like the guy in the cartoon stepping away *just* as the piano falls from the 45th floor, or people not getting on THAT flight, or runaway brides, or...any path taken which at first seems somehow not right. Fate or not, I think that things - both good and bad - happen for reasons which in the moment are not entirely easily explained. Take, for example, the trio. Circumstance (and a total lack of fertility) dictated that we had to go the IVF route to conceive them. At the time - it was a tragedy, a travesty, and other t---y words. It was, at the time, the worst thing in the world. Luckily for us, it ended well, with trio in tow. In retrospect, it was the BEST thing in the world. Not only did it give us the trio, but it meant we had our children early in our relationship, leaving DH & I free to roam the universe while he and I are both relatively spritely. Had we not had the experience of IVF, we might not have had children, might only have had a singleton, or might have been decidedly old and grey before having them - leaving DH not as capable of running around with them, or me not able to pursue my sweet career. See what I mean? IVF = totally sucky, but really IVF = totally lucky.
Is this making sense? Something awful happens, and it totally, totally sucks, but hindsight (being 20/20 and all) shows you that it was worth that horrible thing happening because of the person you will become or the lessons it's taught or the opportunites you will get as a result. So like my dream job thing ending - you know, fact is it really, really, really sucks. However - and here's that hindsight - I think it's taught me a lot, and also thrown up other opportunities. At the end of the day it's NOT the end of the world, even if in the moment it kinda felt like it was. This rule applies to the big stuff as well as the little stuff - only it's much harder for the big stuff. Anyway here's my 5 cents worth of advice: Next time something totally shitty happens in your life, take a moment to think to yourself: ya know, in a few days or weeks or months, I'm going to realise that this doesn't suck so bad. emzee said so, so it must be true.
The trio went to a birthday party yesterday, complete with requisite piles of sugar and fat laden junk food. Don't get me wrong, it's a party, hence the party food. I don't really have any issues with this (other than my kids always want a real meal afterwards...). Anyway so I see this kid walk by with a plate full of stuff. Not unusual. I then see his Mom, following him, with a tray of fairy bread, and she says in a stern Mommy voice, "You may NOT eat any of that until you've eaten something healthy!" In what part of theuniverse is fairy bread considered a health food?! Sometimes, you just have to laugh...
For you Americans: Fairy bread is cheap white bread, slathered with butter and then covered in sprinkles (see above).