The Most Bloggyful Time Of The Year

It's almost November, which means that for the third (??) year in a row I will be participating in National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo) - which is probably a good thing as my creative juices could use a bit of waking up!

Topic suggestions or questions you want answered most welcome. I'm clever, but I don't think I'm thirty days worth of clever!

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree

Things I have in common with Jesus:

1. I'm Jewish.
2. I was born on December 25th.
3. I've been to Israel.
4. I quite like wearing Birkenstocks, even in cold weather.
5. I don't get my hair cut quite as often as I should.
6. I've got a mate named Mary who is a mother.
7. I've slept in a barn. On hay.
8. I know at least 3 wise men.
9. I don't mind a bit of sugar and spice and frankinsense and myrrh.
10. I enjoy wearing clothes which do not require ironing.

I've always wanted to celebrate Christmas. I love all those beautiful decorations, and the whole 'matchy matchy every year a new colour scheme' thing, and the handmade decorations kids make out of macaroni and string, and the carolling, and all the other commercialised shiny crap which comes along with modern Christmas. In short, many times in my life I really, really wanted to be able to buy trees and tinsel and baubles. Hell, I even love the WORD 'baubles.' I love how it kind of rolls off the tongue like that: bbbaawwwwbbbuuuhhlllssss. I love ALL the cheesy fibre optic, moving, singing, bell ringing, hip swaying, tinny-voiced decorations. If I was a Christmas celebrator, oh hell yes I'd have the fake snow. Even in Australia, where Christmas is a summer holiday. I would have CANS AND CANS AND CANS of that fake snow crap.

And can you imagine me with the lights?? I'd totally have one of those houses people drive by to see and need to wear sunglasses in order to not be blinded.

This week, I got my chance. The shop needs a Christmas display (one small table's worth), and I need to go and get a bunch of gorgeously Christmasssy stuff to put on the display. I wandered into ONE store today, just to gather some info on what the options were and what I might need to spend and what colour scheme I might like to go with.

OH. HOLY. NIGHT.

There is literally TONS of stuff out there for the taking. TONS. And I love it all and I want it all and the business can actually afford it...(not) all, but most of it.

The 2 metre fibre optic reindeer whose head moves from side to side.
The Santa figurine who sways his hips and rings his bell. He comes in 3 sizes!
The colour changing light box thingie which shows different Xmas themed images.
The bells. OHHHHHH the bells.
Did I mention the baubles? There are a LOT of baubles out there. Lots.
Tiny baubles the size of marbles.
Basketball sized baubles (seriously. Who knew??)
Stockings. Even stockings for DOGS.
A really really big inflatable snow globe which actually blows fake snow around.
(that's the one I liked the best. It blows snow around. FOR REAL.)

I'm pretty certain that when Biz Guy and I went through all the financials and budgets and projections and cash flows, there was no line item for "giant inflatable snow globe." (But I might double check that, just to be sure.)

Of course he *tried* to be all Biz Guy about it and ask me what the ROI was for all this crapola I wanted to buy, but I kindly ignored him.  This is one of those rare times when Biz Guy can take his logical, practical advice and shove it right where Santa does not dare to go. I was fully prepared to blow a sleigh load of money in that store today and feel not one skerrick of either Jewish or Catholic guilt about it.

BAUBLES. There were *thousands* of baubles.

So.

I walked out of there with a bottle of water and a small bag of chocolate covered banana lollies...and not even one string of tinsel.

Not even the cute little Santa figurine which bobbed back and forth if you pushed it over with your finger.

Not even the itty bitty cutest baubles in the entire WORLD which were stripey. In different coloured stripes.

Not even the - SO DAMN CUTE I WILL DIE RIGHT NOW IF I DO NOT BUY IT - sparkly little table top Christmas tree which changed colours and SANG SONGS and other cool stuff.

I know, right? I wait 35 years to be let loose in the Christmas aisle...and I totally choke. Not sure what happened there, but at a guess I just got totally overwhelmed by sparkly glittery awesomeness, and my brain could not handle the adorable overload.


The Christmas display needs to be done this week. I've got 3 days to get this stuff sorted out.

Maybe I need to go the Jesus route and find me some disciples to help out.

Leave Me ALONE

I love being a mother, wife, friend, sister, business owner etc etc etc etc - but as much as I love being all of those things, I also love just plain BEING ALONE. My world is a noisy one. My kids talk to me endlessly, my husband talks to me (although I of course complain he does not talk enough to me, but there's another post altogether), and my gorgeous friends call or text me often. My clients call a lot (thank god. I have school fees to pay), my email beeps on my phone endlessly (thank god. I have a mortgage to pay) and in general my world is nearly never a quiet one. Even when there is no other living soul around (either virtually or physically), my brain is often going at a million miles an hour and that means that quiet - blessed, calm, sweet silence - is something I rarely ever get.

I do not know the experience of quiet contemplation, navel gazing, meditation, daydreaming, chilling out or doing nothing at all. The few times I've tried it, I've lasted all of 3.4 seconds before I get bored or my mind wanders to the shopping list or the dinner menu. My version of "quiet time" is the 20 minutes I allow myself most mornings to eat breakfast, read the paper (or check email), or read a book between the kids/gym/crazy morning routine and the time I head out the door to work in the morning. 20 minutes. That's it. I don't get it most days - but I get it a couple of times a week and that's enough for me. I used to consider my gym time as quiet time, but now there are all these annoying ladies who know me and want to TALK to me while I am there, and I have yet to master the "shut the fuck up, would you?" look in my eye as I lift the hand weights.

Various things have conspired in my life in recent weeks so that my beloved quiet time (well, the emzee version of quiet) is disrupted - and I didn't realise quite how much this is annoying me until this afternoon. Through some clever planning on my part, this afternoon I had about 25 minutes on my own in a shopping mall, and then went to see a girly movie all by myself (kids and DH were at boy/kid movies). Rather than enjoy it, I spent most of the time feeling as crumpled as an origami crane. I struggled to really just enjoy myself. Ridiculous, right? I finally get some peace and quiet, and I didn't enjoy it much at all. I'm not entirely sure why that is - after craving my alone time, I finally get it, so I should be happy, right?

The funny thing is, I was always one of those people who believed you could rest - and be alone - when you're dead. So now, while you are still taking breath, is when you should be hanging out with people and doing stuff and being busy. I think I still feel that way, but in recent weeks I've suddenly understood the value and joy in just being alone.I have no desire to go back to being single and childfree and anti-social. I love my life and consider myself extremely blessed to have all the noise I have...it's just that sometimes, I'd just like to be left alone.

And this, my friends, is currently my biggest guilty pleasure - that for a small block of time, a couple of times a week, I answer to NOBODY. That 20 minutes feels ridiculously decadent. I sometimes feel guilty about it, or selfish about it, or somehow even a bit wicked for coveting it as much as I do....but I'm just going to keep on trying to fit it in. 

What's your guilty pleasure?

Never Ever Ever Give Up

This is a story about a pastry chef on a mission. I'm sure there is a lesson here somewhere if you look hard enough.

Some months ago I had a sudden inexplicable urge for torrone - which is Italian nougat made (usually) with some very simple ingredients: honey, glucose, egg whites, and nuts of some kind (often almonds or pistachios.) I've got no idea WHY I wanted some, but I did. I do adore meringue (and that's pretty much all it is), so it's possible I was after a non-meringuey yet meringue-ish fix.

Torrone is temperamental as hell to make, but I decided to give it a go anyway - because I'm just painful and determined like that. It definitely falls into the category of things to which my sister would say, "I don't get it. You can walk into a store and BUY some perfectly good ones. Why on earth would you MAKE it yourself?" She has at various times said this to me about bread, jam, conserves, pickles, biscuits, cordials and all sorts of other stuff readily available in shops. It never stops me though - because I adore the challenge of it.

Without further ado, emzee makes Torrone in 5 Acts:

Attempt #1 - Pistachio - I was lacking almost everything one needs (sugar thermometer, rice paper, the patience of a saint) but gave it a go anyway with a dodgy recipe from a dodgy cookbook. Result: Tastes fab, but was so sticky it removed most dentures and you needed a tiny little crow bar to get it off the plate. But you know, you really *wanted* that crow bar because it tasted amazing.

Attempt #2 - Almond - Still no rice paper, no thermometer, but a brilliant fool proof recipe from my friend The Sicilian, who is basically the grand poo-bah of torrone making. It's practically what she uses as mortar for her house. She also said a thermometer was a useless item for this exercise. Result: Tasted good, but never set so it was a runny sticky mass which was impossible to remove from the tin at all unless you froze it. So we did - freeze it I mean - then chopped it into small pieces and mixed it into vanilla ice cream. OMG. YUM. But sadly not exactly what I wanted.

Attempt #3 - Almond - Back to recipe #1 but this time with almonds and doubling the recipe and WITH said sugar thermometer. Result: Disaster and a half. So hard it would break the dentures you replaced from the last effort. Pretty sure I'm still picking it out of my back molars.

Attempt #4 - Pistachio and Cranberry - Downloaded a recipe from the internet with a bunch of good reviews and even a video on how to do it. Epic fail. Pretty sure this one just landed in the bin altogether - after lots of judicious tasting though. (Can't let ten bucks of ingredients go to waste, can we?!)

....and then I gave up for a while, but not before buying two giant packets of rice paper and shoving them down the back of the pantry. "Meh," I figured, "I'll do it eventually." This exercise was getting *very* expensive - what with all the nuts and glucose and whatnot. That was about 8 weeks ago. Last week I was in a doctor's waiting room, reading a copy of Gourmet Traveller. I flicked to a page which had a recipe for Pistachio nougat...and I thought, "Hey, this recipe kinda looks familiar!" I flicked to the front of the magazine and realised it was over 10 years old (it's a doctor's office, what do you expect?). I also realised I HAD this recipe in my giant binder of "someday I will make all of these" recipes which I've copied, begged, borrowed, stolen and written onto the backs of envelopes.

With renewed interest in torrone making, I went back to it - using my photocopied recipe, with the sugar thermometer AND the rice paper. I attempted a vanilla and almond version (yes, I know, not what the recipe called for, but it's all I had on hand.

It was perfect. Absolutely, gloriously, deliciously, delectably, amazingly PERFECT.

Tasted brilliant, texture was brilliant, and it was just DIVINE. I am fairly certain the heavens opened up and the angels sang as I took my first bite of it.

The only minor complication was that I failed to grease the sides of the torrone tin, so it did require some blood, sweat and tears to get the slab out of the tin around the edges...but once I did, it was SO worth it. Seriously, ridiculously awesomely awesome torrone.

Problem? Now that I've achieved it, I'm bereft without a decent culinary challenge. I've made my own sourdough (and lots of other breads, including one which had a 3 WEEK long starter), various jams/chutneys/preserved/pickled goods, nut mixes and muesli and granolas, hell, I've even made fortune cookies from scratch. In short, I love making all the kinds of things one can buy at a shop but it's way more fun to do at home.

Suggestions for something new to drive me crazy are most welcome - and if you'd like some torrone...well, sorry. Ate it. ALL.

The Balebuste Gene

Balebuste (Bah-leh-boos-teh) - Yiddish word which loosely translated means "hostess with the mostess."

DH and I are the kind of people who quite enjoy hosting family and friends over for various affairs of the 'eat drink and be merry' variety. Sometimes it's a regular gig, where it's just a friend coming over to watch a regular TV show with us and enjoy a family meal. Sometimes it's a more formal but regular gig, like a Friday night meal of several courses and with several family members, and sometimes it's a "all in for a BBQ" sort of thing. In any case we entertain fairly often and I really like it. I've noticed, though, that other people are not like this...and it amuses me no end when we go to someone's house and they seem to be totally lacking the Balebuste gene. I know they mean well, but...really...when they're serving a Hawaiian themed meal and you're anaphylactic to pineapple, there is no hiding who among us has the Balebuste gene and who does not.  While I would not say that I am the world's best hostess, I like to think I've worked out some of the 'rules' involved in having people over.

Mind you, the rules are flexible based on who the guest is and what sort of meal it is, but generally speaking, if you're going to be a Balebuste, you really should not:

1) Yell at your kid in front of guests, unless said kid has burned the house down, or just walked away with a fistful of matches, some lighter fluid and an evil glint in their eye. Really, yelling at your kid is embarassing for them, embarassing for the guest, and surely something which can wait until later. Really. It is.

2) Tell your guests off for not using the right cutlery at the right time and then refusing to get them the correct piece, which means they then need to eat their mousse with a knife as a result. Ummm..yeah. You're meant to go get me another spoon even if it means YOU are left eating your mousse with a ginsu knife.

3) Wait to serve your guests still the end.  Serve your guests first no matter how whingy your kid is. If you serve the guest last and there is not enough to go around...it's just awkward. You as hostess are kinda required to have the small mangy bits left at the end. Suffer. It's what a Balebuste does.

4) And speaking of - there needs to be more than one potato per person. Especially if they are small ones and even if they are not.

5) Find out ahead of time that your guest is deathly allergic to or really really hates (insert ingredient here) and then DO NOT put (ingredient) anywhere in anything you serve that night. I do not give a shit if your signature dish is pineapple flambe. Learn to flambe some other fruit. Or whatever.

6) Do not at any time say, "Right, well, you've eaten me out of house and home, now, time to go!" and shoo your guests out the door within 5 seconds of their last bite passing their lips. Being a decent hostess does actually involve more than feeding people (although that's the main bit.)

7) Leave the toilet bereft of paper or soap. Just...gross. Toilet paper and soap need to be bountiful. Always.

8) Actually *be prepared* that you've got guests coming over. This means the table is set, the food is cooking or on it's way to be cooked, you've got clean dishes organised, you are not in your pyjamas eating a take away. It will save you opening the door and trying to look like you did not forget people were coming (hint: the pj's and noodles were a dead giveaway.)

9) Fail to eat at the table. Oh, I hate this one. I don't understand hosting people and then spending the entire night in the kitchen or doing dishes. You actually need to BE THERE to be a host. You've got to keep the conversation going (not abandon everyone to their own devices), keep the drinks flowing, make sure everyone is well looked after, and the dog is not throwing up in the corner. You can't do ANY of that if you're hiding out in the kitchen. See #8, and get your shit together so you can eat with your guests.

and lastly,

10) Never, ever let them see you sweat. Key to this whole Balebuste thing is making it all look effortless. Eighteen course meal? EASY! Tidy house? No worries. Groomed kids? Naturally. That your bedroom closet is groaning with the crap you flung in there 10 minutes before they arrived, and that the outside trash is brimming with take away containers which held the dinner you will claim is home made? Not their damn business, that's what.

...and if you're a guest rather than the host, here are your rules:

1) Regardless of what you've been fed or not fed, how wierd their kid is, that the dog did not stop humping your leg under the table, that the cutlery had encrusted god-knows-what on it, that the meat was one step short of being suitable for shoe leather, that you were afraid to sit down anywhere because the place was so dirty....just smile and be complimentary. Learn to lie. Skillfully. It's your job as guest to pretend like everything is fine and Armageddon (eg their little angel darling) did not creep you out when her head began to spin on it's axis a la Poltergeist. Repeat after me, "It was really lovely, thank you SO much!" and then RUN LIKE HELL back to your car and pray nobody follows you.

2) Offer to help, and DO help if they take you up on it. Nobody likes a lazy guest.

and

3) On the way home swing my McD's and grab something decent to eat, make a mental note to offer to GO OUT next time these people invite you.

and
 (edited to add)

4) Do not show up empty handed, it's not really that hard to buy a box of chocolate or some flowers on the way there. Showing up with nothing as a token of your thanks is just plain rude.

...and of course by writing this post, I'm fully opening myself up to the possibility of nobody wanting to come over ever again (because they know I'm hiding shit in my closet) or never inviting us over again (because I'm going to count those damn potatoes.) C'est la vie. There's always McDonald's.

** FYI none of these things have happened in recent months, so if you're reading this and thinking, "Oh shit, I'm guilt of most of that!" when we were over your place last, rest assured you were *not* the impetus for this post. 

Shufflin'

Several months back, DS and DH and I embarked on the Couch to 5K Running Program. I've done this before but wanted to tackle it again, so I recruited my son and husband to suffer right along with me. I was actually quite surprised at their enthusiasm to join me - for either of them, athletic pursuits are not exactly high on the priority list. So we got all enthusiastic, set a start date, invested in a stop watch, bought new runners, and christened ourselves "Team Shufflin'" (as in the shufflin' in the song Party Rock Anthem). We were determined to set the running world on fire.


Most amazing of all was my son's transformation over this time period - in the first few weeks he whinged about it, grumbled about it, and made as much of a half-assed effort as one can make. He would quite literally drag his heels along the pavement, in what was meant to be running but was a bit closer to galumphing. I'll admit it, I caved in and told him he could quit if he wanted to - no guilt, no giving him a hard time, he could just throw in the towel and I wouldn't be fussed.

If I'm honest, it was ME who wanted to throw in the towel. Firstly because I did not morph into a natural runner between the last time I did this program and now (can't seem to fall into that rhythm that real runners talk about) and secondly because Melbourne at 6am is dark and really damn cold. God love this kid, though, he refused to give in. Never mind that he hated it, that he would literally cry almost every morning before leaving the house, that it made him tired for the rest of the day, and that he would rather be anywhere in the world other than in that cold carpark. He just doggedly went about it, and eventually the tears stopped and he'd be the one bouncing down the stairs in the morning.

Then DH started to limp a bit, and then his run (faster than either me or our son) slowed a bit, and then he'd cringe with every step...and then it was all over. He'd done something or other to his foot, and the GP and podiatrist told him his running career was effectively over.

I wasn't too sad. I was cold. It was dark. I hated every second of it. Running ceased being fun about 5 seconds after the first session of it was over. While I wish my darling husband no pain, frankly, I was kinda glad he was down for the count.

My son, however, was not willing to give up on this for even one second. "It's okay, Mum," he said, "You and I can just keep shufflin'." He decided that it was unfair to leave Dad in the dust, so we'd stop the C25K but keep on walking together, and then when DH was capable again, we'd take up the running again. Oh. Damn. Really?

I wasn't sure if I should laugh or cry - laugh because my boy was showing all the qualities I'd like him to have, and cry because I'd much rather have slept in those cold, dark mornings. He was very insistent, my boy. Very. As in he would set his alarm early enough to bound down the steps, wake my lazy ass up, and then go lace up his shoes, clip the lead on the dog, and wait for me to be ready.

It's been several months now that my son and I have a standing date for 'shufflin' twice a week - sometimes 3 times if my work schedule allows. The night before we go, when I tuck him in he always says in a sing song voice, "Mum - Tomorrow we are shufflin'..." and smiles about it. The seasons are changing, and it's not nearly as cold and dark in the mornings as it used to be - and both of us are quite enjoying the time alone together (but I'm no better at enjoying the morning wake up time.)

I've got no idea how long this little quiet routine of ours will go on - and I have no expectations of it going on forever, but for now, it's really a nice thing we've got going. Some mornings he talks ten to the dozen (gee, I wonder who he gets that from?) and some mornings neither of us say much at all. Some mornings we really set a cracking pace, other mornings we just sort of slowly meander along. This morning I asked him why he is so keen to go shufflin' with me...and in true boy style he looked at me as though that was quite possibly the stupidest question on earth. He shrugged and said, "Well, I guess just because I like shufflin'. And I like being with my Mum."

So I guess tomorrow we'll go shufflin'....

On Nerd's Honour

Two of my three kids are involved in the Scouting movement - and this makes for some very entertaining moments. Now I don't know about you, but as long as I've known it existed, Scouts has had one of those "love to hate it, hate to need it," reputations. Scouts are the kids we all think of as being the big ol' nerdy burgers wearing ridiculous outfits who we poke fun at...but then we get lost in the woods with no mobile phone and it's damn certain it's going to be those nerdy Scouts who will save your ass from certain death. And it's going to be their little kerchief thing which makes the tourniquet which keeps you from getting blood poisoning from the bear bite which you got because you ignored the Scout's advice to not eat a drippy meaty Big Mac right on top of a bear house.

So we love to hate them, but god help us if we are in the woods without one at our side. Me, I let my kids join up purely because I knew at some point in my life I would need to build a fire using only a hat and a scrap of paper.

Two of my kids are Scouts - or more accurately, I've got one Cub and one Brownie at my house. Recently I decided to get more involved in the kids' lives, so I joined the parent committee of the Boy Scouts. Oh, Lord. There was an entire *discussion* about this whole "Scouts are nerds" thing, because apparently most of these parents (themselves ex-Scouts) had NO idea that this reputation was around. Those who did know about it thought that they had somehow 'outgrown' this reputation - and it took the females of the group to remind them that, no, sorry boys, but you've always been nerds and probably always will be. There was an entire discussion about recruiting more kids to Scouts, and how some of the (very active) current Scouts themselves don't want to recruit because it makes them seem UNCOOL to their friends (but secretly they're loving that whole knot tying thing.)

There were parents who were somehow surprised by this. Oh you poor, poor delusional souls.

Today, we dropped off my DD1 at Girl Guide camp - an experience which she loves, adores, begs to go to and will not stop talking about for weeks before and weeks after said camp. The girls who are running the camp are themselves Rovers - older Girl Guides - and never have you met a nicer, sweeter group of young ladies. Sorry to say, though - every last one of them is a complete and utter nerd, of the extreme variety. Moustaches, poor skin and all (oh how I only wish I was kidding about that moustache thing...) I jokingly said to DH on the way out, "What? Do you HAVE to be a member of the nerd squad to be a Guide, or what?" to which he just laughed self consciously (he would. He's an ex-Scout himself.)

Don't get me wrong, here - I'm not deriding either these organisations OR these amazing kids. I wouldn't let either of my kids have joined if I did not think they would enjoy it, learn a lot of life skills, and basically have the time of their lives. And as a self-confessed card-carrying nerd myself, I totally think it's AWESOME that there is an entire WORLD ORGANISATION dedicated to the world of nerding. It's freakin' AWESOME. I truly think that it's not the meek who shall inherit the earth, it's the nerds.

I think an ad agency needs to take on the mantle of improving the reputation of Scouting across the globe - but in such a way as to keep the cool kids out. Because once Scouting becomes cool, it's going to lose it's inherent fabulous nature. Scouts relies on being filled entirely with nerds because who on Earth is going to save the world when the cool kids fuck it up totally?


I'm seeing a tag line something like this:

"Cool Kids. They're what's for dinner."
(When there are no Scouts around to stop the bears.)

So You Want To Be Famous?

The business is growing, and along with that business is coming an interesting array of dilemmas I never thought I'd need to worry about. One of these is the prickly-sticky-landmine world of public relations. In specific, if the business as a whole - and me as an individual - should engage the (very expensive) services of a (very capable superstar) PR company.

On the one hand, having worked so damn hard for so damn long, it seems like some sort of crime to not be shouting from the rooftops that the company exists. It's not like our name is not gaining recognition, it's not like our reputation is not a great one, it's not like we are not acquiring plenty of 'friends' (of the real and facebook variety.) A lot of the growth is happening, but if we were to go the PR route, it would happen a LOT faster and in a lot BIGGER way.

Every PR company I've spoken to believes that it's *me* who needs to be the selling point of this company. On the surface of it, I agree with that. I know I'm a good story, shit, I know I'm a GREAT story - and that the triplet angle helps, the story about the whole school/work thing helps, and I've got heaps of sound byte material just in my mad crazy everyday life. I get that part of it, and I have no objection to it, either. Actually, I'm kinda embracing that idea - more than I ever thought I would, actually.

I recently had a (very) brief chat with Biz Guy about this very topic because on occasion, Biz Guy seems to know me better than I know myself (which is a story for another day) and I knew he'd have an opinion. He's been on the receiving end of texts which say things like, "I would rather shove jalapeno-tipped red hot pokers in my eyes than go to this networking event," and "If I need to spend another minute making small talk and drinking watered down Diet Coke I shall start to internally combust and it won't be pretty," and "Please? Please don't make me to go this event! I'll shine your shoes for like, an eternity, or something. PLEASE?!" and "Me? Give a speech to other entrepreneurs? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND?"  So suffice it to say he harbours a few ... concerns... about this whole PR thing, more specifically how she-who-hates-networking would cope with all the attention it has the potential to bring.

He has a point there, he really does (and this is why we pay him the not-so-big money)...but in this case, I disagree with him. I *love* this idea of getting out there and talking about the business - because it forces me to go out there and do *exactly* the very thing I want to do - which is to inspire people. I want other women to know that you can have a career you love, a family which is loving, and a life which is your own. I want people to know that EVERYTHING is possible, even those things which seem so far away and so out of reach. I want people to dream big and think big and just ACT big until they ARE big.

I need my life to be about more than just making cake. Yes, in a way, it's already about more than that, because every day of my (working) life I make people happy - and that in itself is a blessing beyond all measure.

But, you know, it's really not enough.

There is much, much more for me to do here. My life, my story, needs to be the proverbial stone thrown into the pond.


Maybe that's selfish of me, to want more out of this life than just a life. I want to influence. Encourage. Help. Mentor. Inspire. Cheer up. I want to colour other people's lives. I want others to do amazing things because they just needed someone to tell them they could. I want others to do amazing things just because they saw that *I* did it, and "if she can, I can."

And yes, I know PR is about generating sales and making a million dollars and having people hate you as much as they love you. But if having to accept the not-so-happy side of PR means I can potentially spread the "you can do it!" message far and wide...well, I'm willing to accept all of that. Ultimately, I'm a businesswoman who needs to make a living so her family can eat. And that comes first, of course it does. But if along the way I can somehow convince others of their own strength...well, you know, that's just about the biggest silver lining EVER.

The only itty bitty teeny tiny fly in the ointment here is that along with PR comes things like media training, and make-up and whatever not...and that freaks me out just the tiniest, tiniest bit. Let's face it, the frizzy haired, curse-word-loving, jeans-and-t-shirt wearing, rough-around-the-edges tomboy hasn't done too badly for herself. If along the way I had to lose her in order to get the bigger message across...and I suddenly had smooth hair and perfect speech and clothes which require actual ironing and I looked - gasp! - polished...well, I'm not sure the message would be the same.

I'm not entirely sure 'polished' is a word I'd like associated with me. Perhaps 'iced' works better? 

This all requires more thinking.

Miracles Great and Small

Eleven years ago, I had to leave temple in the middle of Rosh Hashana services so the doctor could implant my three "perfect quality" embryos. Religiously speaking, I am on the spectrum of enjoying a healthy dose of scepticism mixed with tradition. I'm not all that convinced about the efficacy of the praying business but then I firmly fall into the "well, it can't hurt!" camp as well. That morning I sat in temple and prayed my not-so-little ass off that the Big Man Upstairs would look after me and my embies which I was about to go and pick up.

Jews are jews, though, so somewhere in those prayers was a, "And listen, I'm *really* sorry but I've got to duck out of this whole praying thing a little early so I make it to my appointment on time. I know, I know, the sermon is the boring bit anyway, but you know, the poor rabbi only gets a decent audience once a year and then I'm going to go and kinda heckle him by leaving right before he starts yammering..." So I asked for peace, and for protection, and for life for my children, and for forgiveness from the rabbi since I was leaving right before his big speaking gig.

The non-religious part of me believes that the embies were good quality and all the scientific bits lined up all like they needed to in order to result in a pregnancy and live birth...and the religious one in me believes that on that morning, my embryos were written into the Book of Life just like I asked them to be. After all, it's the first day of the Jewish New Year that it is meant to be decided who shall live, and who shall die...and blah blah etc etc etc, very long paragaph about the haves and the have nots.  "Ask and ye shall receive," has never been more true for me than on that fateful Rosh Hashana morning.

As a result, every year on Rosh Hashana, I am reminded that my kids are living, breathing proof that miracles do actually happen.

If that's not a good enough reason to believe that there are forces at work in our lives beyond what we can see and touch and hear and feel...well, I don't know what is.

Baking, A Love Story

It's nearly 10pm on a Sunday night, and I am at work baking a cake full of love - my husband's birthday cake. I'm using a recipe I've never tried before, in a kitchen I've not baked in for a long while (because these days, I am fortunate enough to have a baker who does this for me, commercially speaking), surrounded by a bunch of beautiful equipment which is wonderful when one needs to bake 20 cakes at a time...but is useless if all you are making is one cake for a loved one.

I won't sugar coat this (pun very much intended) - I was a little scared when I started my little project tonight. I'm in an unfamiliar setting, using an unfamiliar recipe, and really wanting it to turn out perfectly for the person I love more than anyone else on the planet. But baking...baking is in my very bones. I relied entirely on instinct to begin. I rolled up my sleeves. I read the recipe all the way through, and the dance began. I turned on the oven, then gathered up the various bowls and measuring cups I would need to complete this cake (which by the way is a layered buttermilk and white chocolate cake filled and covered with a white chocolate and passionfruit icing).

I had my tools, started to measure out the ingredients, and while I was working, I found my heart rate slowed considerably, my breathing became much more even, my shoulders relaxed down, and I found myself singing along to the radio which was quietly playing in the background. I thought to myself, "I really LOVE baking. Really LOVE it," and let out a happy sigh and thought about all the reasons why I love to bake.

Most cooks and chefs I know (both amateurs and professionals) either love to bake or hate it. There is no real grey area - the cooking world is split into bakers and non-bakers, those who love it and those who are a little afraid of it. I believe bakers are born, not made- so in your nature is either a baking soul or there isn't. I know some brilliant chefs who need only look at a sponge recipe in order for it to fail. Similarly I know plenty of bakers who cannot manage to season a plain pasta dish. Sure, there are exceptions - but even those who are capable in both arenas find themselves inexplicably drawn very much to one area or another. "Real" chefs look down on pastry chefs, and pastry chefs just laugh because they know the 'real' chefs are just totally intimidated by the magic the pastry chefs can create.

So the world has bakers, and non-bakers.

Me, I'm a baker - and here's why:

I love that baking is firmly a scientific pursuit, and yet there are so many baking recipes out there which totally defy all logic and common sense. I love sense of comfort and peace I get from the careful measuring, the weighing, the considering, the mathematics, the formulaic nature of baking. I love that if you mess something up, either you'll end up with a complete disaster or an entirely new invention which is probably better than the one you were trying to achieve. I love the slippery, slidey greasiness of butter, the bright orangey yellow wetness of egg yolks, the powdery grainy yet smooth softness of flour, the chink-chink-chink noise that chocolate buttons make as they fall into a metal bowl from a great height. In my heart of hearts I just know when a baking recipe will work or not - and I love that every time I think, "this will never work," what results is one of the nicest, most delicious, gorgeously soft and moist delicious cakes ever made by my own hands. I love that baking recipes force you to rely on some sort of magic happening in that oven when you're not looking. I love the euphoria of sliding a hot, heaven-scented cake pan out of the oven just as much as I love the soul destroying, crushing realisation that your cake is burned or looks like it was sat upon by a very large elephant. I love that baking is based on formulas and certainty and measurement and exactness - and yet you really don't have any idea if it's worked until you lift the fork to your mouth. I love that, in baking, a synonym for 'total disaster' is 'complete genius.' I love that you can try a recipe which seems ridiculous (like the whole wheat zucchini chocolate chip bread I baked this week) and suddenly find your thoughts turning to creating an entire upside down meal whereby the vegetables are in the dessert and the sugar and chocolate is in the main course.

I love that baking radiates good intention.

I love that there are dozens of kinds of sugar and each of them act in entirely different ways in a recipe, and each have their own colour, texture, smell, and sweetness - and yet they all come from the same fields of sugar cane. I love the wrinkly squishy pointy vanilla pod - which has the power to entice lovers, affect global trade, and be a thing of great wonder and joy once you split it open. I love the muscle fatigue I feel in my arms after I've kneaded a dough for a while, or creamed some butter and sugar by hand to create a bowl full of white, fluffy, deliciously sweet peaks. I love meringue for it's fickle nature and its ability to make me laugh, cry and beg for mercy.  I even love the tools of baking - the satisfying 'thunk!' of an ice cream scoop spring releasing every time you fill a cupcake paper, the sssccrrraaapppeee of the metal dough scraper as you gather up the bits of shaggy dough off the bench, the swoop of the spatula as it gathers the last scraps of ganache in the bowl, the whomp-whomp-whomp of the dough hook as it slaps your brioche dough against the sides of the bowl.

Baking is a beautiful art which engages ALL of the senses and forces you to use most of them at once. When a cake slides out of the oven, you need to use your eyes, nose and sense of touch to work out if it's cooked or not. Your sense of taste tells you if the effort was worth it, the sound of the collective "mmmm" of your friends is music to your ears when you've achieved something truly amazing. I love that baking might be scientific, but it's also inherently intuitive - it's not just about reading the recipe and following it exactly. When something I've made comes out of the oven. I love that I can just know when it's done, or could benefit from another minute or two or ten. I love that baking is a complete bastard; when I've touched it, tested it, checked it, look at it..and declared it done, only to turn it out and have the middle still be molten cake batter. I love that moment when the shaggy mess of dough in front of you suddenly, right before your very eyes, in a blink-and-you-missed-it moment turns into a bouncy, silken, smooth dough which carries in it's very core hundreds of possibilities.

I love that baking something for someone can express an entire lifetime of emotions. I love you. I'm sorry. Things will get better. Or maybe things won't get better, but right here in this very moment, you are loved. He's a lying, cheating bastard. She didn't deserve you anyway. Forgive me? I've been thinking about you. I respect your opinion. I think you need some cheering up. I need your help. You are important to me. I didn't mean it. I meant every word of it. I'll try harder next time.  I listen when you talk. We will be okay.

Baking.

I love you.

Inadequate

This past week I took an order from a client who asked me how I came up with the name for my business. I told her, and she let out a huge dramatic sigh and said, "Great. Now I feel *really* inadequate." I just laughed it off and told her that not everyone needs to have as many screws loose as I do.  She then went on to tell me she has only one child, and does not own a business...and cannot for the life of her understand how one might fit in kids and a business and just, you know, life.

So - when you've got kids (regardless of quantity) AND you're an entrepreneur, how on earth do you manage it all?

The truth is, you don't. Or rather, you DO, but to a level of chaos you are comfortable with. You make different choices, make compromises, learn to prioritise, learn to multi-task, rely on the kindness of family, friends, and sometimes strangers...and you just muddle along like the rest of the world does.

The biggest struggle for parents in business seems to be devoting enough quality time to their business AND enough quality time to their kids. It's hard to feel as though you are giving either of those things 100% when you are so tired you can barely muster the energy to brush your teeth. It's hard to feel like you are a good parent when you are only half-listening to your little darlings prattle on while you're checking your email on your smartphone. It's hard to feel like you are a good business owner when your energy bill has a hastily-scribbled supermarket list on the back of it...and that bill was due two weeks ago. Make no mistake, there is NOTHING which is easy or simple about being a business owner and a parent. I'd even say that you are in many ways running TWO businesses - each with their own financial and emotional demands, each with challenges, daily changes which need managing, and each which need more time than you actually have to give.

I really struggled with this whole work/life thing for a very long time and I've chronicled it here many, many times.  I've written about various ways I've found to cope, but I've also read myriad articles and blog posts about 'how to have it all,' 'how to be supermom,' 'why the supermom is a myth,' 'how to outsource your life and be a better parent' and so on and so forth. There is no 'one size fits all' answer to this dilemma because each family dynamic is different, each business is different, and each person has their own internal list of things which are important to them.

For me the solution to the age old question of the family/work life balance is a two step process. Depending on your personality, one or the other of these will be damn hard to do. Actually, if you're like me, they are BOTH a lot of hard work.

Step 1) Accept that you'll never be all things to all people. The sooner you accept this, the easier the balance will be. You're going to lose some clients because you are not available 24/7, you're going to upset your kids if you can't sit through all 4 hours of their recital, you're going to annoy your partner by not being a vixen in bed every night, you're going to have a messy house, you're going to probably still need to lose those 10 kilos you've been carrying around. Shit happens. Best to realise that now.

Step 2) Make a decision about what things are not negotiable, and live to that decision. In EVERYTHING you do as it relates to your family and your business. So if for you the 'not negotiable' item is being able to pick up your kids at school every day, then your business hours officially end at 3pm, Mon-Fri. Not negotiable. Maybe it's getting to the gym 3 mornings a week - so your business hours on those days don't start till 9am. Messy house not an option? Either build time into your diary specifically for cleaning, or hire a cleaner. Homemade dinner on the table every night? Learn to cook and freeze. Making millions by the time you're 25? The kids' recitals will just have to be recorded. There is NO shame in choosing you or your business time over time with your kids - but OWN that decision, and live to it. This step requires an enormous amount of discipline, but since in Step One you already know you're going to screw it up sometimes, well...maybe that's not so daunting any more. Decide on the important stuff and then make that important stuff actually HAPPEN.

Of course nothing at all in life is as black and white as the above paragraph would have you believe. All I am really saying is - if you spend a bit of time to decide what's *really* important to you, and then take steps to make sure that at minimum those things are taken care of - well, anything above and beyond that is just a bonus. If you're going to spend all your time worrying about the little stuff, and getting everything only half done...well, all you're going to end up is frustrated, guilt ridden and burnt out. Decide on what's truly essential to your happiness, make those things actually HAPPEN, and suddenly you'll find yourself just that little bit calmer. Have you ever heard that expression, "If you want something done, ask a busy person"? That pretty much encapsulates my philosophy of the work/life balance. We ask the busy people to do things because it's the busy people who have things organised in such a way as to make MOST of what they want to achieve happen. The busy people have time - or can carve out time - because they know their time is precious and limited and therefore needs to be managed well in order for them to succeed at it.

I know you're thinking this all sounds terribly simplistic, right?

(insert wry grin and sarcastic laugh)

Let me share with you a little bit about my life. Mondays in particular.

Monday - first I have to get out of bed (I hate that bit.) Usually one or more kids has begged me one or more times to get up before I actually DO get up. In the morning I do my usual morning stuff (teeth, whatever) - I'll also do DD2's hair, try to make sure my kids have all done their morning ablutions and have all their stuff sorted out, get them out the door and eventually I get to the gym. I come home from the gym, and on my way to the shower will throw in a load of laundry, put away dishes, etc. I then make my way to work and do work-stuff for most of the day (you know, all that romantic entrepreneurial stuff.) I'm also highly likely to pay household bills, make some household related phone calls, try not to eat too much chocolate, and berate myself a bit for not getting more done (because I still struggle with this.) Come 4:20pm, I look up in shock and horror that it's that time already, so I quickly shove all my crap into my bag, and fly out the door to the bus stop to get the kids. Between 4:20-5:19, I make 3 lunches, clean up the kitchen, put the wet laundry into the dryer, make a decent start on dinner, remind the kids to do their chores, help with homework, and whizz around like a crazy lady. At 5:20 I take DS and DD1 out - DD1 gets dropped at Girl Scouts, then I drive DS to basketball. He and I shoot hoops for about 5-10 mins, then I sit and watch him practice. I have to leave practice 10 minutes before it ends to drive back and get DD1. She and I then drive back to basketball to pick up DS. We then all make it home, where we finish the dinner making, greet my friend who comes over for dinner every Monday, and try to get ourselves organised for the evening. So that means sorting out the rest of homework help if needed, finishing any unfinished jobs, starting a new load of laundry, washing dishes which need washing, getting the dog fed and so on and so forth. We all have a nice night together, sort out any crises of the "I have no clean uniforms" variety, and eventually the kids go to bed and my friend leaves. At which point I'll answer work emails, talk to DH a bit, facebook a bit, or clean up some more (post dinner dishes, random crap strewn about the place, etc.) At some point I will decide I need to get to bed and will get there around 11-ish - where I pretend to read (but really I'm asleep with my eyes open) and fall asleep with my bedside lamp on and my book falling out of my hand - only to wake up (or be nudged to wake up) about 7 hours later. 

I'm exhausted just writing all that, and I'm sure I've forgotten some bits - but it's all  done with a very helpful and supportive DH and kids who actually help out around the house a fair bit. If you think that the other days of the week are any different, let me assure you that they're not - with the notable exception that Mondays are generally the quietest day of the week for me  You might also be reading that and thinking, "I don't get it. That kinda looks like she *is* doing it all. Which bits has she prioritised there? Which bits are non-negotiable?" 

For me, there is only ONE bit which is not negotiable - and that's the quality of my life. As soon as doing any or all of the things I do mean that my general happiness and satisfaction with my life are compromised - ALL of them would fly right out the window. The ONLY not negotiable thing for me - as selfish as it might sound - is my happiness, and by extension, the happiness of my family. Once I figured that out, I worked out the actual day-to-day things which make me happy, and those include my health (eg the gym going), my kids' enjoyment (eg the activities I take them to), food (eg a home cooked meal every single night) and so on.

It's chaotic, it's busy, and sometimes it's exhausting - but I'm grateful every single day for the happiness my life brings me, and for now anyway it seems to be working for me. Basically, if Mama's not happy, NOBODY is happy.

If you got this far and you're still not sure what I'm trying to say, here is the Cliff Notes version: You can absolutely "have it all" - as long as you're willing to take the time to figure out what undeniably essential things are required to make your life work for you.

Independence Day

I have a love/hate relationship with my children's growing independence. On the one hand, it makes my life much easier that the 3 of them can walk home from the bus stop, let themselves into the house, and get themselves showered and fed and organised (mostly) before I get home from work. On the other hand, that they can do all of this without me is bittersweet, and there are times when I find myself wishing they were not quite as independent as they are. As a result of my internal struggle with this, I find myself doing all sorts of strange things on either side of the independence coin. So - for example - today at the mall, I went and did the supermarket shopping while the four of them (my kids plus an older friend) went and had a look round at the shops which attract pre-teens (eg those which stock stationary and/or really crappy costume jewellery.) It's the first time I've let them be on their own in the mall - and it was in a group, they were phone-contactable, the entire elapsed time was about 45 minutes, and they got a whole lecture about sticking together - but still. Off they went, happy as clams - and I got an earful of whining when it was time to leave because they were having a grand old time. I was so proud of them (and a little bit scared for them) for having their very first 'on their own in a shopping megalith' experience.

And yet - I am certain that I will sit and cry bucket loads of tears the day DD2 does NOT burst into my room of a morning, complaining bitterly that I am not up yet to help her do her hair for her (she has yet to learn to self-braid her hair, and she wears braids nearly every day.) I love that my not-so-little girl still wants her Mum to do her hair. I love that she HAS such long hair to play with in the first place (something my own Mom never allowed) and I love that it's something we do together every single day. I'm secretly hoping that when she's 21 she will still let me braid her hair for her once in a while (and then as now she will complain that I'm pulling too hard, that it's too lumpy or uneven, and that I didn't get up in time.)

Interestingly for me, as time goes on I am reminded that DH and I are actually quite liberal in our thoughts about independence. I have often used the expression, "We give our children two gifts in life - we give them roots, and we give them wings," to explain our parenting philosophy as it comes to independence - but I've recently come across examples of how other parents do things which reminds me that we do not necessarily have it either right or wrong.

I'm in no way saying our way is better or worse, I'm not sitting in judgement here - I'm just saying that it's interesting to see how others do things. To whit:

We recently had dinner with friends at their home- and their 17 year old son insisted that his Mum serve him his vegetables because he "didn't know how much to take." The boy got increasingly insistent about it - pretty much wheedled and whined at her - and god bless her, but his Mum stood up from her spot, went over to him, and served him his vegetables. Me being me, I had to open my big fat mouth and ask WHY he needed his Mum's help. Was it because he could not gauge his own hunger? Because he was not sure what the polite thing to do was? Because...?? His answer was that he "...just never knows how much to serve himself and she does." I have to say, that one left me kinda speechless.

This child is one lucky kid to be as loved as he is - because if I'd pulled that stunt on my parents, I never would have survived my childhood.. As for my own kids - I would understand it if my kids asked (as they often do), "How much may I have? Is there enough for me to have 2 or 3 bits?" but to need to be served like a baby? ....at 17, not knowing how much to serve oneself seems a tad ridiculous. I truly think this boy is blessed to be as well looked after as he is - and there is something to be said for a Mum who will go so far for her kids. I found it quite amazing.

Then I met another couple - who live out in country Victoria, 3 1/2  hours outside of Melbourne - who for the last 4 days have let their 15 year old son and 13 year old daughter look after themselves entirely while their parents were working in the city. These kids had to get themselves to/from school, out to social events, cook for themselves, etc - on Saturday night they went to a footy game which was 80km  away from home, on Friday the son had to get himself home via two trains and a bus, etc. Now admittedly, we are talking about country kids - where independence is a much more common thing from a much younger age and in a small town where everyone knows everyone (and therefore the kids were being looked after even if they were not being "looked after").

I spoke to the Mum about this at length - and she simply said, "Well, they need to learn how to look after themselves. I've got a phone, they've got a phone, they know what to do in an emergency, they can always resort to cereal for dinner if need be, and that's pretty much it." She was so nonchalant about it all - I asked he if she ever felt sad that they were so capable and independent. "Not really," she said, "Because I grew up like that, too. If I made it home for dinner in time, nobody asked any questions about where I had been or what I'd been doing...and if I was up to no good, my Mum would hear about it eventually from one of the neighbours, so there was no point in getting up to no good!"

Fascinating, fascinating stuff in BOTH of those situations. City kids versus country kids, coddling versus setting free, cultural differences, generational differences, socially acceptable 'rules' and so on - so MANY factors go into our parenting decisions. The old 'different strokes for different folks' saying is so true in the parenting arena. We each just do what we are comfortable with, and ultimately hope our kids grow up into decent and responsible human beings.

For my money, though, I want my kids to be able to serve themselves but need Mum to do their braids every morning until the day they die. Surely that's not being unrealistic?

Longest Overnight Ever

This week I had a really nice chat to my Mom. We haven't spoken much in a few weeks, so it was really great to catch up with her. She gets the business newsletter, so she knows about all the comings and goings in the biz, including that I've recently hired my 4th employee (and I am one of those 4.) In the conversation she told me over and over how proud of me she is, and what a great job I'm doing. It was really nice to hear - I suspect no matter how old one gets, one always seeks approval from their parents - so it was really, really nice to hear it.

My gorgeous Mom then said, "OMG! It's amazing! You're a total overnight success story!"

This gave me pause for a second or two (or three.) Overnight success story? So I said, "Overnight? Hardly, Mom, I've been working my ass off for YEARS." To which she said, "No, but it's like, all of a sudden, you're doing amazingly well."

I just had to laugh at that one. There is nothing about the business - or my life in general - which was either all of a sudden, or overnight. Heck, I even don't agree with her about the success part, either! Are things going well? Yes, knock wood, they are. Have opportunities come around which I've taken and run with to turn into big wins? Yes, of course. Do I foresee a great future for the business? Of course I do (otherwise why on earth would I bother?)

But if she - or anyone else - thinks for a minute that any of this has not been in the making for 10 years or more...they would be wrong. I've been planning this, in some small, back-of-my-mind sort of way, for YEARS. Maybe even longer than 10 years, because after all I started cake decorating when I was about 15, which was *cough**splutter**cough* 20 years ago and I knew even then that I loved it and would like to do it "for real" someday.

I mentioned this conversation to someone, and that person (forgive me, mystery person, I can't remember who you are) said, "The average time span for an overnight success is something like ten years."

Overnight successes only appear so on the surface of it - underneath the surface that business owner is sporting some massively toned calves from running like hell for the past ten years.

Am I hugely proud of what I've achieved? Ehhh.. mostly. Because I don't think I've reached (and may never reach) the point at which I can sit back and think, "Ahh! Now I've done it!" I've got a fair few years of running left to go before I'll even consider that I've achieved much at all.

In the meantime, though, I'm happy to be an overnight success in my Mom's eyes - because frankly, if she had ANY idea of the real madness of my life, the real day to day sacrifices I make, the stupid things I do and the crazy risks I take...she might not be as impressed with me. For now, I'm happy just to bask in her affection and pride and take them to heart.

Ultimately, it doesn't really matter how long it took me to get there. That I AM getting there is important enough.

But, damn, it's been one very long night.

Fix it and Stop Your Whining

I expect a fair amount from my kids - they've got chores to do which they do not get paid for, I expect them to keep track of their homework, they are expected to help around the house with non-chore jobs, and in general DH and I expect them to be responsible members of their community and their family. Sometimes I think we are a bit too demanding of them - not strict (we are anything but strict) - but we do imbue them with a feeling of responsibility for a lot of things. Sometimes a situation comes along which reinforces this concept. Allow me to share a story of how my work life and my home life collide - literally.

This past Friday was a bit of a hairy one for me, and so the kids walked to the shop to meet me (rather than head home.) I asked DS to help me carry a large (150 pax) cake out the door - we had tons of other stuff to carry, the car was parked around the corner, and a slightly dodgy back meant the crate was just that bit too heavy for me. It's not an unusual request to make, my kids have been helping (in an age appropriate sort of way) with the business for most of their lives.

So as we are walking to the car (me and DS at either end of the crate), he stumbles on a bit of uneven ground, falls down and drops his end of the crate, which causes me to drop my end of the crate. As he went down, the cake went down as well - and slid right off it's board and smashed into the side of the crate. You can just imagine the look of horror on ALL of our faces. Quicker than quick, I grabbed the crate and headed full pelt back to the shop with the kiddos chasing behind.

Good news is, the cake itself was unharmed. Bad news, the icing and decoration was totally stuffed, and had to be fixed ASAP because the cake was to be delivered very early the next day.

DS, understandably, felt horrible about it. Kept telling me he was sorry, cried, did that thing kids do when they talk to themselves under their breath about how dumb they are and how sorry they feel, and basically looked for all the world like his world was crumbling.

I let him have a few minutes of pity - because sometimes, you just NEED to feel the self pity - and then I got him to fix the cake with me. He had to stand there, looking at the mess of icing and bench full of now-unusable fondant, and smooth the new icing on, help me put the ribbon back, check the positioning of the text, clean up the cake board and so on. He didn't want to, but I MADE HIM do it. Maybe some people think this is mean - but there was a huge lesson to be learned here. You screw it up, you need to then FIX IT, because standing around feeling sorry for yourself and crying is not going to improve the situation one iota.

Of course, I did give him a massive hug (several, actually) and explain that accidents happen, that I've dropped cakes in my time (and figurines, and sugar flowers, and cupcakes, and and and and...) and that he was not at fault. Poor kid just stumbled and it could have happened to anyone, and it was not preventable. After he got the love and affection, he then got the - ON WITH IT, BOY - because there is no time for sitting around and moping. NONE. The cake *had* to be fixed. It *had* to be delivered. Life had to go on, and we had to fix something we had royally screwed up.

I think these days so many people screw stuff up, feel shit about it, but then somehow don't ever understand that unless you pick yourself up and get on with the job of fixing it, nothing will improve. So many in my generation whine endlessly about their dead end jobs, their shit partners, their horrible financial situations, their 20 kilos they can't shift, their broken cars or houses or relationships...but then don't ever do anything to fix the situations they are in. By all means, have a good ol' whinge or cry about it - I certainly do - but then GET ON WITH THE FIXING.

In the middle of the cake fixing, my boy started to smile again. His tears dried up. He even seemed to be having a good time (of course....cake is crazy good fun,) and realised that, hey, this situation is fixable. He could DO something about his feelings of sadness and guilt and upset rather than stand around and beat himself up about it.

Was I a bit stressed, a bit shitty, a bit annoyed, a bit irritated? Oh hell yes I was - but again, none of those emotions were going to get that cake sorted out. So I felt all those things, but I got on with the job of repair. No other choice. I wish my peers would realise that the same is true of the things in their lives which are broken. Feel shit, by all means...but then get on with it.

Half an hour after that cake decided to try out the effects of gravity, it was looking brand new again. My son had learned a lesson about taking responsibility for things (even those beyond your control), and that most things in life are fixable - even the cake Mummy worked so hard on. He also learned that I wasn't ever going to be angry or mad at him in this sort of situation - that instead we would work together to make the best of it. That $225 dollar cake was worth so much more than that - because it taught my son a whole lot of lessons about life, about how to repair a cake, and about the kind of support he can expect to receive from his Mum when he buggers stuff up (which he will. He's human after all.)

I think most of my generation needs to, metaphorically speaking, learn to drop a cake and then fix a cake and stop all their endless crying about it.

And ...if you think he didn't learn even MORE lessons than those I've mentioned above, let me tell you that when the cake was all done (again) and it came time to take it out to the car, I asked for his help. To which he said, "Actually, Mum, why don't I take your bag and purse, which leaves YOU free to take the cake to the car."

Clever, clever boy.

A win for cake, and a win for my kid.

Can't ask for much more than that.