This week I'm grateful for... keepsakes

This week I'm grateful for keepsakes for our girls.

When Baby 1 was born we decided we wanted to do a funny photo of her and Twiggy in front of this horrid, yet very groovy, wallpaper in our now-renovated bathroom. As we had a newborn, he hadn't shaved for ages so we decided a 70's theme would be best, complete with handle-bar moustache.
This is the photo.

It was so fun doing the shoot, we decided then and there that for each child we would pick a different theme and do a special photo. It helps Twiggy is a photographer.

Then came Baby 2 and as we'd been living in the Hills for awhile we thought it best to pay homage to the country. This is the photo.

And then, you guessed it, all that fresh country air, we had Baby 3. By this time, we were so tired from not getting any sleep and were nuttier than ever. Bundy become one of Twiggy's friends, you know one you see every now and then. So, we thought we'd show it some love back. This is the photo.

Every time I look back at these photos I laugh and I know one day the girls will too. It beats the usual baby pictures and will make fantastic keepsakes.

When the girls are a bit older we want to take a "special" photo of them with me. We're thinking a group shot, but we can't work out what to do. Any ideas?

* This is part of a blog hop. Head over to Maxabella Loves... sometime and check out her gorgeous blog.

Our house on the hill...

We live in a house on top of the hill and for the past six years it has been our life, but the time is fast approaching for us to move. There are many reasons I'm ready to move on, but I keep finding myself wandering around the house and filing away memories. It's like I'm trying to stuff my brain with all the moments I've shared here with my family. Each moment, I recreate in my mind, then wrap in newspaper and pack away for safe keeping.

This house has been so kind to us. It was the first home my husband Twiggy and I purchased together. We bought it off an elderly couple who built the house in 1970. She designed it. He spent most of his time burying large objects around the property (we suspect to save on dump fees). He also stashed a gun in the roof, but that's another story. They loved this house, it was their pride and joy. He was dying from cancer, she needed to be closer to her family. It was their time to move, but you could sense the reluctance. If they could have stayed living here forever I think they would. They made the real estate agent set up a meeting with us before any contracts were signed so they could decide if we were worthy of buying their home. We ate cheese on jatz biscuits and drank warm beer. We admired their floral curtains and promised to love their home and with heavy hearts, I could only imagine comes when age forces its hand, they agreed to sell. I'll be forever thankful to them for trusting us with their past.

The house has been so very kind to us. It's taught us a lot about ourselves, how much how relationship can handle and how shit it is to get bright yellow gloss paint off every wall. Twiggy renovated the house himself and together we chose colours, picked bench tops, fixtures, tiles and furnishings. I can even laugh at the "through clenched teeth discussions" at Ikea, now they're firmly in the past. There's been hours of painting, sawing, hammering, hours of cleaning dust off furniture and scrubbing mud off floors. I've squatted in the garden while heavily pregnant, he's washed himself in the sprinkler. I'm amazed we made it though.

As I sit here and write and look around me, I feel immense satisfaction. Our house on the hill is gorgeous. We have views over the valley. At night we can hear the koalas grunting and in the morning we hear kookaburras. When we turn off the television, there is deafening silence. When we turn the outside lights off, there is blinding darkness. Unlike in the city, when the moon is full you notice how bright it is. And the stars truly twinkle when we stand outside with the girls and sing to the sky.

As the time grows closer to moving day, I've started to get sad. I'm scared when I go to sleep for the first time in our new home I will cry for what we've left behind, that I will cry with regret. This house has been where we've shared our happiest times. This is the first home our three babies have lived in, so far it's their only home. It's where we brought each of our girls home from the hospital, bundled in our arms, nervous and excited for who they will become. The enormity of those first few moments, introducing a newborn to their future, is forever etched in the very fabric of this house. It's a house of firsts - smiles, words and steps. Everywhere I look, I am reminded of how quickly they've grown, how we began our journey as parents, how our relationship's changed and strengthened. I'm worried that somehow we'll lose those moments when we leave.

I now understand the anxiety of the original owners who sold us the house. A whole stage of our life will be left behind here, as was their youth. I know rooms don't contain memories, our souls do, but still I worry we will be leaving a part of us in these rooms and I don't want them to be lonely when we've moved on. I'll do my best to wrap them up in my heart and take them with us to our new home, where they will sit alongside the new memories we will create. I can only hope our new house is as kind to us as this one has been.

* When we moved in, the house looked like this.

* Now, it looks like this.

All I want for Xmas...

With all this talk of Xmas, I decided I'd better compile a list of the Top 10 things I want this year. This list does not include health, happiness, world peace, marriage equality for all, an end to poverty and all the other "true meaning of Christmas" altruistic requests. This list is all about me. Me, me, me. I want, I want, stuff you all and your homemade cards, carol singing and matching Santa jumpers.

Let this self obsessed list of capitalism and shallowness begin.

In no particular order, I want -

1) A smaller arse and no stomach over-hang. If this has to be achieved by attaching a vacuum cleaner to the side of my body and sucking it out, then so be it.

2) To be able to go to the toilet or shower or have sex (no nothing kinky, we have a new baby in our room and yes, we do wait until she is asleep or she will be scarred for life) or eat dinner or read a book or just sit around drinking gin or * insert an activity you used to be able to do alone before children *.

3) This massive fuck-off ring, in a massive fuck-off light blue box.

4) To go and see back-to-back movies, while eating Fruchocs, popcorn and drinking coke. And I will not share them with anyone. And I will not be taking anyone to the toilet, nor will I be trying to stop anyone from climbing across chairs and running down the aisles. I am going to sit there, quietly watching the movies, eating and drinking my weight in fat. Then I will go back to the vacuum place and suck that fat out too.

5) An all expenses paid holiday to somewhere like this...

or this...

or this...

And on this holiday, I am not going to do anything for anyone, except myself. No-one is going to ask me for anything. I will not answer questions, particularly if they start with why, except of course if it is: "Why are you not drinking that incredibly expensive glass of wine and sitting back relaxing, while my team of hot, shirtless waiters rub your feet and feed you soft cheeses?".  I will not see anyone else's poo, except my own. I will not get anyone else anything to eat, people will feed me. I will use room service. I will not get pjs out for anyone, not even me. I am going to sleep nude. I will not even pack a bag, I will just buy everything I need when I get there. I will not need much, just - food, booze, books, movies, pools, loud bars, fancy-shmantzy restaurants, art galleries, quirky coffee shops and sun-filled plazas where I will sit for hours sipping bubbles and snickering at those people with unruly children.

6) To have all of these bags.

7) A new house in a leafy suburb, right next to a park, a pub, schools, great restaurants and while we're at it, preferably in New York.

8) To be able to wear these jeans and look hot.

9) To finally screen the movie I've written and directed. Matt Damon and I are playing the lead roles. It's  a love story (I'm the one on the right, going the grope).

10) And I want to win an Academy Award. These are my new friends who will be there congratulating me.

I don't want for much Santa. I've been a very good girl and if you need me to be, I can be very bad.

What do you want this Xmas?

This week I'm grateful for... bottles

This week I'm grateful for bottles.

Not these types of bottles, although I do love what's inside them.

This morning I am much more grateful for these types of bottles.

As I have three children under four years old, I have engaged in A LOT of breastfeeding in the past few years. In fact, I still am. Earlier this week, I thought Baby 3 would never let anything else pass her lips  except for my nipples. I thought I was destined to only be away from said children in two hour increments, never to be alone for an afternoon for months, but this week she finally let my Husband feed her from a bottle. It was a great moment for me, a freeing moment. I nearly cried from sheer excitement. On the flip side, it was not such a good moment for Twiggy. It now means I will be able to go out and drink these...

... and then sleep in, while he has to get up and feed the baby. Hooray, for me, hooray for a Husband who will now be able to share the baby feeding load and hooray for bottles.

*This is part of a blog hop kindly hosted by Maxabella Loves... Pop over and visit her gorgeous blog when you get a chance.

You do the maths, no you...

I am starting to get nervous about when my children start school. It's ages away, but already the questions have begun and already I've started to lie. You see, most of the time I don't know the answers. I've listened to other parents talk about their school-aged kids' homework and I've shuddered internally. I've started to think I might have to go back to school so I'll understand what they are talking about when they come to me asking for help.

My biggest fear is maths. I hated it at school and I still hate it. I used to tell my maths teacher that it was a useless subject, I was never going to be a nautical engineer and couldn't I just use a calculator? I also used to put the chalk and chalkboard eraser up high so he couldn't reach it. He was a very short man and would have to jump up to get it, sometimes he'd begrudgingly have to ask one of my fellow students for help. You could almost see the steam coming out of ears, but because he was so short it had evaporated by the time it had reached our head height (and we were sitting down). Everyone would giggle. I was an awful maths student. I never behaved like that in any of my other classes. If only I'd listened I would have learnt something, rather than be sitting here getting the sweats just thinking about my kids' maths homework (and they are years away from school).

The crazy part about this fear of numbers is I am a business reporter. Well, I was before I left the newspaper game. My job was to report about transactions worth millions, sometimes billions, sometimes trillions, sometimes gazillions of dollars. I loved writing about the Aussie dollar, retail trade figures and interest rate movements. I enjoyed the thrill of a corporate collapse, plunging shares and a hostile takeover. Yet, every time I had to add up numbers or work out percentages I'd clam up. I'd go to a colleague for help, I'd google, send emails to friends, I'd do anything to find out the answers. At first I tried to hide my complete lack of maths ability, but after a few years I owned up to it. I laughed about it. Public humiliation was still a more viable option than actually confronting my paralysing fear of equations.

I wasn't the only one in my department who struggled with basic maths. In the hay days of The Tiser business section, my colleagues and I would have regular team building meetings (long lunches). We'd excitedly discuss the days news, gossip about business identities and predict future breaking yarns. We'd talk numbers, share prices, profit margins. We were business nerds. We loved our world away from police and politicians. We had a ball. We'd eat and drink and laugh. And when the bill would arrive at our table, we'd stare at it, blankly. "Anyone know how much we all owe? Anyone have a calculator?", we'd mutter amongst ourselves. It was simple maths, you'd assume we'd know how to split the bill between us. It was a running joke. Years later and a group of us still meet up for lunches and we still giggle at our inability to work out the bill.

Is there something you hate and, no matter how much you think you should, you refuse to learn?

Coconuts hanging in the breeze...

If you have boobs then you should read the following community service announcement.

What I have to write about is very serious and it may apply to you, yes you. Now look down and check out your bazookas. Are you still looking, do you have to look way down to your waist? Are they just hanging there, flowing freely in your saggy bra, like massive, swinging pendulums? Has your bra got threads hanging off it? Is it discoloured? Did you watch the Oprah episode about ill-fitting bras and think to yourself: "I better get around to getting a new bra soon"? Well hello, that show was on years ago. Is it possible your bra no longer performs its main purpose of holding up your melons and instead just covers your nipples to stop your headlights from blinding people? Well, you are not alone. That was me.

Once I started having babies I stopped checking my bra size. I made do with what I had. My bras were split into two categories; pre-baby and maternity. A few months after my second child was born, my husband, kids and I went to Sydney to catch up with family. My cousin and I had popped out to "run some errands" (aka peruse clothes stores and buy stuff). We had just been in a lingerie store, she'd added to her collection and I'd bought my eldest child some pajamas. As we strolled back to our holiday home, confident, relaxed and happy, my cousin very kindly suggested that perhaps I should head back to the lingerie store and get myself fitted for a new bra. I looked down at my chumbawumbas and noticed they were swinging in the breeze. It was a timely piece of advice. I rushed back excitedly and grabbed my husband's visa card. "Don't worry it'll be the best investment you'll ever make," I yelled as a skidded out the door. And thus, my love affair with over-priced pieces of material began.

Half an hour later, after having my jugs prodded, pulled-at and measured I emerged from the shop poorer, yet perkier. I strutted down the street with a huge grin on my face. I couldn't stop looking down at my airbags; they were up and out. Not only was I a whole body size smaller than I thought, but I was two cup-sizes larger. I'd outgrown my membership of "The Itty, Bitty, Titty Club" years ago, but had failed to notice. I was now the owner of huge hooters. I was now officially a member of "The Over-the-Shoulder, Bolder Holders' Club". Yay, for me. I've since learnt by accentuating my jugs, it helps balance out my massive arse and takes the attention away from my post-baby, jelly belly.

I was telling a friend recently how I was using my love of lingerie to get through my latest weight battle and how once I'd finished breast feeding Baby 3 I'd be heading straight to my closest store to get myself fitted for new bras. And I told her my saggy breasts story. She looked down at her own Brad Pitts and embarrassingly slid across her shirt to reveal her bra strap. And there was the tell tale maternity bra. She'd stopped breastfeeding over a year ago! "I must get myself to the bra store too," she laughed.

Isn't it crazy? We spend so much time looking after the needs of others that we always put ourselves last on the list. Bras tend to be thought of a luxury item, but they are a necessary part of life, particularly if you can rest your chesticles on the dining table while eating dinner or like me, you've graduated from holding a pencil under your wopbobaloobops to a whole pencil case and a can of coke (in case you get thirsty). Whether you have bee-stings or David and Goliaths', you wear a bra everyday, so hop to it and treat yourself this Xmas to a professional bra fitting and new bra. You don't need to spend a fortune, just get one that fits you properly. You'll be amazed at how much happier you'll feel when your puppies are securely fastened to your chest and not nipping at your heels.

Are you still hanging onto old bras?

This Saturday I'm grateful for... hair straighteners.

This Saturday I am grateful for..... my GHD hair straightener and my makeup.

I know it's shallow and beauty is in the inside, blah blah, blah, but without them I look like this!

And with them... I look like this!

* This post is part of Maxabella Loves'  This Saturday I'm Grateful For... blog hop. You should head there and check out the other great posts!

A bit of toilet humour...

So, I was having dinner with my Husband the other night. Just the two of us. Alone, without the children. It was our first child-free, fancy-pants dinner since Baby 3 was born and it was going really well. We'd only spent the first course talking about the kids which I think is pretty good. I'm starting to realise the more children you have, the less you talk about them when you are finally free of them (insert slow shaking of the head and "I should feel bad for thinking that" look).

My Husband got up to use the toilet and I sat and looked about the room (well, stared at other people and tried to eavesdrop on their conversations). Luckily, my Husband returned quite quickly, saving me from really embarrassing myself with my obvious nosiness. It's a family trait - we all do it. We are starers. We stare at people at restaurants and try and work out what they're talking about. And if we can't hear properly we make up stories about them. The drunker we get, the more detailed the stories become. Of course, they can't hear us. No way. When we are drunk we are VERY QUIET.

Anyway, I digress. Leaning forward over the table and quickly glancing to the side, my Husband whispered: "Man, I hate going to public toilets. You're there standing next to some stranger and they always try and chat to you. I don't want to talk to someone I don't know while I'm taking a piss." Being the nosey person I am my first response was: "What do men talk about? What do you say to someone when they've got their dick hanging out?" And then he recounted the conversation that took place between two other guys who were pissing at the urinal. Guy 1: "Wouldn't it be cool if they had a pipe coming out the wall with beer coming out of it, so you could drink beer and piss at the same time. In one way, out the other." Guy 2: "Yeah, that'd be cool."

Here I was thinking they'd be discussing boobs, but in actual fact it's beer and pissing. Fuck me. Now, I'm jealous of not being able to hide in the cubicle and listen to the conversations going on between the men. Some men really are complex human beings.

I mean, there's so much more going on in the women's toilets. Discussions about lipstick, clothes, blokes and kids. And yes, some women even dare to ask others if their bum looks big in their pants. In case you're wondering, the right answer is: "Of course not, you look gorgeous". Sometimes, there's the: "Can you check the back of my dress to see if there's any blood on it" or "I'm soooo pissed" or "I love you, I really, really love you. You are my bestest friend in the whole, wide world". Sometimes, all you hear is a faint trickle of wee, the odd escaped fart and later in the night you get tears and: "He's such a bastard. I hate him".

The last time I went to the toilet at the pub, there was a picture of "girls" in bikinis advertising something. I truly don't remember what it was for, as I was too busy looking at their perky boobs and tight arses to care. It was cruel and simply, a waste of time. Women don't want to go to places where the other women look like that.

The other thing that caught my eye, was the lack of condom machine. In its place instead there was a hair straightener mounted on the wall. You'd have to be pretty drunk to pay to use the hair straightener in the toilet? I'd seriously doubt anyone would clean that thing (I am not old, just anally clean). I'm amazed it's still there, I mean, there was no safety sign: "Do not operate hair straightener when pissed out of your mind or you might just burn the side of your face off and definitely do not let one of your drunk as fuck friends attempt to use it on you, or risk having your ears burnt off". Now, that'd be something to talk about over dinner!

Ignorance is not bliss...

I am pissed off. Near where I live is a little hillside town which has been in the news of late. Not because it is quaint and the people lovely, but because it has been branded as racist. And ashamedly so, a group of locals and I'd presume a group of not-so-locals, are giving it their best shot to reveal to the world their redneck credentials. They are angry at the Federal Government's decision to transform 83 empty defence houses into a detention facility for asylum seekers.

Here is where I air my first grievance. The Federal Government did not consult the local community. They did not give any warning or attempt to first assure people that it would address concerns about safety and pressures on already stretched local services. Instead, the Government took a different route. By not informing the residents first, it knew, when news broke of the planned detention facility, it would result in outrage, thereby taking the focus off its decision. With anger comes the inevitable racism. And with fear-driven ignorance in the forefront, the Government can then blame racist attitudes for the opposition to its proposal. But, by doing it that way, the Government has also provided the opponents with a loophole. The racists of the community have been able to hide (badly) behind a banner of "not being consulted", while stating publicly: "We're not racists".  And that pisses me off. However, although I am annoyed at the way the Government went about it, it's not the detention facility that I disapprove of, it's the rednecks.

Angry locals have managed to turn what is essentially a lovely hillside town into a cesspool of nastiness. There's been many a vile comment made about the asylum seekers, but one viewpoint which has stuck in my mind, and promoted with gusto by the Federal Opposition Leader Tony Abbott, is if you let the asylum seekers live in such an idyllic place it sends a "red carpet" message to the people smugglers and boat people. Are you for real? All they deserve is concrete surroundings, no trees for them. C'mon, they are people. They are willing to go to extreme measures to come here. These people have chosen to flee all that they know, their customs, their families, their friends, their way of life, to come to a country largely with nothing. To come to a country where dealing with loneliness, racism, prejudice and lack of opportunity is more simple than facing what their homeland has to provide for them. For many, the option to apply legally to live in Australia was not a viable option for them for fear of death, continued persecution and harm to their family. Imagine the fear they must have felt taking those first steps off their home soil. They chose to come to Australia because we are meant to be a nation of giving everyone a fair go.

I can understand for some locals there is a fear of the unknown. For some locals, they are already struggling economically and they fear more people coming into their town will only make things harder for them. However, these possible "new" Australians could enhance their community, spend money in their businesses, enrich their schools and community groups with new food, new languages, new ways of doing things. These people will also work damn hard at anything you throw at them. They will do anything not to have to go back to a life of extreme hardship.

These people have hearts and souls and families and fears and dreams like anyone else and a small hillside community has the opportunity to embrace them. They have an opportunity to become an example of tolerance, rather then reinforce the stereotypes often associated with "small-towns". Instead, it's walking into the Government's trap; banjos in hand. It saddens me to know there are others who don't believe everyone is entitled to a life of clean and safe living conditions, free from persecution. That where you are born should not define you. I believe it is everyone's responsibility to reach out and help others in their greatest times of need. Maybe, if some of these "concerned citizens" started to actually show genuine concern for others, outside of their sheltered existences, they would realise how amazing it feels to give with your heart, rather than turn people away.

Any excuse for a hot guy photo...

I am meant to be sitting here writing another blog post, but today I don't have the words I need. Instead, I have just one thought in my head. It's calling me (and it's not my 2yo who is still awake and chanting on the couch "I'm awake, I'm awake, I'm awake"). No, it is something else. It's the latest episode of Offspring and it's calling me. It's saying "watch me, watch me... get into bed with your laptop and watch me".

Well, the tv show isn't "actually" calling me. That's stupid. It is actually one of it's lead characters who is whispering sweet nothings in my ear. If you watch the show, you know who I'm talking about.

I have nothing else to say, except where has he been hiding? Ok, I'm off to bed now to "watch" the latest episode.

I rule, I'm the best...

One thing I love about being a Mum to three young children is, in their eyes, I know everything there is to know about the world and I can do everything. And for someone who likes to think they know everything, but knows they don't, this is the perfect situation to be in.

As a journalist (in my pre-kids life), I've learnt how to pretend I know what I'm talking about. I've learnt to ask questions. I often try to bluff my way out situations when in actuality I have no idea what to do or no idea what people are talking about. At dinner parties when someone starts talking about topics I don't know about I am pretty good at picking the right moment to go to the toilet or help clear away the dishes, but in my own home it's a different story. I want my girls to try everything (within reason) and I don't want the fear of not being able to do something to stop them. There's been many a time I have given up a new venture or activity because I can't do it perfectly straight away (knitting, painting, cooking, even harmonica). I worry that maybe I'll never know how to do it properly or, when I take the risk, I fail? So, I have tended to shy away from trying to learn new skills for a fear of failure - a trait I am desperately trying to address as I get older.

This doesn't seem to be the case with my children though. Anything they throw at me, I attempt with gusto.

Play soccer. Oh, I know how to do that. Watch me do this wicked header (ouch, my heard hurts). Play the drums. Yep, I can do that too (I took drums in year nine music class. Eat my dirt, one-armed, Def Leppard drummer). Cook. I'm a master at cooking (quick kids, look that way while Mummy pours the packet mix into the bowl). Draw a kangaroo. Simple (no kids, that doesn't look like the dog I drew or the cat, yes they are similar, but look here, this kangaroo has a much longer tail). Ask me any question, I'll know the answer and if I don't I'll make it up.

However, the other night, I felt I was pushing it a bit far. You see, I was reading a counting book to the kids - one crow, two goats... you get the idea. Little did I realise, the book also had the words in French. Okay, yes I did do French up until year 10 and I know a few simple phrases and numbers, but really, is it cool to just wing it when it comes to another country's language? I am pretty sure vingt moineaux (twenty sparrows) isn't pronounced veengat mornay. And dix grenouilles (ten frogs) isn't dicks granules. I must say I did feel pretty good when I was "reading in French" to the girls. My eldest looked at me all wide-eyed. I could tell she was impressed. But later I felt some guilt (as any good Mother does). Perhaps I should ring a French friend of mine and get the correct pronunciation, that way the kids and I will both learn something the right way.

And while I am on the topic of bluffing, maybe I should also stop telling the kids fabricated responses (lies), like: "Your Dad has to shave his head because he refuses to comb the knots out of his 'hair'" or "If you keep sucking your thumb it will shrink to nothing like a lollipop". Soon they are going to realise I'm a fraud.