The Conference

Soon about 150 of the nation's most influential parenting and personal bloggers will meet in Sydney for the first annual Aussie Bloggers Conference. It's true to say a majority of the attendees are women. They are multi-taskers. Many are balancing children, careers, housework, technology and regularly blogging. They are largely vivacious, strong-willed and intelligent. They are forging ahead in this expanding sector, creating networks throughout the world and filling a gap in a rapidly expanding, "information-fuelled" marketplace. They are fluent in readership numbers, pr speak, blog promotion and networking. Yet, the biggest question on everyone's lips is what are you going to wear? Posts are furiously being written by women all over the country about their insecurities. Everything from wobbly thighs, chewed nails, frizzy hair and shyness all feature highly. There's an underlying fear of meeting people for the first time in real life and not living up to expectations, of somehow tainting their "cyber-brand". People are worried they will stand out for all the wrong reasons. Worried about being the fashion faux pas in the crowd. Worried about lifting the veil on their physical self.

If this was a group of men meeting for the inaugural Aussie Bloggers Conference they would not be discussing outfits. Maybe there would be a bit of bravado about beer and extracurricular social activities, but mostly discussions would centre on the agenda. There'd be discussions about ways to further legitimise the blogging sector. Talk of advertising revenue, key traffic targets, tips on how to transform blogs into successful money-making or opportunity-creating vehicles. There wouldn't be anxiety over beer bellies or premature balding. They wouldn't give a shit if someone liked what they were wearing, only if the person they were meeting was a good bloke. They would be going to the conference with a goal in mind; to improve their blog, strengthen networks, grow reader numbers and attract more advertising. Getting pissed, making friends and having a laugh would be a given, not the focus.

I don't want to say that all men are only worried about the bottom-line and all women are only worried about the size of their bottoms. This is a generalisation, but it's not too far off the mark. I also don't want to say that worries about how you look or what you wear aren't legitimate. I'm just as nervous as the other attendees. I am as nervous as hell people will scoff at my mangy fingernails and my inability to lose my baby weight. I have put ridiculous pressure on myself to lose 10 kilos, only to jump on the scales a couple of weeks out, to see I might need to increase my carry-on luggage limit to cover my weight gain. I am yet to go on a frenzied shopping trip to try and pick out an outfit for the night, but I soon will, anxiousness stamped all over my face as I rush from shop-to-shop. I know too well the crippling fear of walking into a room full of people, scared those you consider your friends may look you up-and-down and turn the other way. But, here's the deal - if they did that to me, or anyone else, I would not want to get to know them. It would be hypocritical of us, who write so honestly about our failings, to judge others on their dresses or shoes. This is not to say I don't have a "verging on unhealthy" love of handbags and sunglasses. I just hope we start to focus on why we are meeting in the first place.

So promise me this, fellow bloggers out there shaking in your ankle boots, that you will stop worrying about clothes. Take a few minutes to think about the conference agenda and what you want to get out of this experience. We need to get serious about what this conference is meant to achieve and what we can all do to make it better for next year. Those people who are blogging with a view to making money out of it, need to put some time and energy into outlining what targets they have for their blog. Those blogging for a creative outlet, a book deal, a psychological outlet, whatever the reason, need to work out what it is they want to get out of the weekend. There's a group of hard working women who have put this conference together and I'm sure they're already thinking about next year's event and would welcome our input.

We can all play a role in strengthening blogging in the Australian marketplace. We can all play a role in putting safeguards in place to protect those fellow bloggers who are entering the corporate world. It's time to get serious. Advertising rates reflective of audience numbers and targeted marketing objectives need to be set and standardised. For the writers out there, established and those trying to break into the arena, it's time we set writing rates for outsourced blog posts. It's time we pay writers for their craft in this burgeoning arena. It's an industry in the making and we have a chance to set some frameworks in place for the future. By supporting, educating, inspiring and protecting bloggers we will help grow the blogging community. This is what this conference could help facilitate for future years. This is how we could ensure the event continues to be a success for years to come.

Amongst the excitement of silk and fishnets, it's time to get serious. We want a conference which is both looks and substance. Now excuse me, I'm off to buy a dress. I have a conference to go to.

This week I'm grateful for old dudes on motorbikes

As I inch closer to 40-years-old I begin to get more jittery about my age. I've watched others go through their mid-life crises. I've listened to them declare their must-do's before 40. I've heard them groan: "Man, I'm feeling old" as they get up off the couch. I've muttered to myself: "You're only 40, for fucks sake". But, in the past few months I've started to understand what they were complaining about. What worries were creasing their forehead and fuelling thoughts of botox and boob lifts. Thoughts of life passing me by have started to creep into my everyday musings. I've been trying to push them aside, ridicule them. Then today, I saw an old dude cruise past me on his Harley. He looked youthful and alive. He looked happy. He made me realise I have to get over myself. Age is but a number. I know people much younger than me who are like an 80-year-old trapped in 30-something-year-old body. I've known 60-somethings who have the adventurousness and curiosity of a child. I'm going to keep that vision of the bikie bloke in my head to remind me to keep young at heart and not be afraid of growing old. Instead, I will try and embrace it; even the saggy, wrinkly bits. Getting older is a gift. Extra time to cram more adventures into an already fulfilled life.

This is part of the gorgeous Maxabella Loves weekly blog hop.

The Anniversary

Six years ago Twiggy and I got married. It was an amazing day. In the morning, the sun pushed its way through storm clouds, anxiety mingled with excitement. The little knot of nerves in my tummy begun to unravel and a smile sat firmly on my face, safe in the knowledge I was to marry my best friend. I was floating in a bubble, voices were muffled and all I could think of was him and what we were about to do. It was a feeling I'll never forget. I truly was walking on air.

We got married in a heritage-listed olive grove. It was dry and dusty. We stood among the gnarly, knotted tree trunks with our friends and family and declared our love for each other. We made a commitment to help each other become better people and never be afraid of the unknown. At the exact moment we kissed, at the end of the ceremony, I felt my feet finally touch the ground. I felt his fingers entwined around mine. I felt grounded, solid.

We had our wedding reception in the oldest purpose-built theatre on Australia's mainland. You could see dust dancing in the light, filtering in through the cracks in the roof and its walls were crumbling. White flowing curtains hung from the rafters and sparkly, circular lights hung from the ceiling. Every part of the wedding Brett and I had planned. Each table was individually decorated; tiny Campari bottles as vases, tealights, lavender from my Mum's garden. Brett and his "bridesmaid" were prepping food on the morning of the wedding and fresh flowers were purchased from the market. Ribbons were tied around each bouquet, over the sink in my hotel room. It was a communal wedding and we couldn't have done it without the help of a group of amazing people in our life. We choreographed our wedding dance to Barry White's Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe, complete with the "reel the fish in" move and the "hold hands and spin around in circles" move. We even included the "robot". We beamed at each other, whenever laughter rang out from our guests. There were candles and lillies, cup cakes and an emergency supply of cask wine (which did get drunk). There was karaoke to Guns N' Roses, joints smoked in the courtyard near the toilets, drunken pashing. We were young and had no children. We didn't get back to our hotel until 5am in the morning, drunk on joy and bourbon.

A couple of months later, we jetted off to Italy, Canada and New York for our honeymoon. We stuffed our faces full of ribs and Tim Hortons' donuts in Calgary, dined on fresh pasta in rustic restaurants overlooking the Ligurian coast and gorged on bagels "with a smear", while walking the streets of Soho. We sourced bootleg wine off a gnarly old woman with purple-stained hands in Corniglia and we marvelled at the majesty of the Brooklyn Bridge - the lights of New York twinkling in the water. We traveled together for the first time as husband and wife, we giggled and held hands as we took on the world. People say marriage is a piece of paper, but it's more than that - it's a different sort of knowing, a knowing you are on a journey together. I believe everyone has the right to feel such rock-solid togetherness.

This past weekend was our wedding anniversary. We got up late, had a leisurely breakfast together. We reminisced. We laughed. We strolled hand-in-hand along the city streets and dined at a fancy pants restaurant. We drank fine wine, ate piles of chocolate-dipped strawberries. We went to a bar and danced. We "retired" to our five star, hotel room. It was decadent and amazing.

The only problem was it did not happen.

Instead, we were woken at 6am by Baby 3 who was teething and cranky. She's hardly cried in seven months, so you can imagine our joy when her crying showed no sign of letting up. Miss 4 and the 2yo Who Never Sleeps were quick to jump out of their beds, for fear of missing out on anything. We grabbed a quick kiss in the kitchen, over the din of three screaming children, and wished each other a Happy Wedding Anniversary. We sat haggered, and old looking, on the couch sculling numerous cups of coffee and, in between nappy changes and food requests, shovelled in our "special breakfast" of bacon and eggs. The children had decided it was their day to be crazy, nut jobs. There was shouting, pulling of hair, throwing of doll's house furniture. It truly was a delightful start to the day. And then, as the day's shenanigans started to peak, my husband got all dressed-up and took off to photograph someone else's wedding. I was left with the three children. We didn't get out of our pjs. It was a super long day. Once they were asleep, I sat and watched tv, alone.

It was close to 9pm when my husband walked in the door. He was carrying takeaway Indian food from one of our favourite restaurants and a bottle of Moet. We inhaled the champagne and sat outside, shared a cigar and talked about how much our lives have changed. How, in six years, we'd made and were raising three beautiful children. We'd purchased and renovated our first home. We'd started, relaunched and built a successful business. And then, when it came time to "go to bed" Twiggy ran so fast to our bedroom he could've won an Olympic gold medal. Imagine his reaction when Miss 4 came trotting into our room, me following behind her with a bad case of the giggles. The look on his deflated face still makes me laugh. It was not the perfect end to the evening, but I wouldn't change it for the world. Six years, three children and still madly in love.

This week I'm grateful for tea

Well, what a week it's been. I'm exhausted. Miss 4 had four birthday celebrations. She is convinced now that next year she'll have five, the year after that six... and so on.

In amongst the madness of squealing 4yo girls dancing in the lounge room, the 2yo Who Never Sleeps hyped up on daily chocolate cake fixes and an over excited baby - I have found myself reacquainting myself with loose leaf tea.

What, no gin? Well, there was plenty of that too, but the ritual of the tea making, the smell, the warmth, the calm which settles over me while I snatch those precious moments to quietly sip my tea - nothing's the same. For the next birthday in this house, I think we'll just have one big party!

Ps: Happy Wedding Anniversary Twiggy! Best six years of my life xx

This is part of Maxabella Loves blog hop. Pop over and visit her sometime.

The Dance Class

My husband and I recently paid $70 for a free soccer ball. Yep. It was a free soccer ball. Every child, enrolled in the first term of the weekly sports program, got a free ball. The next term, when they were to play basketball, every child would get a free basketball. Lucky we already had one of them, because we didn't get that far.

By we I mean my husband, our eldest child Miss 4 and me. We didn't even make it through the first class. If you want to get technical, we didn't even make it through the first 10 minutes. Miss 4 did get her soccer ball and try to shoot a basketball goal with it, which is pretty much the reason we enrolled her in a sports program in the first place. We are not a sporting family. For example, the 2yo Who Never Sleeps points at every sport she sees and exclaims with glee: "rugby". We thought by the time Miss 4 and her two sisters started school they should at least be able to differentiate between cricket and football. 

The soccer experiment wasn't the first time we'd tried sport with our children. Miss 4 had done soccer before, but she was a 3yo then. She spent every class lying with her stomach on the ball and rolling around. One class she took her dress off and ran around in her knickers squealing, much to the delight of the other parents.

Swimming was going well until another child projectile vomited in the water. Even the 2yo Who Never Sleeps tried swimming a couple of times, but she spent most of the class scrambling to the side of the pool saying she was bored and didn't like it. She only enjoyed the jumping in bit of class.

So anyway, our second go at soccer ended before 10 minutes with my husband fleeing with Miss 4 under his arm screaming. We drove away in record speed, both my husband and I sitting stoney faced in the front seat of the car and Miss 4 still screaming in the back seat. The other two kids had no idea what was going on. The 2yo Who Never Sleeps was just happy we got a new ball and the newborn was just happy we remembered to put in her in the car at all.

And then recently, I thought modern dancing would be a great alternative to structured sport.  I thought it wouldn't be as threatening for my shy child. We didn't have to book for the whole term and it was only $10 per class. She dressed up in dance tights, told everyone she was going to dancing and on the way there she told me how excited she was. "I love you, Mum," she said beaming. My heart exploded.

The first class went well. I was so proud of her overcoming her shyness and I was taking way too many photos to show my husband, even though all you could see was the back of her head. I must have looked like a crazy woman - she's participating, she's participating - I kept mumbling proudly to myself. She was lulling me into a false sense of security. She "danced" for 15 minutes and then she refused to dance anymore.

The next week she refused to leave my side. She refused to get up and dance with her friend because he was a "boy". I paid $10 to watch a bunch of kids I didn't know run around and pretend to be bubbles blowing in the wind. I tried bribery - a chocolate was promised. She didn't hold up her end of the bargain. I then experienced an excruciating trip to the shopping centre with a 4yo shouting "I want chocolate, give it to me now". I felt like one of those awful pushy stage mums, but it's a fine line between that and encouraging your child to always give things a go. Not to give up.

That is why we persisted. Miss 4 has since informed me she'd dance one week and then watch for two. And you know what - last week she danced for the whole class. The only catch - I had to dance too. So I did. Have I told you how great I am at balancing, crawling like a cat and blowing like a bubble in the wind. I just feel sorry for the poor child forced to look at my fat arse wobbling around.

At what age did you start organised activities with our children? Did they participate? And should we keep pushing our children or back down?

Happy Birthday Miss 4

Today, while everyone is celebrating Valentine's Day, the universal day of love, my husband and I are celebrating another milestone - our eldest child's birthday. This day four years ago, we had the best Valentine's Day present ever. We became parent's for the first time, to one of our greatest loves.

Happy Birthday Miss 4. We love you more than a blog post could ever say. We wish the world for you.

And to my husband. I love you x

This week I'm grateful for kindy Mums

My eldest child, who this week turns four, is also starting pre-entry Kindergarten.

She is a little shy and the whole idea of her walking into kindy for just two hours a week with a bunch of kids, who are there a couple of days a week, makes me a little nervous for her. It's been on my mind. I just want her to be ok.

That is why this week I'm so grateful to a couple of fellow kindy Mums (and friends) who contacted me to let me know when their gorgeous girls will be at kindy, so I could arrange for Miss 4 to attend on the same day. This way she wont be facing it alone and will have a couple of friendly faces to greet her. This way I can relax a little. We're lucky to have such great friends looking out for her.

This is part of the ever-gorgeous Maxabella Loves blog hop.

bigwords' guide to acronyms

You've all heard people refer to MILF's, Mother's I'd Like to Fuck. It's a well worn acronym. It's designed to create another level of hysteria among women. Another set of unattainable goals for Mums to beat themselves up over. Another way to sexualise women. Another way to divide and conquer. It's got a few of us in the blogging world talking. It's made great blogging fodder. It's lead to a whole round of I Still Would posts turning the MILF idea on it's head and instead targeting older men you'd like to sleep with. Take Gillian's post over at Cocktails at Naptime, Heather's at Note From Lapland and another by Emma at Mommy Has A Headache.

Just the other day my mate, A Modern Military Mother, came up with an acronym of her own - A Mother I Would Have Fucked When She Was Younger But She's Now A Bit Saggy Around The Edges - AMIWHFWSWYBSNABSATE.

It was her catchy acronym which inspired me to write this post. I even asked her if I could tackle the issue and she said: "Yes bigwords, you are brilliant, of course you can. You're truly amazing". Ok, that's not true. She said she was busy and I could give it a shot. She truly is a woman after my own heart, a MMMGWILMWLF (a Modern Military Mother with Great Wit and Intelligence Lots of Men Would Like to Fuck). So here goes it...

bigwords guide to acronyms

MILFHTLGPOIDGMSADT: Mum I'd Like to Kiss but Her Top Lip’s Got Prickles On It and Don’t Get Me Started About Down There

DILFHBSHGPOHSIDTHSIW: Dad I'd Like to Kiss but His Breathe Stinks, He's Got Poo On His Shirt and I Don't Think He's Shaved in Weeks

DILFHMBKGW: Dad I’d Like to Fuck but His Man Boobs Keep Getting in the Way

MILFHVLBFSCHBHAGB: Mother I’d Like To Fuck but Her Verandah Like Bit of Flesh She Calls Her Belly is Hiding All the Good Bits

DILFHTBBBSOEAIRRCPWTGW: Dad I’d Like to Fuck but He's Too Busy BBQing and Buying Stuff Off Ebay and Anyway I’d Rather Relax on the Couch in my PJs Watching TV with a Glass of Wine

MUTILFBIDHETHSMTOWLAMTON: Man Under Thirty I'd Like to Fuck but I Don't Have the Energy to Have Sex More Than Once a Week, Let Alone More Than Once a Night 


DILFTTSCPIWIBU - Dad I'd Like to Fuck but There's Two Small Children Playing with iPhones Wedged In Between Us.


MILFSGVOHSHBALQFSLALC: Mum I'd Like to Fuck but She's Got Vomit On Her Shoulder, Her Boobs Are Leaking and Quite Frankly She Looks A Little Crazed


DILFDWAHSM: Dad I'd Like to Fuck but Didn't We Already Have Sex this Month?


MILFBFIIFA: Mum I'd Like to Fuck Because Face It I'd Fuck Anything

MILFSKFUMCWILTFAMTPCMHTDDDM: Mother I'd Like to Fuck but She Keeps Folding Up My Clothes When I Leave Them on the Floor and Asking Me To Please Comb My Hair and Turn Down the Doof Doof Music

OMILFHWTWHKGOADKBHAIRFMD: Older Man I'd Like to Fuck but He's Way Too Wrinkly and He Keeps Going On About his Dodgy Knee and his Bowel Habits and Anyway I'd Rather Fuck Matt Damon

DILFAIDDPKBDSWHOLGERKAIWPCOMHS: Dad I'd Like to Fuck but After I've Done the Dishes, Put the Kids to Bed, Done Some Work, Hung Out the Laundry and Got Everything Ready For Kindy All I Want to do is Pull the Covers Over My Head and Sleep.

I could keep going on and on, but I wont. Have you got any acronyms to add to the list?

This week I'm grateful for cool photos

I hate photos of myself. Without fail I look at them and think to myself how gross I look in them. I see all my flaws. I pick them apart, but this week my super talented, gorgeous husband from www.allpics.com.au fame took some new pics of me for a head shot. I love them. Ideally, I'd be 10 kilos lighter, but when I achieve that aim I'll get some more. In the meantime, these are the best photos of me that I've had the pleasure of looking at in a long time!

This is part of Maxabella Loves blog hop. Pop over there and check it out!

My day

Here I am sitting on the grass in a park, with my headphones on listening to Angus and Julia Stone. It’s a beautiful sunny day. There’s a light breeze. There are big white fluffy clouds in the sky and my soul is calm.

Today is my first “work” day away from home since I had my eldest child four years ago. I’ve worked here and there over the past few years, in between babies and newborns, but always from home. Generally, I’ve worked at night or early mornings. Sometimes, I work when the children have a sleep or are plonked in front of the television. There's times I've had no choice but to work while the kids have been running around me or pulling at my arm screaming, while I quickly finish a phone call. I've been known to breastfeed with a phone pressed to my ear or make a bottle and feed a toddler all with one arm, while also shoving biscuits into the hand of another child. One time when trying to line up an important interview for a magazine article I was writing, one of my children came into the office shouting: "I've got poo on my hands".  And she did. I was mortified at the time, but now I laugh when thinking about it. Working from home is a juggle, but at least you can do it in your pajamas.

This morning I left the house with my laptop. Kissed my children and husband good bye and left for the day. “Have fun at work,” the girls yelled out. “I love you”, my husband whispered as he kissed me.

I’m calling it work, but today I’m not getting paid to do anything, but I’m calling it work so the girls think I’m working. So they understand that both men and women work, not just Daddy. Today I’m doing my own thing. Next week, I’ll start working on more effectively marketing our business. Next week, I might have some other paid work, but this week I have a whole day to write.

It feels so wonderful to just sit on the grass, quietly listening to music, tapping away on my computer. Tapping away to the beat of the music. Lost in my own mind. Quiet in my own thoughts, with no-one asking for things. No plans, nowhere to be. Just me.

It’s quite strange having no restrictions, having personal freedom. The day drags on, but in a nice way. I start it by meeting a friend for a coffee and at the end of my day I drive to the beach and I sit on a chair looking out at the waves. These waves.

It’s amazing what you can do in a day when you don’t have to also worry about three little people. And I only call home once to check out how my husband's coping and even then I call because I want to tell him about this amazing beef and horseradish roll I’d just eaten. I can hear his smile through the phone. He can hear my smile through the phone. He knows when I come skipping through the door tonight, all light headed and relaxed, scooping the children up into my arms, that I’ll be a happier me. It’s amazing what a day does to revitalise someone.

There’s a breeze blowing, the sun is shining, the music is quietly playing in my headphones. I am tapping away on my computer. My soul is quiet.