Career vs Motherhood

My life as a house wife…
Yesterday I got up at 7am, switched the telly to ABC kids, made a peanut butter sandwich and went back to bed. At 8:20am the husband told me (rather forcefully) that I should get up NOW and get my kid organized. I did. I got her to pre-school dressed, hair brushed, clean teeth and face, lunch made and totally organized. I however, walked in the gate (in my track pants and polar fleece jacket) and realized I hadn't brushed my hair. Got the kid settled and came home again.
Over breakfast, listening to Cat Stevens who is banned in this household, I decided what to do for dinner. I packed my bag and headed off to the gym.
10 minutes on the Stairmaster and 20 minutes on the cross trainer and I figured I had done my penance for the previous day.
Then I went and got my eyebrows done, then had a coffee. Luxury.
Came home, had my lunch – left over chicken tom yum – then went and got the little kid from preschool. She reprimanded me for being late (almost 2 minutes!!) and we went home and watched half of The Princess Bride.
I adore the fact that she likes Princess Bride, along with The Addams Family (old and new) and Edward Scissor Hands. For this I can forgive the Barbie as Repunzal and Little Mermaid faff I am forced to endure.
Just as Buttercup and Wesley headed into the Fire Swamp the little kid and I headed off to collect the stepson from school. We deposited him at music school and then went to The Warehouse (looking for a mat for the laundry, didn't find one) and High Country Meats where I mistakenly purchased a kilo of sirloin. I thought that at $10 a kilo it was a bargain. It turned out to be rubbish – very grisly and fatty. You get what you pay for.
Collected the stepson and headed home. Did some housework while the little kid trashed her room and the big kid watched telly.
I cooked dinner for the little kid and got her fed and into the bath. Cleaned her room while she was in the bath so she would have a bed to sleep in – she complained she wanted to sleep on the floor. Finally got her dry, pygamad, storied and tucked in.
The husband arrived home and took the big kid to Tai Kwando (he's on his red belt now – the little thug) and I started preparing the grown-ups dinner.
I wanted to do mash potato with parmesan, rocket and semi-drieds to have with our steak and red wine jus. I was informed that it was too fancy and just do plain mash and veg and no sauce for the steak. Which I did, albeit with a certain amount of resentful teeth grinding, and I made a creamy mushroom sauce for the steak to spite them.
Dinner was eaten, TV watched and the kitchen cleaned. I burned a couple of Velvet Acid Christ cd's for the husband, who is going through an electronica phase at the moment, and at about midnight fell into bed.
So my days go by. Today preschool is cancelled due to the teacher being ill so my morning gym class didn't happen. We are about to head to the supermarket to buy ingredients to make biscuits to take with us to our play date this afternoon.
Do I miss working? When I reflect on my previous life I am in awe of how I coped with working full time, parenting and juggling a social life and a long distance relationship. I was constantly stressed, tired and run down. I perpetually had cold sores and headaches. My house was a disaster, I ate badly and rarely exercised. The kid was always well cared for, always had clean clothes and good food and ample attention, but there was rarely enough care left for myself. I guess the answer to that question is I wasn't coping and it was probably only a matter of time before I fell apart.
Prior to giving birth I had always been totally independent and self-sufficient. I could cope with anything and was more than competent with anything I decided to do, whether it be making croissants from scratch or cleaning out the car's carburettor. I expected to deal with motherhood in the same efficient, competent manner. The problem is that motherhood isn't a task like fixing the car. There is no workshop manual to consult. It is an emotional, physical and psychological challenge with almost no discernable rewards for quite some time. It's hard work, harder than anyone who hasn't done it can imagine and impossible to describe accurately. Previously I was so tired and stressed that when the rewards did come – babies' first smile, her little arms reaching for me – I couldn't see them. Now when my little girl climbs onto my lap and we snuggle up to watch a movie I can relax and enjoy it. I don't have to be worried about washing or cleaning because there is time for that later. And if I run out of time my husband will pick up the slack. I have the luxury of being able to enjoy time with her. It's far from utopia; when she is lying on the floor in the supermarket screaming I would happily swap her for a biacore, but only briefly. The shopping centre dramas are usually forgotten the instant we are back in the car and she starts singing "my mummy wears black and her hair is black and white but her favourite colour is red.."
So my days are filled with mundane, seemingly trivial things. But all of these things add up to a constantly strengthening relationship with my daughter and a sense of self worth and achievement that is worth more than journal articles or pay rises. Read more!

Bang

The Queen's birthday weekend is the one weekend a year when residents of the ACT can purchase fireworks. So the past three days have been spent listening to snap, crackle and pop and trying to keep the dog calm. The staffy was a trembling wreck and spent the whole weekend trying to hide under my skirt. The other dog was of course fine, being deaf has its occasional advantages.
We were at a dinner party on the Saturday night, pondering what made the Australian government decide that the residents of the ACT were smarter and more responsible than other Australians and worthy of the privilege of fireworks. As we discussed the issue an ambulance siren echoed in the distance.
On the news the other night was a story about a local man who has called the police when he was burgled - as is standard procedure. However when the police arrived at his house and found 35 marijuana plants and substantial amounts of other drugs they arrested him.
My youngest step son has been suspended from school for a day for letting off a firecracker in the school yard.
So these people are smarter and more responsible than the rest of us? Hmmm.. Read more!

Raul Julia vs Mel Gibson

A parcel arrived for the husband from the USA. It was a video; I was intrigued. I rang him at work and asked what he had been buying, teased him about buying porn. He pointed out that we live in the porn capital of Australia – why would he purchase it from the USA? He said it was a present for me and that I could open the parcel.
It was a copy of Kiss Of The Spiderwoman. I was overjoyed. I had been whining about the fact that this film has never been released on DVD. It is one of my favourite films and one that I needed for my collection.
So that night we watched it, it has been many years since I had seen the film, about 12 I think. I tried to make my boyfriend at the time watch it, his favourite film was Braveheart, which was a great source of embarrassment for me. Not only because I was in a relationship with a man who loved this film, but even more so because I later married him and he is the father of my child. A mistake I will regret for all time. The Braveheart thing was one of many clues that I chose to ignore.
I thought that showing him what a good film actually is, a film that has depth and substance and layers not to mention brilliant acting and thought provoking issues would make him realize what a single dimensional sensationalist moron Mel Gibson is. I thought he had simply never actually seen a really good film and that I could provide some guidance. How wrong I was. In fact, as far as that man goes I have never been wronger (the ex that is, not MG, my opinion of him remains unchanged).
Needless to say, having my new and very much improved husband go out of his way to order a movie for me from the USA, then have him sit and watch it with me and agree on its' qualities was nothing short of bliss. He did say that in spite of the film being set in a prison and the inherent violence it was in fact a chick flick – the themes being very feminine – something I had never considered and I realized was quite true. That fact does not excuse my exs' dislike of Kiss, nor any of his other totally abhorrent behaviour, like forcing me to watch Das Boot, which made me want to lobotomise myself with my choc top.
So the day was a pleasant reminder and confirmation (not that it's really needed) that my new husband is truly a wonderful man.
Raul Julia was a brilliant actor and his premature death was a tragic loss to all movie lovers (and probably his family and friends too). Read more!

3 mobile

My previous mobile phone was an LG U880. It had a camera and it could play mp3 files. It came with a cable that connected it to the computer via a USB port and transferring files was a cinch. Each of my friends had their own ring tone, which made life much simpler. For example, when my phone started bawling out "I fucken hate you, you're such a liar" (Godsmack) I knew my ex-husband was ringing and I could ignore it. I had over 2 dozen songs stored on the phone and as many photos. My new phone, an LG U310 was supposed to be a "free upgrade". My first discovery was that there is no way to physically connect the phone to a computer, it has Bluetooth. So off I go and fork out $50 for a Bluetooth adaptor for my laptop. So much for the "free" part. I get it all connected, which was quite a bit of fiddling around and a total pain in the arse, and I start downloading songs. After the grand total of 2 mp3 files the memory is full. What?? I read the manual and try to find how much memory the stupid thing is supposed to have. I couldn't. I did, however, discover that an "optional extra" is a memory card. Well, there, as far as I'm concerned, goes the "upgrade" bit. This phone is more difficult to use and requires the purchase of at least 2 "optional extras" to make it as-good-as the previous model. I was furious. I stormed back to the shop and asked them to explain which part of having to pay for extra bits to make the phone comparable to the previous model comprised a free upgrade. They informed me that I could purchase a 512mb card for $50. I argued that they should give me one free in order to meet with the free upgrade part of the deal. They declined and told me to ring "customer care". I realized that there was no-one working in the shop over the age of 17 and they didn't have the authority to do anything, so I left.

Once home I rang customer care, which of course is a call centre in India.
I saw a documentary several months ago about this whole call centre thing. The documentary was apparently presenting both sides of the coin although I felt one side had been polished a bit more than the other. The bottom line was this: call centres in Australia are typically staffed by uni students and backpackers who are doing it merely to make a bit of money on the side. It is in no way considered a real job. Call centres in India are staffed by people who study really hard and compete for the jobs. It is considered an honourable career and they exampled a woman who had given up being a surgeon to work at the call centre because the pay and benefits were better. The final polish was the statement that often the workers at these centres were supporting their entire family. OK, I was convinced. I stopped complaining about the damn call centres and tried to be nicer whenever I had to deal with one.

So I went through my rant with the Indian girl, stating that I had been mislead into signing a further 24 month contract with the free upgrade which was in reality a downgrade and if I paid an extra $100 was at best a replacement. I said I wanted a free memory card and/or a substantial discount on my plan as compensation for being ripped off. No. So I asked to speak to somebody else. She put me on hold for at least 10 minutes, probably hoping that I would go away, then her supervisor picked up the phone. She was even more pedantic. Did I check the memory specifications and features of the new phone before I purchased it? No I didn't. Well then it's not our fault. We debated the meaning of the word "upgrade" and the responsibilities of sale staff under these circumstances. She would not budge. She would not help me. There was no-one else I could talk to. End of story. I was basically being told to piss off.
I went to the phone book – there is no other number for 3, just the call centre. I went to their website – no other contact was available. Finally I decided to ring Hutchinson, the company that owns 3. I asked to speak to somebody regarding a complaint about my 3 mobile. The girl said, very sweetly, "certainly, putting you through"….to the fucking call centre in India. My head exploded. I rang Hutchison back, explained to the very sweet girl that I DID NOT want to speak to India, I wanted to speak to a company representative in Australia. "The are none" was the reply. "There is not a single representative of 3 in Australia?" "None that deal with customers". I persevered, finally she asked me to hold and transferred me again.
Another Indian voice on the phone. I asked, in a less than sweet voice, if I was speaking to Customer Care in India. "You are speaking to the Priority Care centre, we deal specifically with complaints" – geographical location undisclosed.
So off I went on my tirade again. I explained that a free upgrade should in fact, be FREE and an UPGRADE. She agreed and offered to give me $100 credit on my account to cover the cost of the additional accessories and took down the details of where the sale was made so the staff could be informed of their mistake. She also explained that if I ring the technical help line any problems I have connecting the phone or using the handset would be dealt with, in fact, they would be "delighted" to help me. She then gave me the number of this call centre, this secret call centre, the number of which does not appear anywhere on the 3 web site, this centre which is not mentioned by the other centre. This centre which actually solves problems and tries to keep customers happy. This centre that you have to walk over hot coals to get to.

Unless of course, you are reading this……3 Priority Care Centre 1800 426 717. Pass it on.

Read more!

Never say never

Last night I did something I said I would never do. This is not too unusual; I often make proclamation of "never", only to discover that "never" does not always fit the conventional interpretation.
There have been times when I have had a jolly good go at "never". In the mid 80's I decided "never" to eat at McDonalds again (them being one of the evil empires). This lasted until the late 90's. Not bad, and then I only gave in because I was drunk and hungry and the victim of peer group pressure.
Some "never"s that have been much less successful were: mortgage, career, marriage, children, track pants, living in the 'burbs, short hair, drink that much again, marry again and PVC. Obviously most of those were the declarations of an idealistic, naive young person. I mean, what did I think I was doing at uni if I wasn't going to end up with a career? And no-one can predict the force by which the old biological clock grabs you and shakes you until you consent to conception.
A few "never"s that I have maintained for sometime now are: to sky dive again, to go in the sun without hat and/or sunscreen, wear yellow or orange, join the army (that's too easy) or buy shares in BHP. Others that I mostly stick to but make occasional exceptions include watching blockbuster films, reading books written by men, listening to anything that has made the top 20 or buying merchandising crap for the child. I view these as guidelines more than rules and it is with that view that I gave in last night.
I watched Alien V Predator.
Actually, it was pretty good. Read more!

Of Dogs and Phones

More things are lost. I lost my mobile phone on Thursday night. Fortunately I was eligible for a free upgrade, so I have a new one at no cost, but now I have to track down all my phone numbers again. (If anyone reading this thinks I should have their number, please text me!!) Unfortunately all of the phones that were on offer were hideous, so I have chosen one almost identical to my previous phone – except it's hot pink. Quite a contradiction, I know, but my theory is: I live in a house that has quite a bit of black décor, it is relatively dark in most of the rooms. There is every possibility that my phone is somewhere in the house but perfectly camouflaged. A hot pink phone will be less easy to loose. Also I realised the other night that I have lost a book my mother gave me for my 21st – The Complete Works of Shakespeare. Not a small book, in fact if you dropped it on your foot it would probably break bones. I didn't pack it, unpack it or see it during the entire moving process. Another for the list of things lost. I struggle with my materialism still. I am getting the hang of this housewife gig. The girl and I have settled into a sort of routine. The husband, bless him, is getting up with her every other morning and letting me sleep. He doesn't start work until 10, sometimes later, so often I get to sleep past 9. Utter bliss. It also means that the balance between a nocturnal husband and a child that rises at dawn is found. For a while I was stretched so thinly I thought I would snap. So life progresses, compromises are found, comfortable spaces established.
Someone who is having more difficulty adjusting is Rose, our staffy. The other night she was so depressed we thought she might be sick. Yesterday the gorgeous knitted princess seems to have gone on a tour of the backyard and has lost most of her face. Luckily there are no holes in her and she can easily be washed and repaired. Rose is currently sitting on the couch having tassels tied to her ears as earrings and being constantly cuddled. She is our own little martyr. But she occasionally looks to her master and says "when are these people going home?". I understand her stress and aren't mad about the princess. She's only naughty when under duress. My other little dog, Mollie, continues to bumble around in her dark, quiet little world. Last night she got up off her bed, walked straight into the telly (clonk), dottered around for a bit, then got back in her bed. She is a sweetie. I'm sure she has no idea where she is or what's going on. The husband calls her our martial arts trainer, as we are constantly tripping over her, having to side step suddenly or make leaps to avoid squashing her. It's amazing how a blind and mostly deaf dog has the instinct to know exactly where you are about to put your feet.
Well, the My Little Pony DVD has just been put on, I think it's time for shoes and socks and a walk to the park. Read more!

Old Fartdom

Many years ago my grandmother said to me that she still feels the same as she did when she was a teenager, and when she looks in the mirror she is shocked to see an old bag looking back at her. I remember at the time, I was in my early twenties and going through that "I love getting older and wiser" bullshit phase, being surprised by such a comment.
Last night my older stepson, who lives with his mother, brought his new boyfriend around for us to meet. The newboyfriend was very sociable and took an interest in my DVD collection, stating he liked horror films. I also love horror films and told him I have a collection of "old school" stuff. The click of the generation gap kicking in was almost audible. My "old school" is Vincent Price, Boris Karloff, Hammer etc. He asked if I had the original Hellraiser. I was baffled. Why would I have Hellraiser? That's not old school. Oh, wait a minute…Hellraiser was made in the mid 80's…before this young man was born. To me, the 80's are modern. I think it's time to review my chronological perspective.
And could someone please tell me…who IS that old bag in the mirror? Read more!

Materialism

There have been a few tragic losses as a result of the move – particularly my career and social life. Some materialistic losses have also occurred. A few wine glasses, the toaster, a picture frame, a mixing bowl and the wheel bearings on my caravan all perished in the journey. These losses are trivial.
Before I left my little house in the city I packed all my precious things in a small box and took them with me in my car. These were things not to be trusted to the removalists, I would carry them myself. The box contained my most expensive rings, including my gorgeous black opal and white gold engagement ring and my mother's wedding and engagement ring from my father. Also my video camera and the tapes of the girl learning to walk and various other moments from her babyhood. These things are all gone. I have searched for them everyday for the past month. They are not here. The box is not here. I am devastated.
One of the philosophical questions that has arisen as a result of the move concerns my materialistic view of life. I acquire, I hoard. Why do I do this? I can contribute an element of it to my childhood in a single parent family in which money was scarce and "nice" things were few. I compensate now for what I feel I "missed out on" as a child. I love to surround myself with beautiful things, my sense of aesthetics is strong, if not slightly unusual and I feel more comfortable in an environment that looks good. Maybe I can throw this back to childhood as well. I always felt envious when I went to friends houses and they had nice furniture and things that matched. I was always embarrassed when friends visited me and our furniture was secondhand, tatty and what would now be considered "an eclectic mix".
I also have many hobbies, crafty stuff and cooking. As a result I own a sewing machine, over locker, boxes of dress patterns, sewing paraphernalia and mountains of fabric. I also have many knitting needles, crotchet hooks and bags of wool. I have a multitude of books that accompany these past times. But by far my greatest love is cooking. I have many cookbooks, hundreds of foodie magazines (porn) and folders full of recipes. When I cook (or do anything) I like to have the correct utensils, so I also own every kitchen appliance and gadget available. I have many knives, multiple wooden spoons in many shapes and sizes. I have peelers and zesters, corers and crushers. I can make ice-cream, bread, juice, waffles, toasted sandwiches and pasta. I can blend, puree, chop, shred, grate, grind, mix, whip and knead. All at the touch of a button. I can make cakes in various sizes and shapes. I can make cupcakes or muffins or madellines.
All this stuff I feel I "need" and I do actually use most of it. I admit I haven't made waffles for years and I haven't juiced a carrot for longer than I remember….but if I wanted to….
So the question has been presented – do I really need all this stuff? I have started to cull things and have made several sizable donations to the Smith Family bin at the shops. And just when I think I am getting better and I am attaching much less importance on material wealth I finally have to admit my box of precious things is lost. Of all the things I could have lost – why this stuff? Why not one of the boxes of the girl's baby clothes? Why not a box of books I haven't read for years?
I appreciate that occasionally the universe or the gods or whoever/whatever it is that dabbles with our lives feels the need to teach us a lesson – but why is it always so damn harsh? Why do we always bump into our ex boyfriends on the day we have finally felt brave enough to organize a date with a potential new love? Why, when we have a cold and are feeling glum do meet somebody who has a brain tumour and is cheerful? Why do we only meet old high school buddies in the street when we have just popped out quickly with no make up, bad hair and wearing track pants?
These things are sent to try us…try us for what? What are we being prepared for? To be the most well adjusted and serene corpse in the graveyard? Fuck that.
So I say this to the gods…stick your life lessons up your collective bums and give me back my rings and my girl's first steps. Read more!